A Mind of Winter

by Shira Nayman

  “Whatever you’re drinking will be fine,” Barnaby said, his finger was now on my chin.

  I saw his eye wander up the hallway, sensed in him a flutter of excitement. He must be very sure of me, I thought.

  “I don’t think you should stay. I was just about to go to bed.”

  “Then I’ll tuck you in.” His finger traced slowly up from my chin, coming to rest behind my earlobe.

  I could feel my irritation dissolving. But I also felt uncomfortable standing there in my bathrobe. I pointed toward the living room. “The bar’s in there. I’ll be right back.”

  I turned and walked through the dining room toward the bedrooms at the back of the apartment. Fleshy rounds of moonlight glowed on the varnished floorboards. The rooms had lost their calm.

  In the bedroom, I unwound the towel from my hair, pulled on slacks and a light sweater.

  When I returned to the living room, Barnaby was standing by the window with a glass in his hand, staring out at the flat expanse of river.

  “Does it always perform so magnificently for you?” he said, his back toward me. “The river, the sky, the moon?” He swiveled around to face me across the width of the room. “But perhaps you take it for granted.”

  “We could go out for a walk,” I said.

  “I was going to tuck you in.” Barnaby passed his gaze from my shirt to my slacks. “Although I see that you’re dressed, now.”

  “I’ll get my jacket,” I said.

  Back in the dining room, everything was disturbed, as if the building, after an unexpected blow, was struggling to regain its balance. In the bedroom, I sat for a moment on the green plaid chair by the window. I felt a terrible longing for Simon, pictured him in a small hotel in Montreal, sitting at the little desk found in such rooms, noting down images and thoughts for tomorrow’s writing; pictured him setting down his fountain pen, stroking the back of his neck with forefinger and thumb the way he did when he was concentrating. I rose, took my purse and keys from the dresser, retrieved my cotton jacket from the closet, and clicked off the lamp.

  Walking back through the dining room, I noticed a dim light issuing from the end of the passageway: Simon’s study. Aware that I was almost tiptoeing, I headed down the hall, then stopped at the half-open door. I peered in to see Barnaby leaning over Simon’s desk, half of him aglow in the light thrown up by the desk lamp, the other half obscured in the fuzzy blackness of the room—no moonlight on this side of the apartment, where the shades were drawn to keep the grimy airshaft from view. The sight of Barnaby’s half-face was disturbing—not only because of the apparent loss of its complement, but because of the oddly prurient expression he wore. Barnaby glanced my way. He was holding up a handwritten manuscript page; delicately, he set it down.

  “Let’s go,” I said. Barnaby pretended not to notice the curtness in my voice.

  Downstairs, crossing the lobby, I noted the frank disapproval in Gerald’s face.

  Barnaby and I headed north on Riverside Drive, walking for several blocks in silence. He reached for my hand; reluctantly, I let him take it.

  “Don’t be cross,” he said, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.

  I extricated my hand. “You had no business going into Simon’s study.”

  “I just want to know about your life,” he said. “Can you understand that?”

  I stopped, Barnaby stopped. His face was shrouded by shadow. Above us, a canopy of leaves; beside us, the towering trees of Riverside Park, exhaling oxygen into the night air.

  “Simon’s study is not my life.”

  A veil softly falling, the smile that stole across Barnaby’s face, taking full possession of his features.

  “But Marilyn, it is,” he said.

  A woman in a white uniform and white lace-up shoes hurried anxiously toward us. A nurse, I supposed, coming off the late shift. I nodded to her as she passed. A convertible sped by roof down, a young rake in a checkered cravat at the wheel. Beside him, hair held down by a tightly tied scarf, a woman laughed into the onrush of air. I looked back at Barnaby, saw, for an instant, a vivid apparition—Barnaby swinging a child onto his shoulders, looking at me with those same knowing, relaxed eyes: sure of himself, sure of me, questioning nothing. It was a happy child, settled and loved.

  “Honestly.” I took a step toward him. “You really believe the rules don’t apply to you, don’t you.”

