She was staring wildly at him. There was a ringing in her ears . . . To try a new life for a while. What does that mean? What does that mean? “Max, did I go to China some time before the explosion?”
“I have no idea. If you did, you never told me about it.”
“Why would I go? Max, help me! Didn’t I tell you anything that might be a reason for me to go there?”
“No. And I don’t believe you went there. Perhaps a friend . . . or perhaps you were thinking about it.”
“I went there,” she said flatly. “And I was running away.” But that was all she knew; the fog had closed in and nothing was left. She had pulled her hands from Max’s, and now, caught in the fog and the frustration of trying to cut through it, she went to the door.
Max stopped her. “You’re not walking out on me. We’re still talking about this.”
She saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes: fear, she thought, or perhaps only worry. The lines in his face seemed to deepen as she gazed at him; behind the mask of his beard he looked almost drawn. He’s sixty, she thought; it can’t be easy to think about moving to a new country and changing life at sixty. Especially alone.
And so, once again, she knew she could not tell him about Léon. Not then, not ever. He would leave alone, knowing the partial truth that she could not bear the uncertainties of a new place or of a life on the run. He could live with that far more easily than with knowing she had fallen in love with another man.
She shook her head again. “I won’t leave Cavaillon. Everything I want is here.”
“You don’t even know what you want. You don’t know anything yet.”
“I’ve learned enough to know what I want.”
“Nothing lasts; don’t you understand? What you think you have is only what you see today. It won’t be the same tomorrow or next week or next year.”
“Yes, that’s how you live. I understand that. But I believe things do last. This town, my friends, this house, this—”
“You won’t have this house.”
“You’ll take it away from me?”
“You can’t afford it.”
“Oh. Well, then, I’ll find something small. Robert or . . . or Jacqueline will help me. And I’ll get another job if she can’t use me full time. And Madame Besset can always find a new position; she knows everyone.”
“You belong with me.” He heard the plea in his voice and silently cursed himself. Max Stuyvesant did not plead with anyone. Once again he turned away from her, and as he did he saw on the terrace the man in the leather vest and slouch-brimmed hat who had been in the churchyard. He was leaning against a tree, lighting a cigarette. As he flicked away the match, he looked up and met Max’s eyes.
“Christ, she told someone. That damned girl, Robert’s fucking do-gooder . . .” He strode to the terrace door. Confront them; they can’t think I’m afraid. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out! Marcel!” he shouted, and the gardener appeared around the corner of the house. “Get him out of here; he’s lost or drunk. And after this, God damn it, keep the gate locked.”
He turned back, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I’m sorry.”
“What did you mean? What girl?” Stephanie was frightened by the fury in his voice and by the fear, naked now, that lay beneath it.
“Sabrina, listen to me. We don’t have much time. I’ve made my plans; I’m ready to leave, and you’re coming with me. You’re my wife; you belong with me. There’s nothing keeping us here. You’ve built up a fantasy about Cavaillon because it’s all you know, but that’s the way an infant thinks of its crib. Any place in the world can be home; there’s nothing, anywhere, that can’t be duplicated. Come.” Without moving from his place by the door, he held out his hand. “Come with me. I love you; I’ll take care of you. You’re my wife, Sabrina; you belong with me. I’ll give you everything you want; I’ll make you happy. Sabrina, I promise you I’ll make you happy; we’ll have a good life.”
“No.” She stood near the door at the far side of the room. She pitied him for pleading when she knew he thought of himself as a man who never asked for anything, and she feared for him because of his sudden desperation. But another part of her felt detached, already cut off from him, wanting to have nothing to do with him. “You talk as if I belong to you. But I don’t. And I don’t belong with you. I don’t like the kind of life you make for yourself, Max.”
“You don’t have to like it; you don’t even have to know about it.”
“If I stayed with you, I’d be as involved as you are because I’d be living on what you make. I can’t be part of that, Max; I won’t be part of it. And I can’t be on the run all the time, hiding, looking over my shoulder—”
“God damn it, I’m leaving, do you understand that?” He was furious with her for fighting him, for refusing his pleas, his logic, his love. “This isn’t a game, Sabrina, it’s real, and I’m leaving. Do you know what that means? Do you know what it will mean to you to be alone? You have no idea what that’s like.”
“I won’t be alone.”
“You’re depending on Robert—”
“I’m depending on myself.”
“You can’t.”
“I can! Stop telling me I can’t! You’ve tried to keep me dependent on you, Max; I know that. You haven’t wanted me to recover my memory; you’ve wanted me to be a little girl, needing you for everything. But I’m not a little girl and I won’t be your little girl ever again, and that’s not a game, either; that is real.”
He waited another minute, his eyes locked fiercely on hers; then he wheeled and left the room. Stephanie stayed where she was, trembling from his intensity and her own. But with him gone, the room was silent, as hushed as the land after a storm, and gradually her trembling stopped. It was over. I’m depending on myself. Soon she and Max would part, probably never to meet again. She was touched by sadness. He had been good to her; they had made a home. But everything she had heard and felt that morning wiped out the sadness, and let her think with equanimity of the moment of his departure, when she would touch his hand and kiss him goodbye for the last time.
