Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘I hesitated again, then cursed myself for doing so. I suddenly knew the rules of the game, although it was not one I had ever played or even imagined. So I locked my eyes with his and took off my coat. It’s funny, the strange moments that stick in your memory. But I have this image of myself then, removing not my skirt or shoes but my watch. I unclasped it carefully and laid it gently on the bedside table, as though I was staking my claim to a piece of territory. From the other side of the bed he watched me and continued undressing. Then, when he was naked, he pulled back the top-sheet and slid into the bed, not once taking his eyes off me. I removed the rest of my clothes and slid into the bed beside him . . . and there was a beat, a second, when there was no movement and no sound. We were both holding our breath.

  ‘We made love three times that night, neither of us breaking the silence, even to cry out in ecstasy. That enforced silence gave a piquancy and dangerous edge to each moment that was so sweet I swear I was prepared never to talk again. Eventually we slept and in the morning I awoke to find that he had gone. There was a card on the table beside my watch saying that there was breakfast downstairs and his driver would take me anywhere I liked. Just above his signature was a telephone number and the words “call me”.

  ‘I nearly fell for it. So many times over the next week I found myself with the phone in my hand, but each time I forced myself to put it down. And each time the phone rang I waited until the caller spoke before I responded. Eight days later, I was running late for an appointment when the phone rang. I picked it up and listened. Then I heard a man’s voice saying, “It’s Oliver. I really want to see you.” We were married one month later.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jane had forgotten to close the shutters on the bedroom window and the first light brought Teschmaker out of a night of restless sleep. A sleep disturbed by the unaccustomed presence of another person in the bed. For a long time Jane had clung to him then, as sleep came, she had rolled on her side, fitting her back against him. It was a delicious sensation, and yet he remained tense, not wanting to trade the pleasure of her body for his normal habit of sleeping facing in the other direction. At times he knew he was asleep, at others he wasn’t certain if it was sleep or the dream of sleep. But each time Jane stirred Teschmaker awoke and placed the palm of his hand against her, for his own pleasure as much as in an attempt to ease the fitfulness he felt radiating from her.

  As the darkness receded he lay looking out towards the buildings, waiting for them to take shape, but it was a morning covered with mist. In the early hours a bank of fog had rolled in from the coast and merged with the mist rising from the river and the lake, blanketing the city, blotting out the hard edges of the office blocks and towers. Teschmaker lay for a long time, watching as the fog gradually lifted and the sun appeared, weak and pallid behind high cloud. When he turned to look at Jane he found that she was lying with her eyes wide open, watching him.

  ‘Have you been awake long?’ he asked.

  ‘Long enough to know that last night wasn’t a mistake.’ Her smile was sleepy and she yawned before reaching out and touching his face with the tips of her fingers. ‘You?’

  ‘What? How long have I been awake? Or do I think last night was a mistake?’

  ‘Either.’ She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. ‘Go on, I dare you. Tell me last night was a mistake.’

  Teschmaker laughed and pulled her head down onto his chest. ‘You’re right. A dreadful mistake. We should have done that years ago.’

  ‘We did everything but that.’

  ‘We were kids . . .’

  ‘Molester.’ Jane pulled at the hair on his chest. ‘I’m sure you were taking advantage of me.’

  ‘Nonsense! Girls are much more mature at that age.’ He took her head in his hands and lifted it up so he could look into her eyes. ‘You were the one who corrupted me. I remember you putting my hand on your breasts.’

  ‘I didn’t have any,’ she protested. ‘And anyway, it was you who kissed me first.’

  Teschmaker craned forward and kissed the top of her head. They lay in silence for a while and then Jane asked quietly, ‘Did you ever think we would meet again?’

  ‘Not really. I thought about you from time to time. I kept a photo taken at your birthday party. What about you?’

  ‘It sounds terrible but I guess I’d almost forgotten about you. Once when Oliver tried to get me interested in some silly game, billiards or snooker or something, he asked me if I knew anything about it and all I could remember was that time we met in the pub when I was at university.’

  ‘We played pool.’

  ‘The only thing I could recall was you saying something about not putting the white ball into the side pocket. Remember?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Apart from that I guess I never thought about you. Does that sound mean?’

  ‘No. It sounds truthful.’

  ‘Anyway . . .’

  ‘We’re here now.’

  There was silence for a while. Each of them immersed in their own memories.

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I need to ask . . .’ Teschmaker avoided looking at her. ‘You had a lover?’

  ‘When?’

  He knew by the suddenly alert tone that it was true. ‘Since you were married. You wrote letters —’

  ‘Who told you?’ Jane sat up and moved away from him.

  ‘Does it matter? I just wondered . . .’

  ‘What? If he’s still in the picture? No, Teschmaker, Oliver bought him off. The man gave him some letters I wrote.’ Her tone was suddenly bitter. ‘Oliver was going to produce them in court to prove what a slut I was.’

  ‘Oliver — prove you a slut?’ Teschmaker couldn’t suppress the laugh. ‘And a judge would take his word for it?’

  ‘You think judges don’t have a price too?’

