More than once this week she had thought of cancelling, but managed to refrain. If she was going to continue with Alette’s instructions, it was imperative that she find out more about what had happened between Alette and Justin. She owed it to herself. After all, she had now become an invisible partner in that relationship.
A relationship dictated by the wishes of a dead woman.
Her hands trembled as she stretched the sheer fabric of the tights over her toes. Justin had called earlier to ask if she’d mind meeting him at the restaurant. She preferred it. The idea of again meeting him at the house made her feel short of breath; this house where Alette looked out at her from every photograph, where she could imagine turning around suddenly to find Alette curled up in an easy chair, yawning and stretching, still sleepy after a long nap.
She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t yet made any effort to pack up Alette’s things. She should start making arrangements for storage; consult with an estate agent. Instead she had left everything virtually untouched. Alette’s garden shears, gloves and mud-caked boots were still lying in an untidy heap just inside the kitchen door and every time she entered the kitchen, she had to step over them. The laundry bin was filled with Alette’s lingerie and some of her lace blouses, which required hand washing. In some ways she, Isa, felt like the ghost: a creature of no substance who was haunting a house that was waiting breathlessly for the sound of other, quicker footsteps on the stairs; for another hand to turn on the lights. Even now, as she pulled the front door to and placed the key in the lock, she did it without any sense of ownership. This place would never be home.
Justin was already waiting for her at the table when she entered the restaurant. He got to his feet and pulled out the chair with old-fashioned courtesy. For a few moments as he spoke to the waiter about menus and drink orders, she was able to study him. The other night in the house, he had seemed to her not only greyer, but somehow greyed: as though the energy she had always associated with him was there no longer. But tonight he seemed closer to the charming, darkly handsome man she remembered. His most outstanding characteristic used to be a decisiveness of manner, and an air of barely contained enthusiasm. The intensity with which he approached life, the speed at which he made his decisions, had been attractive.
He was looking at her appraisingly; probably noticing quite a few changes as well.
‘So what do you feel like?’ He picked up the menu. ‘The fish is good here.’
They discussed menu choices, mentioned preferences in food. They both spoke tentatively, hesitantly: circling each other like wary fencers. The conversation was punctuated by fractional hesitations; by their eyes meeting and then sliding apart. She realized that they had too much to say and too little to say. At times the conversation flowed easily: a tide of inane, safe nothingness; but then a chance remark would suddenly—dizzyingly—open up the possibility of accessing the store of shared memories regarding Alette.
Alette. She could just as well have been sitting at the table with them, her chin propped up on one hand, her eyes narrowed dreamily in that way she had when she was relaxed and enjoying herself.
He was now telling her about his business. He probably thought it a topic admirably suited to keep dangerous emotions from crowding in on them. What could be more innocuous than talking about work, what could be less messy? He spoke animatedly, seemingly quite at ease, while she clutched her fingers under the table and felt a nerve tighten inside her forehead.
He was explaining to her some of the early difficulties they had faced in the development of the drug. ‘Diagnosis was the major problem. With Alzheimer’s it used to be that it was very difficult to diagnose properly. Brain scans as well as blood and spinal fluid tests were of only limited use. And as long as doctors weren’t sure of their diagnosis, the possibility of prevention and cure was remote.’
She was surprised. ‘I always thought the symptoms of Alzheimer’s were unmistakable.’
He shook his head. ‘Only after the patient had died and a post-mortem performed could a physician be sure whether it was Alzheimer’s or not. Only after.’ He added slowly: ‘The only certainty was in death.’
He stopped speaking and for a moment his face relaxed into an odd, close-lipped smile.
‘Has that changed?’
He looked back at her, his gaze suddenly focused again. ‘Oh yes. An American drug company funded a project at Oxford University and their studies pinpointed massive tissue loss in the brain as a marker for Alzheimer’s. No other kind of dementia shows such visible tissue loss. And a host of other studies have been done worldwide, which have all helped to dramatically cut the error rate in diagnosis. They also managed to pinpoint the beta-site APP-cleaving enzyme, BACE: one of the two enzymes responsible for plaque formation in the Alzheimer brain. All of this paved the way for the development of Taumex.’
