She couldn’t say all these things to him on the phone. Not when he was so obviously disgusted with her, and rightfully so. She needed to speak her mind when she was in front of him so that she could see his reaction, read his eyes, his every gesture.
Trying to keep him on the phone nonetheless, she had asked him when he was returning to New York. He was noncommittal. “Perhaps in a few days. I need to check on a few things here first. Get some answers,” he had said. He remained quiet after that and she had rushed off the phone, not knowing what else to say.
Lying in her own bed now, she angrily commanded herself to get a grip. Why was she making such a big deal of Theron St. Cyr and what he thought of her? Who the hell was he, anyway, with his pathetic little company trying to go up against the likes of Pilgrim Boone! A European that she probably would never understand, anyway! So what if he’s black? So what if his parents are American? He’s still European, he and his friend Faustin. He was different from all the other black people she was used to: West Indians, Africans, Hispanics. Not in a bad way. Just different in a strange way. She had interacted with a few European blacks before, but only at business meetings. Never socially. She couldn’t put a finger on what it was that made them different.
She rolled over onto her stomach and laid her head on her hands. Europeans. She didn’t know these people. Why should she waste her time thinking about them?
She closed her eyes with a sigh. Almost immediately, Theron St. Cyr’s face loomed into vision. Irritated, she snapped open her eyes and flipped over onto her back.
The voice in her head was plaintive. You’re the one who’s strange, Drucilla Durane. The Savoy deal is in big trouble and that’s what your mind should be focused on, not Theron St. Cyr, who’s being paid by the Guyanese government to go meddling into the thing. Look at the way he questioned you. Get real, Dru.
Dru blinked guiltily. She didn’t want to think about Theron. But she didn’t want to think about Pilgrim Boone either. Not just yet. What about the stuff he had said on the plane about wanting to make her believe him? And how about his arm around her waist in Le Quartier Noir, pulling her close to him, gently, but so firmly? He liked her then.
The voice would not let up. So he liked you. Your doorman likes you, too. St. Cyr’s a charmer. You know that. His arm around your waist was for protection. End of story. As for now? Take a wild guess, bright girl. You’re no longer a college kid running around Europe trying to find herself. You’re Pilgrim Boone. Think what you and your connections could do for his company if he’s on good terms with you.
Dru covered her ears to shut out the voice. She rolled from side to side, hugging herself tight, as if doing so would quell the trembling that had suddenly seized her. But the tremors did not stop. She knew what was happening. Her mind was being overwhelmed. The organized, comfortable world she had grown used to over the years was in total upheaval. She was on the verge of losing a deal that could cost Pilgrim Boone the huge Savoy account; a man had been murdered and her boss, a man she thoroughly disliked, might be involved; and she had lost her cool in the presence of a man who, she conceded grudgingly, was the epitome of cool himself, humiliated herself in front of him, a man she barely knew.
A blast of rock music from the clock radio on the nightstand shattered her thoughts. She rolled over on her side, slammed her free hand on the off button and flopped back down on the bed. She hated rock. She’d been promising herself to get rid of the clock radio for a month now, ever since it had developed a mind of its own and rolled from station to station, blasting out its latest musical fixation whenever it felt like it. I’ll get rid of it tomorrow morning, first thing, she thought. And this time she meant it. Still, she had to admit, the noise seemed to have steadied her. She wasn’t trembling any longer.
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. Ice princess indeed! A man bullies her in public and she agonizes about what he thinks of her! So you’re not frozen inside after all, Drucilla Durane. What now? What do you do about Theron St. Cyr?
The answer came back instantly. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was kind to you all those years ago in Marseille. Probably saved your life. Today, you’re on opposite sides of a battle for a contract that your firm is counting on you to deliver. And right now, Dru, you’re not delivering. Meanwhile, he, as far as you know, still has the confidence of the Guyanese government. Dru took a long, deep breath, infusing herself with renewed resolve. Reason was in control once more. She had no doubt she would hear from St. Cyr as he got deeper into his investigation of Andrew Goodings’ death and its possible connection to the Savoy proposal. But that was business. And as long as it was business, she could handle it, she told herself firmly.