But she did not touch him or kiss him goodbye. He stayed in his locked office for the rest of that day, and when she awoke the next morning he was gone. It was five o’clock; she had set her alarm because she had planned a bicycle trip up Mont Ventoux and had to start before the day became too hot.
Madame Besset was already in the kitchen, kneading bread dough. “Monsieur must have left very early, madame; he was gone when I arrived a little while ago. Will he be away long this time?”
“I don’t know.” Stephanie stood in the kitchen, holding her cup of espresso, feeling as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet. He was gone. Not just a short business trip this time; he would go thousands of miles, and he would stay there. She was alone. No, not alone, she thought, but she felt the emptiness of the house, its high-ceilinged rooms, the furnishings that she had bought and arranged over the past months, the gardens heavy with fall blooms, the well-stocked kitchen with Madame Besset its focal point.
You won’t have this house. You can’t afford it.
She walked to the back door and looked through the glass at Marcel, cutting that day’s flowers for Madame Besset to arrange.
Who owns this house?
For the first time in months she was engulfed in the emptiness of not knowing who she was or where she belonged. The fog closed in and panic rose inside her. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.
“A few days, madame?” pressed Madame Besset. “It would help in my marketing if you could tell me—”
“I told you I don’t know!” She took a breath. “I’m sorry, Madame Besset; I really don’t know. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.” She wanted to get away from Madame Besset’s bright black eyes that saw so much and guessed much more. “I’m going to ride up Mont Ventoux on my bicycle; would you make a sandwich and fill two water bottles for me?”
“Yes, madame. That is a formidable
ride.”
“I know. I may drive the lower part of it.” She went back to the bedroom and swiftly dressed in skintight bicycle shorts, a loose short-sleeved shirt, and bicycle shoes. In a small waist pack she stowed her wallet and car keys, sunscreen and a lightweight jacket, and the sandwich and grapes Madame Besset had given her. She slipped the two water bottles into the sleeves on either side of the pack. “I’ll be back by midafternoon,” she said to Madame Besset.
In the garage she strapped her bicycle to the rack on the back of the car, tossed her helmet and gloves into the front seat, and backed out of the driveway. A car was parked nearby with a man in the driver’s seat wearing a black hat pulled low over his eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar and Stephanie nodded to him as she drove off. It was five-thirty in the morning.
The air was cool, the sky a faint blue-pink, and every leaf and blade of grass seemed clear and sparkling in this brief crisp interlude before the day’s heat descended. Stephanie drove fast and easily, passing the trucks that barreled down the narrow roads. Once they had terrified her; now she thought of them only as obstacles to be calculated so that she had time to pull back in front of them before an oncoming car reached her. For such an early hour, the roads were busy, and she concentrated on driving, glancing now and then at farmers in the fields, women hanging out wash in the early coolness, and schoolchildren walking along the roads with yapping dogs chasing each other about their heels. Ahead of her loomed the chalky summit of Mont Ventoux with its radar station and huge television mast outlined against the pale sky.
She slowed when she reached the village of Bédoin, built on a small hill with Mont Ventoux rising majestically behind it. The narrow streets were deserted at this hour, except for the market area where men and women in long aprons were setting up tables and arranging on them fruits and vegetables or stacks of baskets and tablecloths while others hung newly killed chickens upside down, set out rows of cheeses in refrigerated cases, with long curving sausages dangling above, opened barrels and jars of a dozen kinds of marinated and herb-infused olives, and stacked loaves of bread of all sizes and shapes, some almost three feet across. Near the market area was the main square with the mayor’s house at one end and the soaring stone church at the other; in the other houses that faced the square people slept or rose to make their breakfast. Everything was normal; for this village, the earth had not shifted. But Stephanie saw all of it as if for the first time because for the first time she was alone.
The summit of Mont Ventoux towered more than four thousand feet above the valley floor, and Stephanie drove partway up its heavily wooded flank before beginning her ride. At a curve in the road she pulled into a grove of cedars, out of the way of other cars, almost hidden from view. She put on her helmet and bicycle gloves and fastened her pack around her waist. It was six-fifteen when she began the ride up the paved road that cut back and forth between cherry and peach orchards and forests of beech and oak, cedar and pine that gradually gave way to scrub that thinned with the thinning air. Through the leaves Stephanie caught glimpses of the TV tower at the top, beckoning her on.
Her body had settled into a rhythm that made her feel she was flowing up the mountain, breathing hard, muscles straining, but exhilarated with her own energy and the cool air swirling about her. Thoughts and images drifted through her mind and she let them come and go without trying to hold on to them.
Max is gone.
I have the house.
But who owns it?
Robert will know; he found it for Max.
Robert will tell me what I can do. Stay for a while, then sell it.
Max should have the money, but how will I get it to him?
And where will I go?
I could live with Léon. He wants that. And I want it.
No, not yet. I told him I was going to live alone. I’m depending on myself.