‘Why Alzheimer’s? Why didn’t you choose something else: cancer, AIDS?’
‘No.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘Nothing fascinates like dementia. It is the ultimate puzzle. Think about it. Think what it must be like to lose sight of the memories and sensations of a lifetime. Think of your desires becoming colourless: your most intense passions of no more value to you than an empty paper cup.’
He was leaning forward, his hands restlessly playing with the utensils on the table. His eyes were fixed solidly on her face, but she had the impression that he wasn’t noticing her. ‘Of course, even in our daily lives we have brushes with dementia. We become demented with grief. Or crazed with love. We become enraged and lose our grip on reality.’ His mouth twisted. ‘A different type of madness, I grant you. But possibly just as nightmarish.’
The intensity in his voice made her uncomfortable. ‘Tell me about the company,’ she said. ‘Business is good, then?’
‘Touch wood.’ He knocked lightly with his knuckles against his head. ‘No, seriously, the company’s doing fine. The good times are here, finally. It took us eleven years, you know, to get to this stage. With pharmaceuticals it’s a gamble. It was touch and go for a while: the first clinical trials were a nightmare. But Taumex is now out there, being prescribed. And we now have the capital to start pushing some of our other drugs that are in development. There’s a central-nervous-system drug we’re working on—an antidepressant—which is looking good, and I’m very excited about our research into a new anti-inflammatory drug.’
‘You love your job.’
‘I do.’ His voice was almost subdued. ‘This sounds pretty mawkish, I know, but it’s a job worth doing. Taumex is a good product: it’s helping a lot of people. In the U.K. alone there are over one hundred thousand people diagnosed with Alzheimer’s every year. That’s a plane-load of people every day.’
He lifted a self-mocking eyebrow. ‘And, let’s face it: I’m making real money. But enough about me.’ He gave her an uncomplicated smile. ‘Let’s open another bottle of wine. Then I want you to tell me all about your job; what you do.’
He seemed genuinely interested. And after a while she could feel herself starting to unclench. The wine was relaxing her, making the blood run through her veins warmly and sleepily. The background noise in the restaurant was a benign, soothing hum. She could almost forget about Alette; about the letter. She could almost enjoy herself. This was a man who knew how to charm and he was a good listener. He had a way of seeming to concentrate intensely on what she was saying and it had the effect of encouraging her to talk more about herself than she would have thought possible. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe she was a soft touch, taken in by the compliment he was paying her by giving her his undivided attention. Paying attention was, after all, the greatest gift you could bestow on anyone. Whatever the reason—and later she would have great difficulty explaining it to herself—he had managed to get her to talk about Eric.
‘What do you miss most about him?’
She thought for a moment. ‘He asked good questions.’
He nodded as though what she had said made pe
rfect sense.
‘How did he die?’
‘He was carjacked. And then they shot him. My worst nightmare was always that something might happen to him without my knowing. And that’s the way it turned out in the end. I didn’t know he had died until two days after.’
The memory of that moment was still vivid as a wet burn wound. She had heard about it in the ladies’ room, of all places. She remembered herself applying fresh lipstick and listening with half an ear to the banal conversation between two pretty secretaries. Hearing his name. Her hand, holding the lipstick, slackening and then jerking; leaving a bloody mark across her cheek.
Justin touched her hand, a butterfly touch. ‘I’m sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘We had twelve years. That’s more than most people have.’
He gazed up briefly, then down again. ‘You accepted the fact that he would never leave his wife and children.’
‘Yes.’
‘You weren’t hoping? Not even in your heart of hearts?’
‘No. I wasn’t proud of coming between him and his wife. The guilt was always there. But I could see myself living like that for the rest of my life. The only regret I had was that I might never have a child of my own. But I was willing not to make that demand.’