  He drew me toward him, looked at me happily and long.

  “Darling,” he whispered, “you really should try to be less serious.”

  * * *

  Later, I lay on the bed looking out at the moon sinking by my window, unable to sleep, feeling trapped, somehow, between the layers of the river and the layers of the night. I kicked off the sheet and stepped from the bed. I dressed, threw a few things into my weekend valise, and took leave of the apartment.

  When I stepped from the elevator into the foyer, Gerald rose from the night shift chair. “Do you have a car coming, madam, or shall I call you one?”

  “I’m taking my own car,” I said.

  “But madam,” he protested, looking pointedly at his watch.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s parked around the corner.” I pushed through the double glass doors.

  The car was in fact a good many blocks away. Outside, not a soul about, but above me, in the high-rises I passed, signs of wakefulness: a random design of windows flashing light, like so many gap-toothed smiles. The streets seemed slippery with threat.

  Once in the car, I headed along the quirky route Simon and I always took through Manhattan, aware of the differences wrought by the semidarkness. The shuttered buildings and halted commerce put me in mind of a great Egyptian tomb, constructed not for the living, but for some marvelous existence in the hereafter.

  Across the bridge, the roads were quiet except for the occasional long-haul truck, piloted, inevitably, by a blearyeyed driver sucking on a cigarette. I glanced up to see that the moon was sinking differently now, a round blade cutting through the black butter of night. I pressed down firmly on the gas pedal. The feel of moving through Queens: apartment buildings wearing the flimsy armor of their fire escapes, then tracts of newly minted houses, squat little things with awnings and porches and postage-stamp front lawns. And on, the roadway relaxing to twists and turns. Finally, the Long Island townships, with the appearance of increasingly grand houses. Stretches of wooded land, a slight cooling of the air. The sky cleanly black above, the world ahead of me appearing as two hazy yellow tunnels molded into existence by the headlights of my car.

  The familiar fork, an inverted arrow pointing away from Oscar’s. I veered to the right and slowly released my foot from the accelerator, anticipating the bumpier surface of the road as it narrowed ahead. I misjudged the wide curve and swung up unevenly onto the grassy shoulder; my headlights glimpsed something shiny, also up on the grass, jutting out from beneath a large weeping willow. A fender: a shiny, jazzy fender. I slammed on the brakes, skidded into the center of the road. Leaving my car where it was, I stepped out onto the road. Little asphalt stones crunched underfoot as I made my way over to investigate.

  Up on the grass, I pulled aside the curtain of leaves. It was a convertible, with the roof pulled closed, dark green and spanking new. Carefully parked under the feathery outlying overhang of leaves, clear of the heavier inner boughs that might have inflicted a scratch. I tried the driver’s door, then walked around to the passenger side—both locked. A halfmile, by my guess, to the entrance of Ellis Park. I climbed back into my car, drew away slowly, and turned off the headlights. I sailed along, eyes trained on both sides of the road, each moment expecting to glimpse a moving form up ahead against the trees.

  I reached Oscar’s gates, left the car idling while I unlocked the bolt with the key he had given me, then turned onto the driveway, disembarking again to relock it. Two-thirds the way up the driveway, I pulled to the side and shut off the engine. I stepped onto the lawn and hastened up the incline, skirting the circular driveway and ma
king my way to the back entrance.

  It was rounding the house that I saw him emerging from the rear. How odd, I thought; Oscar must have given him a copy of the key too. How else could he have gained access to the estate? The man paused, closed the top button of his sports jacket, and walked quickly across the patio. The back of the house was in darkness; the single converted London streetlamp, usually lit, tonight was blind. I knew, even from that distance, in the hazy darkness, that it was him, though we had never, in fact, met. When he had cleared the patio, I moved quickly along the grassy border. Alerted by the sound of movement, he turned. A moment of calculation in his face, then a practiced calm.

  “It’s you,” I said.

