My food arrived. I ate almost nothing, but I must have drunk a little too much wine, because when they stood, having finished their coffee, and got ready to leave, I decided to follow them.
I called my waiter over quickly and left far too many francs as a tip in order to avoid waiting for change.
They were at the door, the man almost a full foot taller than her, and I loitered for a moment putting on my coat, giving them a slight head start, and then pushed out through the heavy doors into a light drizzle.
I hesitated again, feeling light-headed, then, pulling the collar of my raincoat up around my ears, I walked as casually as I could after them, keeping to the opposite side of the street.
I must have looked pretty stupid; it was a wet Thursday afternoon, Saint-Germain was empty save for them, and me, but they were too occupied with each other to pay any attention to whoever might be behind them, and anyway, I didn’t follow them for long.
In the very next street they stopped at a doorway, and the man pulled a key on a chain from his pocket. They disappeared inside, leaving me in the rain. I crossed the street to pass by the door, and saw there were several brass plaques fixed to the stone, and though I didn’t want to linger I had time to read a couple of them. They were professional nameplates.
Cabinet de Chirurgie, read one. Salon de Psychothérapie, another.
I knew the kind of thing; a private address with one or more private physicians of various kinds and dubious qualities, no doubt helping rich women overcome an array of troubles during a course of expensive and frequently unexpectedly prolonged treatment.
London had the same addresses.
But which nameplate belonged to him?
I felt I’d paused too long at the door and I moved on, but not before one name caught my eye, just because it was more exotic than the rest. It read, quite simply: Verovkin, Salon des sciences de l’Orient ancien.
I walked on to the end of the street, and then suddenly felt idiotic. What was I doing? Did I hope to find something, or prove something? I don’t know; I think I acted purely without thinking. My morning at the conference had been terrible, but that was far from my mind now, and I think I was acting upon impulse alone.
It was an impulse that had brought me back to Saint-Germain, a coincidence that had taken me to the very restaurant where he was eating, and an impulse that had led me to his door.
I stood under the porch of a doorway as the drizzle turned to rain, and just as I was wondering what to do next, the girl emerged from the door, halfway down the street.
She set off, away from me fortunately, and telling myself I might be able to discover more about him by approaching her, I followed.
Chapter 7
It was beginning to get dark as I followed the girl through Saint-Germain, trying to move slowly enough not to catch up with her, for she was not a fast walker.
She walked through the wet streets, and soon I realised where she was heading: the station, where she made her way on to the platform for Paris. Seeing this, I ducked into the ticket office and bought a single to the Gare Saint-Lazare.
There were few other people taking the train that afternoon; I tried to stand near enough to a man around my age that it might be thought we were travelling together. I congratulated myself on this little strategy, and briefly felt like a detective in an American movie, a gumshoe trailing a suspect, a thought that amused me, though the fantasy quickly paled as I grew colder and colder on the platform.
Finally, the train she’d been waiting for arrived. I dallied a little as she chose a carriage and just as the whistle blew I climbed in after her, walking down the corridor past the compartment she’d chosen, taking the next one for myself.
The sun set as the train rumbled slowly down from Saint-Germain and twisted towards Saint-Lazare, a journey much longer than it should have been. At each stop I left my compartment and walked slowly past hers. Finding her always in the same position, reading a book. She was very different now that she was alone; she seemed rolled tight into herself, unaware of anyone or anything around her.
I didn’t know if she would leave the train before the terminus, but she stayed on till the end. I allowed her ten seconds’ head start, then hopped down from the carriage, and saw I’d made a mistake. The station was crowded and she had vanished in the sea of people in front of me. For some reason this loss worried me, and I felt desperate not to let her go. Then, there she was, bobbing through the passengers heading for the station gates.
I pushed past people in an effort to catch up, got within a few feet of her, and kept it that way.
She walked more briskly than before, out of the station and up towards the Place de Clichy, after which she turned into a street within sight of a big cemetery. I had been thinking she would be heading home, but instead she went into a bar and sat down at a table by herself.
I hesitated, but knew I could not do so for long. Either I had to follow her in as if it had been my destination too, or walk on by.
I went in.
I chose to sit on a stool at the bar, and ordered a cognac; by that point I genuinely needed a drink, not just from the damp cold.
‘Vous êtes en train de me suivre?’
I didn’t hear her approach me, but I turned and there she was, looking confrontational, if not exactly angry.
I was too embarrassed to say anything at first, then blurted out a denial.
‘Non, non, mademoiselle. Je—’
That threw her somehow.
‘You’re English,’ she said.
I stood up.
‘Is my accent that bad?’
She nodded. ‘And your dress sense.’
I felt a slight easing of the situation, as if she felt having an Englishman follow her was better than if I’d been French. Perhaps she was just interested, her curiosity aroused. I decided to press ahead with the slight chance I saw.
I held out my hand.