Or could she? Could she really still handle business?
All of a sudden she wasn’t so sure. Pilgrim Boone had trained her to be as impersonal as a hangman when the need arose. She was the “ebony star” of the company. The highest of the highbrows in consulting knew her name. She had dined with heads of state and ministers of government and policymakers and powerbrokers. Everything seemed to be falling apart now. Two contracts in a row. First Jamaica, now Guyana. And now this complicated stranger into whose orbit she was being pulled against her will.
What the hell happened? How did she get to this point? Could she have brought in Jamaica if she had dealt with the prejudices—or was it fear—of the Jamaicans with more understanding? Could she—should she—have shown more sensitivity?
Perhaps. But what had she done instead? She had rolled her eyes and her neck and stalked away, making it clear to everyone who was watching her—and she knew that all the Jamaicans in the room were—that, as far as she was concerned, Jamaica could shove its turn-of-the-century prejudices up its ass because a backward little speck of land like that wasn’t worthy of Pilgrim Boone’s attention anyway. And she, Drucilla Durane, was Pilgrim Boone personified, whether they liked it or not.
Shame consumed her again. Had she really become so caught up in the Pilgrim Boone persona that there was no Drucilla Durane anymore? All in the pursuit of what? Contracts that increasingly benefited the partners of Pilgrim Boone more than the countries they were signing up?
There! She’d said it! She’d finally given voice to what she had avoided acknowledging for so long.
What happened to the Dru who, at twenty-one, told the same Pilgrim Boone “later for your internship,” then rode the wind on a Eurail Pass? The Dru who could take a deep breath and identify no less than five different scents in the air. Who could close her eyes in a noisy train station and discern the different nations in the timber of the voices around her. Who delighted in doing all of those things.
Where was the Dru who instinctively knew a culture’s attitude to time because that attitude was loud and clear in the cadence of footsteps? And where was the Dru who matched the colors of Le Quartier Noir with the souls of a people two worlds away? When did that Dru disappear? Was she gone for good?
I want you back, Dru said aloud. I want me back.
The telephone rang. She let it ring until it stopped and her greeting kicked in. She heard the faint click before her voice finished saying, “Have a great day,” and she shrugged. Whoever it was obviously did not want to leave a message.
Good. She was not yet ready to deal with the world beyond her apartment. Besides, there was no more room in the message bank.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and remained in that position for a few minutes. Then she turned on her side, rolled off the bed and stood up, dragging the back of her hands roughly across her eyes as if to wipe away the vision of what she had become.
It was dark, she observed with surprise. She stared absently at the window and wondered when the sun had finally sunk and why she had not noticed the darkness before, even though she had been wide awake.
Had she really been awake?
She was moving toward the light switch beside the door when the telephone rang again. She ignored it and kept on walking. This time, the caller hung up as
soon as the ringing paused to switch over to voice mail. She turned on the light and stood before the mirror over the dresser, scrutinizing her face as if she were seeing it for the first time in a long time. She turned away and began to undress.
The telephone rang again. She stopped undressing and stared at it. She was sure it was the same caller. Who could be so insistent? It couldn’t be her mother. She usually called late at night, around eleven.
She decided to answer it. She picked up on the last ring before it switched to voice mail.
“This is Dru,” she said tonelessly.
“I called to make sure you had arrived safely.”
Just like that. No greeting. No waiting for her to respond either. Theron St. Cyr’s voice was without emotion but courteous.
He continued. “I called twice before, but there was no answer. You must have arrived home only a few minutes ago. You had no trouble, I hope.” Dru sat down hard on the bed, the receiver still clamped to her ear. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
“Are you there, Dru? Are you all right?”