He understood; he always understands.
I love Léon. I love Léon. I love Léon.
The words sang within her to the rhythm of her body. Her muscles began to ache; she downshifted until she was in the lowest gear and rode more slowly. She pulled out her water bottle and squeezed a stream of cold water into her mouth as she rode, then twisted to replace it in her pack. As she turned back, a car passed her, surprising her; she barely saw the driver’s black hat as she swerved to the right, skidding in the gravel at the side of the road. Have to be careful; I might break my wrist.
What an odd idea, she thought, but her mind was slowing to the same speed as her legs, and she let the thought go and pushed steadily upward, keeping her eyes on the summit. It was closer now and the trees were almost gone; soon they would disappear entirely and only the white stone of the highest elevation would remain, a white cap with the television mast like a feather in its center. The sun was higher, but as she climbed, the air grew cooler. She breathed deeply and thought of nothing but one more revolution of her legs, one more and then one more, and then she made the final turn in the road and she was at the top.
Gasping, she leaned her bicycle against the low stone wall and drank deeply from her water bottle, draining it, then opening the other. It was eight o’clock in the morning and at the base of the mountain the heat was building, but here, at six thousand feet, the air was cold and Stephanie began to shiver. She pulled out her jacket and put it on, zipping it up to the collar. She was alone; it was too early for tourists, and the restaurant was not yet open. The only sound was the steady rush of wind that gave the mountain its name. Stephanie left the bicycle and, nibbling a bunch of grapes, walked slowly around the summit, circling the white and red air force radar station and the long, low building housing scientific and television equipment, gazing at the scene below.
The Provençal plain spread on all sides like a verdant ring, and beyond it in a great circle of green and buff and blue were the Alps, capped with snow, the Lubéron, the Pyrenees, the Rhône Valley with its broad river winding in lazy curves to the horizon, shining silver in the sun, Marseilles and the lighthouses of the Berre lagoon, and the Alpilles chain that Stephanie had first seen in Léon’s painting. Léon should be here; we should be seeing this together. So much beauty, so much magnificence, such a glorious world.
She felt a piercing happiness. Everything is waiting for me: a new life, a whole life, with Léon. Because I will remember, however long it takes, and then I’ll be the person I was and the person I am now. And I’ll have everything I could ever want.
She was smiling to herself, in love with Léon, with life, with all the possibilities that awaited her, when a shadow fell near her and she looked up into the face of a man who had come up behind her. He held a gun, so small it looked like a shiny silver toy palmed in his gloved hand, but it was aimed at her, and it was so close that her arm brushed it in turning. She gave a sharp cry and he gripped her arm with his other hand.
“Shut up. Don’t say anything, just stand here, just the way you are, like you’re looking at the view. People may come.”
“What do you want?” Her voice sounded strange to her. “I don’t have much money, you can have what I’ve got, it’s in my pack. Take—”
“Shut up! Keep your voice down!” His black slouch hat almost touched Stephanie’s forehead and their bodies were so close she could see small scratches in his leather vest. “I don’t want your money. I want your husband. Where is he?”
“I saw you yesterday! In the churchyard. And this morning you were outside our house, in your car.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“The fuck you don’t.” He pushed the gun upward into Stephanie’s breast and she gasped. “I was outside your house all night; he didn’t leave, but he’s not there now. Where is he?”
“He did leave. He’s gone.” Now it was real, the man, the gun, the darkening sky. She was trembling and breathing rapidly; the gun cut into her breast and the man’s face, so oddly cherubic with a tiny nose above full, red lips, was so close to hers she could feel his breath.
Léon, Léon, Léon, she thought wildly; I can’t die; we haven’t even begun. “You’re hurting me. What do you want?”
“Where did he go?”
“I told you, I don’t know! I can’t tell you! Please stop . . . you’re hurting me.”
“You stupid cunt, I’ll stop when you tell me where the fuck he is. He didn’t go to Marseilles; I checked. Where is he?”
“I don’t know!” He knows about Max’s warehouse in Marseilles. What else does he know? Where does he come from? “What do you want him for? What do you want of us?”
“I want him. I don’t give a fuck for you if you tell me where he is.”
“I can’t tell you. He left while I was asleep; he didn’t tell me where he—”
“You’re lying.” He tightened his grip on her arm, twisting it until she cried out.
“I’m not, I’m not. Please, that hurts, please leave me alone, there’s nothing I—”
“Christ, this is like a fucking conversation. Okay, you’re coming with me; if you won’t talk, you’ll take me to him.”
“I can’t!” Her fear exploded. “Damn you, I don’t know where he is! We don’t live together anymore!”
He was taken aback. The gun relaxed slightly against Stephanie’s breast. “Since when?”
“Last night. He left and he’s not coming back and that’s all I know.”
“Bullshit. I saw you at that church, all lovey-dovey; there’s no way he was about to walk out on you.”
Stephanie looked at him in despair, not knowing what else to say. “He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”
“Fuck.” He looked around as a tour bus pulled into the parking area a hundred feet away. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
A Tangled Web Page 41