‘Not making demands.’ He nodded slowly. ‘The magic formula.’
‘I know Alette thought I was playing a loser’s game. But the truth of it is, even if I were, I didn’t care. I would do it again, if I could only have him back this minute.’
And there, she had done it. And the mention of Alette’s name chilled the air between them.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve always wondered what it must have been like growing up with Alette.’ He made it sound as though she had been part of a dubious experiment.
‘What do you mean exactly?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, Alette had a way of simply dragging one along in her wake. It must have been overwhelming at times for someone …’ He didn’t finish the sentence but Isa knew what he was thinking. For someone like herself.
‘Alette always looked out for me.’
His face stayed smooth, unemotional.
‘She was the one who encouraged me to go to graduate school: to study architecture. And if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have my own business now. After her parents died she used some of the money they left her to help me with start-up capital.’
It suddenly became important to her that he should understand how much she owed Alette: what Alette meant to her.
‘She saved my life once.’
There was a pause, then he said simply, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘We were fifteen. We went hiking and I stepped into the path of a mamba. Most snakes are shy; but not black mambas. They’re incredibly aggressive. I wasn’t wearing hiking boots, but Alette was. So she decided to take the risk. She deliberately moved and distracted the snake’s attention. It attacked her, not me.’
‘But she was okay?’
‘No. She wasn’t. What she didn’t know was that mambas rear up when they attack. They can rear up to a height of three feet and they bite several times in rapid succession. Alette got bitten in the arm repeatedly. She should have died; you don’t survive an attack like that. But a medical emergency helicopter happened to be in the area and they got her to the hospital within thirty minutes. Against all odds, she pulled through. The doctors called it a miracle.’
‘So she was close to death.’
‘She managed to beat it.’
And then Alette’s dad had gone out to search for that snake. He had found the mamba in a hole in the ground, next to eleven perfect, white, oval eggs and had shot it. After that he had smashed the eggs. For years afterwards the snake lay curled up inside a glass canned fruit bottle on a shelf in Uncle Leon’s study. Every now and then Isa had climbed on top of a chair to stare at that glass bottle and its contents: the oily coils; the fangs inside the half-open, black-lined mouth; the formaldehyde—at first clear—then slowly yellowing with age.
She looked up to find Justin watching her. ‘That’s quite a story.’
Isa replaced the wineglass with a sharp little bump. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be so defensive, Isa. Just because Alette and I had our differences,’—for just a second something flickered behind his eyes—‘it doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here bad-mouthing Alette. I know the two of you had a special relationship.’
‘We did, yes.’ Correction—wrong tense—she thought silently. We do.
He sighed. ‘So when are you planning on going back to South Africa?’
‘I’m not sure. There are a lot of loose ends to tie up.’ She tried to sound less evasive. ‘The house and so on.’
‘Well, if you need help with anything, I’m available.’
‘Thanks. Alette’s solicitor seems very capable. I’m meeting him again tomorrow afternoon, as a matter of fact. Alette’s affairs seem to be in good order. She left detailed instructions for me to follow.’ As the words left her mouth, Isa blushed, suddenly aware of their double meaning.
He lifted a quizzical eyebrow at her obvious discomfort. Then he said idly, ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Christmas. I haven’t thought that far ahead.’
‘Well, listen.’ He stopped and took out his credit card to give to the hovering waiter. ‘I have to go to the country. I’m spending Christmas with my mother. But I’ll still be around until the twenty-third. Why don’t we have a drink together before I leave?’
She made a sharp, negative motion with her head. ‘That’s okay. I’ll be fine, really.’
‘There are still some of Alette’s things in my apartment. Alette and I somehow never got around to sorting them out. You ought to have them. Actually, I seem to remember seeing some photographs among all of that stuff. And books. Why don’t you come by and take a look. Pick what you want and I’ll dispose of the rest.’