  “Good evening,” he replied. A stray moonbeam stole across his face; I saw what a good looking man he was, though there was something disturbing about the mildness of his gaze, as if he were standing before something terrible and had chosen to look away. I saw, also, the color of his hair: a lovely shade of chestnut.

  “You know me, don’t you,” I said.

  He did not acknowledge that I’d spoken, though I noted a twitch of impatience around his mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” I persisted. “What do you want?”

  The man drew something from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a card, a business card with an elaborate seal, though in the near darkness I could not make out what it said.

  “We may be contacting you. If, in the meantime, you feel you have any information that would be helpful, we’d appreciate hearing from you.”

  That mild gaze, I found it infuriating. I slipped the card into my pocket.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I said.

  He reached up to touch the brim of his hat in a polite doff, then turned and walked toward the lawn. I watched him cut across about midway down and pick up the driveway. From there, I imagined him thinking that the sound of shoes crunching on gravel would not reach the ears of the sleeping servants up in the house. He kept the same brisk pace; there was tremendous assurance in his stride. I watched until he disappeared over the hump, then moved back to the house.

  Inside, the hallway was sparsely lit by the wall sconces, which appeared to have been dimmed. No guests; I sensed the house was emptied out. I took the back stairs and headed toward Oscar’s study. As I expected, there was a band of light beneath the door. From within, I could hear pacing, and shallow, erratic breathing. I raised my hand to knock when I was startled by a low voice.

  “Madam, good evening.” Wallace, materialized from nowhere, in full butler dress, bearing a silver tray which held a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. “A pleasure as always to see you, madam, but I confess we were not expecting you.”

  “Is Oscar all right?”

  I saw a shadow of pain cross Wallace’s face then dissolve into his usual expression of courteous distance. “Nothing that two aspirin and a good night’s sleep won’t take care of.”

  I hesitated. “Perhaps I should pop my head in to say hello.”

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. The master is feeling quite poorly.”

  I went back to my suite but felt too restless to stay there alone. I changed into comfortable slacks and blouse, then made my way down to the dayroom. Sitting in the darkness, I lifted the handset from the telephone and dialed the operator.

  I thought the call would never go through. It was only an hour or two before dawn when the operator finally rang to say she had Simon, in Montreal, on the line.

  That long-distance trip in the wire, my own heart missing a beat or two at the sound of his voice.

  “Marilyn?” Just discernible, a note of concern.

  “How are you treating Montreal?”

  “A wary mutual respect, I’d say.” That gentle catch in his voice—the sound, to me, of some hidden font of happiness in the cool reaches of Simon’s soul.

  “Marilyn, are you there?”

  “Something’s going on here. At Ellis Park.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Simon replied, the catch in his voice gone.

  “The man on the beach,” I said. “I saw him leaving the house. From the servants’ entrance. Simon, it was four o’clock in the morning.” The telephone wire threw up a delay, which made for awkward hesitations. The conversation felt like a tennis game between mismatched partners.

  “You know Oscar has all kinds of friends. Maybe he just wants to keep some things to himself.”

  I allowed a pause. I wanted something from him, though I didn’t know what.

  “Are you getting enough sleep?” he asked.

  I let the next pause lengthen. “I wish you were here,” I whispered.

  “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  A crackle on the line, and the swelling feeling in the room of something sinister.

  “Did you say something?” Simon’s voice; it sounded like he was drifting away. “The line’s cutting out.”

  “No, I didn’t say anything.” My own voice, loud in the silent dark.

  “Well then—”

  “I’ll write soon,” I said.

  “Get some sleep …”

  I placed the receiver back in its cradle, looked out into the blackness. The night had the feel of a photograph. I felt its hiddenness in my grasp: the throbbing stillness, the dense shroud of the living that hangs over everything in the deepness of night—birds with their heads tucked under wing, frogs statue-still on lily pads, horses upright and asleep in their stalls, even the cicada silent under its muffling. I wanted to hurl it back into the universe, this formless photograph. I had the urge to scream: See? See what you have done?

  And then, right on cue, Barnaby appeared in the doorway.