Somehow, despite the numbness she felt, Dru managed a smile. Two familiar questions. She had put him through this before. Was it really such a short time ago? “Theron,” she began. She stopped, and then tried again. “Theron—” She didn’t know how to continue.
He misread her hesitation. Perhaps she had company.”I’m sorry. How very inconsiderate of me. You are only just arriving home and you must be very tired. I simply wanted to make sure you were safe. Good—”
“Theron, no!” She didn’t mean to raise her voice, didn’t mean to sound so urgent. But she could not let him leave like that. Not again.
She dropped her voice to its normal pitch, trying to hide her embarrassment, hoping she could convey to him that it was different with her now, that she knew the truth. She had to win his respect again because he was her link to the person she once was. He could help her find her way back to that person again.
“Don’t go, Theron. Don’t hang up.”The phone was still pressed hard against her ear. Her free hand twisted and untwisted the twirly black cord that wriggled from the receiver to the cradle on the nightstand.
Theron caught the urgency in her voice and thought the worst. “Dru! Are you in danger? Is someone there with you?” His voice whipped across the distance like a blade hurled through the air.
“No, no,” Dru said hastily. “No, I’m fine. There’s no one here. I’m all right. I’m sorry I shouted like that. I just—” She broke off, flustered.
There was a long silence. Dru worked her bottom lip, biting it from one side to the other. Her fingers abandoned the twirly cord and attacked a clump of bedspread.
“You just what, Dru?” Theron said evenly.
She had to say something. She owed him an explanation for screaming out his name and begging him not to go. Otherwise, he would think she was insane. As if he didn’t think so already.
“I’m sorry, Theron. I keep giving you reasons to think I’m crazy, don’t I?” she said, wondering if she really sounded as rational as she thought she did. “I guess everything is just hitting me all at once and there’s really no one here to talk to about it.”
St. Cyr remained silent for a while, and then said quietly, “I see.” He waited again, giving her time to continue. When Dru said nothing, he spoke again.
“Dru, listen to me.” His voice was firm, but gentle.
The back-of-the-throat roll of his French accent seemed more pronounced. He was being kind, Dru thought, her heart pounding at the stark maleness of his voice. It was obvious. He thought that she had lost it and he was being kind. That’s all.
She listened to his words while her eyes fixed on an invisible object on the wall across the room.
“I will be back in New York in a few days. I will see you then, if you wish. It’s up to you. But you should get some sleep now. This was not an easy trip for you. You should go right to bed. I will call you when I get back. That would be okay with you?”
Dru let the question hang for a moment. Then she said, “Yes. It would be okay. Please do that.” Her voice was devoid of emotion. She felt numb. Instead of his respect, she had gotten his pity.
“I will. One more thing, and this is very important, do not mention to anyone the matters we discussed when we last met. Goodnight, Dru.” He hung up before she could respond.
Dru sat motionless, her eyes still riveted on the invisible object on the wall. The receiver hung limply from her hand. Then she sighed and replaced the receiver. She stood up, finished undressing, turned out the light, and lay down naked on her bed, on her stomach.
She fumbled around with her toes until she got a good grip on the folded coverlet at the foot of the bed, wagged the folds out, and lifted it up far enough for her to reach down and grab it with her hand. She pulled it across her buttocks and settled her head on the double-stacked feather pillows.
She moved mechanically. Not a thought was in her head. She had shoved them all away. She was tired of thinking. She just wanted to sleep.
21
The knock on the door startled Theron.
He had been staring at the password prompt on his laptop screen for the past—he glanced at his watch—fifteen minutes, trying to figure out what was going on in Drucilla Durane’s head. Where he stood with her. Where she stood with him.
He glanced at his watch again. Yes. Fifteen minutes had indeed gone by since he had put down the phone after his strange conversation—no, not conversation—exchange. After his strange exchange with her.