‘Charles Jackson. Your English is very good.’
She looked at my hand for a moment, then took it and shook it lightly and briefly.
‘Or do you mean, not bad for an American? Marian Fisher.’
It was my turn to be thrown.
‘You’re American?’
‘Are all Brits this slow? So, are you going to answer my question, or not? Are you following me?’
I took a risk.
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I apologise.’
She didn’t seem to react.
‘Let me buy you a drink. Let me explain? I assure you I mean you no harm.’
She looked at me then for the longest time, during which, I suppose, my character was being assessed.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Cognac. Would you like to join me?’
She nodded at the little table she’d taken, and a minute later I carried two glasses of cognac over to her.
That was how I met Marian.
Chapter 8
I should say that I think I fell in love with Marian that first time we met. We became friends and she liked me, I believe, a lot; though I nearly ruined any chance at that first meeting by not being honest with her, something I learned she valued very highly.
We became friends, and for that I have to thank Hunter, my old family friend.
Hunter Wilson had been at school with my father, and they’d gone up to Cambridge at the same time. Hunter had eventually become a professor in the Faculty of English at Sidney Sussex, while my father had gone into property to make a fortune. Although he wasn’t actually family, trips to visit Hunter when I was a boy had made him feel like an uncle to me, all the more so as I had no real uncles, my mother and father both being only children.
Through my time as an undergraduate, Hunter was a regular part of my life, and I think we both enjoyed the way that the gap in our ages didn’t seem to exist, let alone to matter.
Hunter had brought me many things in life already, by that tender age. It was he who gave me a love of music, and of reading, and now, in an indirect way, he gave me M
arian.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Let’s have some answers. Who are you? And why are you following me?’
I was at first thrown by such directness, though I came to like it very soon. It made it so much easier to know what your companion was thinking and feeling, instead of footling around with English correctness.
‘My name is Charles Jackson,’ I said, ‘and I’m a haematologist.’
I hesitated for a moment because I was used to people asking ‘A what?’ whenever I told them what I did. Marian didn’t, and waited for me to go on.
‘I’m here for a conference. On leukaemia. It’s something we’re working on in Cambridge just now.’
‘You live in Cambridge?’
I nodded. I thought I might be managing to steer her away from her other question, but I was wrong.
‘And you’re following me because . . . ?’
I did something foolish. I contradicted what I’d already admitted.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not following you. I—’
She stood immediately, making to leave.
‘You were in Saint-Germain earlier. I saw you at lunch. And on the train. I thought you weren’t going to lie to me, so I’ll wish you good evening—’
‘No!’ I said, perhaps a touch too forcefully. I softened my voice. ‘No, wait. I’m sorry! I only meant, I wasn’t really following you, not to start with at least. It’s your . . . friend.’
She stood, waiting, but did not sit down again.
‘Anton?’
I now had a name; I had to assume it was my quarry’s.
I nodded.
‘Why?’
‘I’ll explain. Won’t you sit down? Please?’
She sat. The bar was filling up steadily with locals, mostly single working men stopping for a glass of Pernod on the way home. Night had come on, and the rain was a drizzle once more, snaking softly down the window glass.
I said I would explain, and yet I never did. Not really. What could I tell her? Not the truth; that I thought he was a murderer at worst or some demented pervert at best. I saw how stupid that would look, and I didn’t want to lose the chance to use this connection I’d found to the man. I might be able to find out more about him if I didn’t give her cause to be cautious. Besides that, I realised I already didn’t want this conversation with Marian to end quickly. I found I wanted to say something that would make her stay a while longer, and her cognac glass was already empty.
I downed mine and held it up.
‘Another?’
She paused for a moment, then turned and waved at the barman, who wandered over and refilled both our glasses.
He smiled at her.
‘Ça va, Marian?’
She smiled back.
‘Merci, Jean, assez bien. Et toi?’
So I knew this was a local place of hers, but I marvelled at this strange American girl who drank in bars by herself often enough to know the barman by his first name, and call him toi. She intrigued me more and more. I sensed she was not someone who stuck to the rules, the rules of society, at least.
She turned back from Jean, who returned to his counter.
‘So?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing really,’ I said, as casually as I could. I’d decided that was my best strategy. ‘I just thought I might have known him, a while ago. In the war, in fact, but I couldn’t quite find his name, or where I met him, and . . . well, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.’
She nodded.
‘So you thought you knew him?’
‘Yes. In the war, I—’
‘And you followed me instead.’
It was a statement, not a question. She stared at me, waiting for an explanation.
‘Yes, I . . . I couldn’t remember his name, or where I’d seen him. You see, I was stationed so many places, we met so many people, in different units, in the French forces, the American . . . And so then I wasn’t sure, and as I say I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. You know us Brits . . .’
‘I’m starting to,’ she said.
She had a simple way of unnerving me but I tried to ignore it.