  Later they cleaned up the kitchen and took tea and toast through to Jane’s father. He too looked as though he had not slept well; the trembling of his hands was markedly worse and he seemed irritable with none of the remarkable clarity he had displayed the previous evening. It was as though the effort required to explain his past had drained him, leaving him listless and distracted.

  They left him to eat and took their breakfast out onto the balcony. The earlier mood of intimacy seemed to have vanished with the mist, and though the morning was now bright and clear it served only to contrast the mood of despondency that had settled on them. It was as though for a few brief hours they had escaped the context of their meeting into a small oasis, which in the night had seemed larger and safer than where they now found themselves. Jane’s fleeting moments of levity were gone and she had retreated into her fears for her daughter.

  For his part, Teschmaker found himself running and re-running the events of the last few days through his head. It felt hopeless. It was like turning a shapeless piece of ore over and over in his hands, running his fingers across the surface, looking for the one flaw where he could chip away and reveal some crystalline structure inside that would tell him what it was he held. And all the time he knew that he had no answers. But something was niggling at him and he knew he had to move, if only to give Jane some space.

  ‘Can I take the car for a little while?’

  She nodded distractedly. ‘Sure, help yourself. The keys are on the kitchen bench.’

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked as he got up.

  ‘What can I do?’

  He had no answer so he kissed her gently and took the breakfast plates inside. He put them on the bench and left them. After a quick shave and a shower he said goodbye to Jane and went down to the car. As he emerged from the car park he looked around for Gerard Edwards, but if he was still on duty he was keeping well out of sight.

  Teschmaker drove slowly around the city without any clear destination in mind. Sometime during the previous night, as he had struggled to put the pieces together, he had thought about the jigsaw pieces, the
ones from Manolescu’s painting, that he still retained back at his house. His fascination with them hadn’t been about how the pieces could be put together, but rather the way in which the whole had become many parts. How it was possible to take a handful of the pieces and see that none of them appeared to have any relationship to the others. Yet in the night he had sensed connections between the pieces of the puzzle that now confronted him. Not between the stark, easily identifiable pieces that Sydney Morris had contributed, or the dark shapes of Rusak or Francis Grice, but somewhere else. Allowing his instincts to dictate his movement, he shifted lanes and headed out of the city. He needed space and he needed to walk.

  He found that he was heading in the direction of Freeholm cemetery. It wasn’t a high priority but he did want to take a quick look at the grave which Shlyapnikov had always led him to believe was that of his son. The old man would be mortified to know his wife had given away his secret, and the fact that he was unable to provide her with a child. And to lose a child that he had treated as his own — how must that have affected him? Having not had children, and never having wanted to have them with Gwenda, Teschmaker knew he was in a poor position to guess, but the way Shlyapnikov had so faithfully paid his respects to the dead young man suggested that his death had moved him deeply. He had also, Teschmaker remembered wryly, been overly protective about the grave itself.

  The car park at Freeholm was crowded but he found himself a slot. He sat for a moment watching the double gates being opened for a hearse to enter the road into the grounds of the cemetery. Behind it a dozen or so people followed, walking slowly, heads bowed with grief. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two old women in black hurry out from the kiosk and attach themselves to the rear of the procession. They were the same women he had noticed on his last visit. Death groupies, he thought morbidly. But then, why not? The trip through the cemetery gates was the one thing they all had in common, the defining difference being the way you travelled — the living on foot and the dead with the luxury of being carried.

  He climbed out of the car and set off towards the gates. For a couple of hundred metres he followed the road that the funeral procession had taken then turned left, crossing the small wooden footbridge over the Charlotte River. His memory of this part of the cemetery was of leafy shadows, but there had been extensive clearing and on either side of the path the only vegetation comprised young well-mulched saplings. A little further on he saw the reason why. Several workmen were busy cutting back the willows along the bank. They had been planted in the early days to stabilise the swampy terrain, but over the years their roots had reached out, threatening not only to choke the river but also invading the graves in search of the rich nutrients provided by decomposing bodies.

  Over the other side of the bridge Teschmaker followed a gravel path to the section of the cemetery he had visited with Shlyapnikov. Here the trees were older and the morning light dappled the path with shafts filtered through birch and alder.

  He rounded a corner and stopped. About fifty yards ahead of him was the slightly stooped figure of Shlyapnikov. The Russian was making his way slowly along the path, pausing every now and then to examine the graves to his right. For a moment Teschmaker thought the man’s memory must be failing him, that he was having trouble remembering where the young man’s grave was. But then he saw him stop in front of the overgrown grave with its distinctive purple headstone. Teschmaker decided not to interrupt the old Russian’s moment of communion and moved off the path into the shade of one of the large trees. For a second he thought the old man must have sensed him, for he turned around and peered back down the path. But, having satisfied himself that he was alone, Shlyapnikov walked on, counting the graves as he went.

  Teschmaker moved a little closer, but although he felt rather foolish spying on his friend, he remained out of sight. He found a good vantage point in the shadows behind a large family mausoleum and watched as the old man left the path and walked around the side of another grave. He eased himself down to sit on the concrete edging and checking again that there was nobody else in the vicinity, took out cigarette and lit it. For several minutes he sat smoking, gazing up into the branches, watching the beams of light cut through the smoke hanging in the still air.