  “I thought I heard voices, but I see you’re alone.”

  I did not turn around. I could not take my eyes off the window, the shiny dim surface, the heavy dark shapes in the blackness beyond.

  “I thought you were in Manhattan,” he said.

  I heard him move toward the couch. The click of a switch, and then light, faintly rainbowed through the neat triangles and squares of Oscar’s Tiffany lamp. I reached for a cigarette, realized there were tears dripping down my face and discreetly wiped them away.

  “I can’t say I was expecting you, either,” I responded. The lamp’s glare had reduced the window to a pale reflection of the room, featuring, off to one side, a ghostly likeness of Barnaby.

  “I couldn’t keep away,” he said. He walked across to the alcove and poured himself a drink. “It seems as if I’ve been granted an early reprieve.”

  “Oh?”

  “My sentence. It’s been lifted. I’ve taken a new posting. It starts in two weeks.”

  “Let me guess. Someplace you’ve yet to conquer … Indonesia?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Back to one of your old stomping grounds, then.” I was trying, desperately, to sound nonchalant, though I was aware that my voice was shaky. I wanted a drink but didn’t want to go to where Barnaby was standing to get one. Instead, I lit a cigarette.

  “Guess again.”

  “Hmm … Closer to home … Costa Rica? Peru?”

  “Try Washington.” Barnaby said. “D.C.”

  “Washington,” I repeated, exhaling a long, slow plume. “Rather less far-flung than I would have expected.” And awfully close, I thought, to New York. To Riverside Drive. To me.

  Barnaby walked over and crouched down by the couch, took my chin in his hand, his eyes tender and querying.

  He said nothing. I said nothing.

  “I have a new project brewing myself,” I said, after a while. “I talked it over with my editor at Life when I was back in New York.”

  “Oh? Where to?”

  I had not, in fact, discussed any such assignment with my editor; I have no idea how this lie sprang to my lips. I knew, however, upon hearing my own words, that I was tired, so very tired. Of my war project. Of longing for Simon. Of the brand of deception I had somehow, unwitting
ly, it now seemed to me, embarked upon in conducting this affair with Barnaby. Of being an intrigue for this man before me, a man I felt suddenly as if I did not know at all. Of the certainty in his face when he looked at me. Of the mess I was making of things.

  I looked at Barnaby kneeling beside me: Barnaby, waiting for an answer.

  “Rather more far-flung than I’d anticipated,” I said.

  It was Barnaby’s turn to be surprised. He rose from his crouch, crossed the room to the bar, then turned and eyed me coolly.

  “No guesses, I see,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted.

  “The suspense is killing me.” A sneer larding his words. Yes, beneath the coolness, a flash of rage in those eyes. I felt the desire to be cruel. I could have stopped myself, but I didn’t; I was curious to see how he would react.

  “Then I’ll tell you. Leningrad.”

  The yellow suite took on a forbidding emptiness, which made it even harder for me to sleep. And since chancing upon the strange visitor, with his disturbingly mild gaze, I found myself seriously worried about Oscar. I couldn’t imagine what business this man had with Oscar or how it was that they came to be speaking German. The more I puzzled over the few facts I had at my disposal, the more stumped I felt.

  So when, on the following Wednesday night, lying awake in my room, I heard what sounded like a stealthy tread on the stairs, I quickly dressed and stepped into the hall. Battered by nights of insomnia, I felt uncomfortably jumpy and alert. I made my way quietly to the other side of the house, expecting Wallace to spring out at any moment from nowhere in full butler regalia, bearing some crucial item or other for his master. But no one appeared; I was alone, the only noise my soft footfalls, muffled by Oscar’s fine runners and hallway rugs.

  I came to a halt outside his study. The crack under his door glowed dully with light: the sound, from within, of purposefully lowered voices. The same lowered voices, again speaking German. But then, as if they had somehow been expecting me, they switched to English. And as suddenly, one of the voices became recognizable—it was Oscar’s, surely and unmistakably, though the tremulousness I heard in it was new.