He knew he had hung up abruptly. He had to, or he would have said something he would have regretted, with Dru sounding the way she did, diffident and needy.
Did he want to be involved with that Dru? He had sought her out in New York because he genuinely liked her. That is, he liked the Dru he had met in Marseille. He also wanted to renew their friendship because he thought that she could lead him to new business for his firm. But now—
As soon as he had put down the phone, he had opened his laptop, still bemused, mechanically going through the motions of logging on. He would check his messages. Do some more searches on Guyana. On Savoy. On Andrew Goodings.
A name, a link, something might turn up.
Then the need in Dru’s voice hit him again and his fingers rebelled. He tried again to read behind her voice, analyzing every nuance, every inflection, every breath. She had practically screamed his name. Begged him not to hang up. She, Dru, who had recoiled from him barely twenty-four hours earlier.
He felt a rush of warmth. Dare he think it? Had she in those twenty-four hours changed her mind about him? Had she learned something about him that made her realize that he was not the evil creature she made him out to be?
If only it were so!
Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown. The woman on the phone was not the confident, defiant, risk-taking Dru he knew. And there was that crazy talk about seeing Ramy. Had she cracked under the pressure of closing the Savoy deal, under the suspicions surrounding Andrew’s sudden, inexplicable death, the thought that someone inside Pilgrim Boone might be implicated in that death?
The knock on the door was sharper this time, startling him again. He stood up, frowning. He approached the door cautiously, his body tense.
He was expecting no one. The evening maid had already come and gone. If the front desk needed him for anything they would call first. No one would—no one should, the hotel had warned when he checked in—show up unannounced.
He stopped a few inches from the door. “Yes? Who is it?” He made his voice gruff, a warning to whoever was on the other side of the door. “Mr. St. Cyr?”
Theron did not recognize the voice, but he noted the educated pronunciation of his name, the unmistakable authority of the tone. The voice belonged to someone “with position,” as the Guyanese would say.
“Yes?” He kept his own voice harsh, but moved closer to the door and waited.
“Good evening, Mr. St. Cyr. We’
re sorry to disturb you, but we’d like a word with you, if you please. I am Compton Dalrymple and my partner, Nelson Roopnaraine, is with me. We are the principals of the firm Roopnaraine and Dalrymple, Traders & Consultants Ltd. You’ve probably heard of us?”
Theron ignored the question.
“Why didn’t you call up first, which, I’m sure you know, would have been the proper thing to do since we do not know each other?”
“Point well taken, Mr. St. Cyr. But it is an unusual circumstance that brings us here. It concerns—”
Dalrymple paused, and then continued in a lower voice. Theron imagined him looking around furtively and leaning into the door.
“—it concerns your friends Drucilla Durane and Andrew Goodings.” Theron’s entire body went rigid at the mention of the two names that were most on his mind. He let the man’s statement hang in silence for a few seconds.
A slight shuffling and whispering on the other side of the door told him that his silence was having its desired effect. He smiled grimly. Good. Silence is as effective a defense weapon as any other.
“Mr. St. Cyr?” The same voice, this time with a hint of irritation, just enough for Theron not to miss.
“Give me a minute, please,” Theron said. He tiptoed back to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. It was picked up before the second ring.
“Good evening. This is the Front Desk. Sharon speaking. How may I help you?”
St. Cyr recognized the voice of the young woman who had registered him earlier. The one with the watery gray-flecked eyes and the playful, bucktooth smile.
“Hello, Sharon.This is Mr. St. Cyr. Has anyone asked for me this evening?”
“Oh, Mr. St. Cyr. Didn’t Mr. Dalrymple and Mr. Roopnaraine get there yet? They came just a short while ago. They asked me for your room number, I gave it to them and they went straight up. They said you were expecting them. They should have reached your room already.”
“No. They have not yet arrived. Are you sure you saw them? I mean, you do know what they look like?”
The Guyana Contract Page 25