  His friend’s behaviour struck Teschmaker as odd. It was almost as though the old man was ignoring the grave he usually visited, and he wasn’t carrying his usual bunch of flowers. Maybe this was a result of the conversation with Zoya Nikolayevna the previous evening. Perhaps she had raised the issue of Shlyapnikov’s fixation with the young man whom he had treated like a son. Teschmaker realised the speculation was getting him nowhere and was contemplating whether to go and speak to Shlyapnikov when the old man ground out the remains of his cigarette on the concrete, got to his feet and walked off down the path.

  Teschmaker waited until Shlyapnikov was out of sight before he stepped out from behind the mausoleum and, returning to the main path, made his way to the young Russian’s grave. Stepping over the low iron fence he crouched down in front of the marble headstone and brushed the grass to one side, revealing a name carved deeply into the stone. Grigori Vasilyevich Puzanov. Just below the name, preserved in glass, was a photograph of a young man in his early thirties. The face that looked out at Teschmaker was strikingly handsome. Blond hair combed back from a high forehead, the eyes direct and intense, the generous mouth shut firmly showing just the hint of a smile. So this was the ‘almost son’ — the promising young man who had ended so badly despite Shlyapnikov’s best endeavours. He sensed that the old man must have had a strong emotional investment in Grigori Vasilyevich and been heartbroken by his tragic death.

  Teschmaker had no idea of what he had hoped to achieve by visiting the grave, and for a few minutes the coincidence of running into Shlyapnikov had heightened his expectations. But it was, in every sense, a dead end.

  Pushing the grass back in place, he stepped out of the grave site and retraced his path. By the time he got back to his car the car park was almost empty and the double gates locked. The hearse and the mourners had left, but as he unlocked the car door he saw the black crows, the two old women, returning to the kiosk. Obviously there were perks to being a funeral groupie — both of them were carrying fresh bunches of flowers and Teschmaker wondered how much the owner of the kiosk paid them for their recycling efforts. He glanced at his watch. It was just after midday. The best thing would be to go back and see if Jane had any news. But then he had an idea; a long shot, but worth checking out. He got out of the car again and went over to the public phone at the kiosk. The man he called was uncertain if he could fulfil Teschmaker’s request but promised he would try. He asked for the number of the public phone and undertook to call back within the hour.

  Deciding that he might as well eat lunch while he waited, Teschmaker seated himself at a table at the kiosk and ordered some food. A couple of tables away, the two black crows were spending the proceeds of their morning’s flower gathering. They were sharing a huge banana split.

  Jane helped her father shower and then, after ducking out to the newsagency, set him up on the balcony with a coffee and the morning papers. Next she rang Oliver but he had nothing new to offer. Feeling despondent she sat with her father for a while, her mind vacillating between her fears for Melanie and the unexpected comfort of the previous night’s memories. There had been no intention on her part of inviting Teschmaker into her bed, the event surprising her as much as him. And equally surprising, she thought, was the ease with which it had happened. For so long sex had been combative or a one-sided affair, but with Teschmaker she had felt herself melt in a way she had not thought herself capable of. For a moment she censured herself. How could she have done such a thing while her daughter was in danger? But even as she thought it, she knew she had been emotionally drained and had needed the physical intimacy simply to keep going. But it had been more than that. Given another time, other circumstances, she would have been excited at the prospect of starting an affa
ir with Teschmaker. But this was not another time.

  After lunch Sydney retired to bed and Jane set about tidying up. She had just loaded the dishwasher when she was startled by a sharp knocking on the door. She approached it cautiously. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Gerard Edwards,’ came the muffled voice.

  Jane opened the door to find Gerard flanked by Norman and Viola. ‘The three wise men?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Gerard shrugged.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Norman added and ushered Viola in ahead of him.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for last night. Unfortunately my father has just gone back to bed, otherwise he would thank you himself.’ She gestured to the couch, indicating that they should sit, but Edwards shook his head.

  ‘You thanked us last night, Mrs Oliver —’

  ‘Please, I’d rather you called me Jane.’

  ‘Okay. Jane it is. Look, we just called in because I thought you should know that we think we have an idea —’

  ‘It was Viola who thought of it,’ Norman beamed.

  Edwards shot him a dark look and continued. ‘We think we might know where your daughter is.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Jane’s face lit up. ‘Where? Where do you think she is?’

  ‘I think that she may be staying with Master Francis,’ Viola began hesitantly.

  ‘Francis Grice? Oh God, I hope she’s all right.’ Jane had no illusions about the kind of man Grice was and the idea that he should have anything to do with Melanie filled her with dismay. Her mind was suddenly a confusion of competing thoughts: the intense maternal instincts wanting to know where her daughter was, but the same instincts revolting against the memories she had of Francis Grice. If he had so much as laid a hand on Mel she would kill him. She looked desperately at the men. ‘What makes you think that bastard has her?’