‘Well, in fact by that point I began to think I had made a mistake. That I didn’t know him at all.’
There was some truth in that. Somehow, I could not equate any companion of Marian’s, such a personable, likeable young woman, with that creature I’d seen in the bunker in 1944. So I was beginning to doubt myself.
‘So instead you decided to follow me?’
She didn’t let things go easily, I’d learned that much already. I tried to act sheepish. It wasn’t hard.
‘Well, you can hardly blame me for that . . .’ I ventured.
‘Oh, you liked the look of me. Why didn’t you just come right out and say it? The British thing again? It’s a wonder you guys ever get as far as having children.’
She laughed, but it wasn’t malicious. A thought crossed her face.
‘Do you have children?’
I shook my head.
‘Married?’
‘No, not even that.’
She drank her cognac, and I followed suit. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t bad, and a hot rush shot through my veins. Of course, I felt a little bolder.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ I said.
‘I am,’ she said simply, as if that was all I needed to know, but I wasn’t going to let it drop.
‘What are you doing here?’
She sighed, looking at the table for a while, then lifted her head and smiled at me, half hidden behind a slant of red hair.
‘Sorry,’ she said, brightly. ‘I guess you get to ask me some questions too. I’m researching. For my doctorate.’
‘At the Sorbonne? What’s your subject?’
She sighed again, but this time with a playful smile on her face.
‘French and Italian medieval literature.’
‘Really?’ I said, a spectacular reply.
‘Really,’ she mocked, her eyes wide. She laughed.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like . . . I don’t know. Like I was surprised.’
‘But you were, weren’t you?’
‘Everything about you is surprising,’ I said. ‘A single girl, all the way from America, studying for a PhD at the Sorbonne.’
‘Who said I was single?’
That threw me but I tried not to let it show.
‘Is Anton your . . . ?’
She smiled.
‘No, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my patron.’
She used the French pronunciation.
Now I did look surprised.
‘Your patron?’
‘Yes, how do you think I look after myself here?’
‘I didn’t think about it,’ I said, truthfully. ‘Rich parents, perhaps?’
‘Yes, I have rich parents. Rich parents who wanted me to marry the first officer they could set me up with, and who did not permit me to come to Europe to study what I wanted to study.’
‘So you came anyway?’ I asked. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘The folks weren’t. I’m the first Fisher not to behave herself. They cut me off.’
She looked me right in the eye, daring me to pity her. I didn’t know how to respond, so changed the subject slightly.
‘And Anton? How did you meet him? You don’t just look up patrons in the phone book.’
Her wide mouth spread even wider with her smile and I decided I liked it. The noise and bustle of the café couldn’t compete with Marian’s presence, which had captivated me.
‘No,’ she said, nodding. ‘I had some money of my own. Rich parents . . . And so I had about a year. I worked as well, in the evenings. In bars, like this one. My French was OK. It got better quickly. And then about six months ago, just when things were looking bad and I was thinking I might have to go back home cap in hand, I met Anton.’
I tried to sound as relaxed as I could.
‘Who is he?’
Could she hear my heart thumping hard in my chest? I thought the whole bar should be able to hear. She didn’t notice.
‘Anton? He’s a very rich man, who likes to support the arts, so he says. We met in a bar I was working in, not far from here, in the fall. He’s a count, sort of . . .’
‘A count,’ I said. ‘Sort of?’
‘A margrave, actually. That’s a kind of count, isn’t it? I’m not sure.’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
‘The Margrave Verovkin!’ she declared, like a little girl, suddenly. ‘My Estonian count!’
I wanted to ignore the possessive pronoun and picked up on something else.
‘Estonian?’
‘Yes. I had to look that up. It’s part of the Soviet Union, or it is now, anyway, on the Baltic Sea. He said he lived in exile as a boy with his family, in Austria, I think, and then in Switzerland when the war broke out. After the war he moved to Saint-Germain and took over a ruined palace. A small one, on the edge of the park.’
‘So . . . he didn’t fight?’
The man I had seen had been in uniform, some kind of uniform anyway. Maybe he’d been an officer. For a moment I was distracted, but Marian was still answering me.
‘He’s a count!’ she said. ‘Counts don’t fight. Do they?’
She looked puzzled and very comical, and I laughed.
‘No, I suppose not. And he’s paying for you to finish your studies?’
‘Yes, he is, and don’t think I’m some charity case. I’m teaching him English in return. He’s not bad but he gets simple things wrong still. That’s where I’ve been today.’
‘And what does he do? In that office?’
‘My, you really were spying on him, weren’t you?’
She looked at me fiercely and I was about to defend myself when she smiled, and I knew she was playing with me again.
‘He’s a doctor. Of an amazing kind. He’s studied oriental philosophy and medicine for many years, and is a great thinker. He’s adapting some of his findings and applying them to a new medical science he’s creating.’
A Love Like Blood Page 4