‘I’d like the photos.’
‘Fine, it’s settled then. Stop by next week. Wednesday at around seven.’ He rummaged inside his wallet and took out a small, buff-coloured business card. Justin Temple. Chief Executive Officer. Temple Sullivan International Ltd. Both his home and business addresses were on the card.
When she got up from the table, he placed his hand on her elbow and through the fabric of her dress she could feel the pressure of his fingers. ‘I’ll drive you.’
They didn’t speak inside the car as he drove smoothly and competently through the blur of traffic. She leaned her head against the neck rest, her eyes looking out at the black night. The ghostly outline of a face glimmered for a moment against the window glass and she blinked before realising it was merely a glimpse of her own reflection.
Justin stopped the car in the street outside Alette’s front door, not parking it. With the engine still running, he stepped out and opened the door for her.
‘Thank you.’
As he slammed the door shut behind her, Isa saw Michael Chapman getting out of an ancient Mini Cooper farther down the street. It was a slightly comical picture: this large man sticking out his long legs from within the tiny interior of the car. The light from the street lamp turned his fair hair white. As he turned around, he spotted Isa and gave her a quick salute.
‘Who’s that?’ Justin was staring at Michael’s retreating back.
‘Someone I’ve met.’
‘You make friends easily.’ Beneath the bantering tone, there was something else in his voice, something edgy. ‘Wait a minute, I know him.’
‘He was a friend of Alette’s.’
‘Of course. Now I remember. The brain-dead finger painter.’
‘Actually,’ she said primly, ‘he’s a nice man.’
‘Nice man.’ He smiled, his eyes suddenly amused. ‘Yes, I can live with that. It makes him sound sufficiently boring.’ He made to get behind the wheel, but she stopped him.
‘Justin. I’d like the keys.’
He frowned.
&n
bsp; ‘The keys to Alette’s house. The ones you used to get inside the house.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I still feel terrible about creeping in there like a thief. What you must think of me.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Here you are. I meant to give them to you earlier tonight, but I forgot.’
She took the two keys from him. ‘How did you come by these?’
He shrugged. ‘Alette gave me a spare set.’
She must have made a gesture of disbelief because he shook his head. ‘It’s true. She gave them to me of her own free will.’ A sudden gust of wind blew his hair into his eyes and he put up a hand to push it back. ‘We tried to reconcile once.’ She had the impression that he wanted to add something to what he had said, that he was hesitating. But then the troubled look left his eyes and his face assumed its habitual expression: not guarded exactly; not wary but … watchful.
‘Thank you for dinner.’ She held out her hand.
‘It was good to catch up. I’ll see you next week, then.’ Before she could react, he leaned forward and gave her a light kiss on the one cheek: his lips barely brushing her face.
She had been so keyed up for her meeting with him that it was now almost an anticlimax to watch him drive away before sedately walking back into the house. Although there really was nothing left to do but get ready for bed, she was wide awake.
Idly she picked up the book with the pebbled leather cover that Alette must have been reading, and which was still, like the first night when she had come upon it, lying spreadeagled and face-down on the easy chair.
Not exactly beach reading. It was a book on alchemy and its symbolic significance in spiritual evolution. She paged listlessly through the densely printed pages. As usual, Alette had marked many of the pages in pencil. Exclamation marks, wavy lines and double vertical lines abounded in the margins. One entire paragraph was shaded: Solve et Coagula: determine all your elements, dissolve that which is diminishing, even though you may self-destruct in doing so; then with the power gained from the preceding process, congeal. A few pages on, another highlighted sentence: In the Tradizione Ermetica, Evola teaches that alchemy is the transformation and change of one being into another being, one thing into another thing, weakness into strength, the physical into the spiritual. The words weakness into strength and physical into the spiritual were heavily underlined and in the margin next to it, Alette had printed: How to help myself? How to empower myself? How to save myself from myself?
The Midnight Side Page 9
