‘So, I headed to the barn . . .’
She had stopped eating and was looking at me in such amazement that I almost regretted my frankness.
‘I sat down on a bench we store there during the winter and I lit a cigarette . . .’
‘Did you stay there the entire time?’
‘Yes. The cigarette butts were on the ground, by my feet. I smoked at least ten . . .’
She was troubled, but not angry at me. In the end, she reached for my hand.
‘Thank you, Donald.’
‘For what?’
‘For trusting me . . . For telling me the truth. I felt that something had happened, but I didn’t know what . . . I even asked myself at one point if you might not have had an argument with Ray.’
‘Why would I have argued with him?’
‘Because of that woman . . .’
‘What woman do you mean?’
‘Mrs Ashbridge . . . Patricia . . . When Ray went off with her, you seemed jealous . . .’
I was stunned to learn that she knew all about it.
‘Did you catch them?’ I asked.
‘Just when they were coming out . . . I wasn’t following them, it was pure chance that I saw them . . . Weren’t you jealous of Ray?’
‘Not because of her . . .’
‘Because of me?’
She was asking the question without any flirtatiousness. We were really both speaking from the heart. It was not, as with Isabel, a battle fought with our eyes.
‘Because of everything. I actually pushed open that door through which you saw them leave . . . I wasn’t thinking of anything, I’d drunk more than usual . . . I surprised them at it . . .
‘And then, abruptly, like a hot flash goes to your head, I felt terribly jealous of Ray . . .
‘At Yale, I was a grind considered much more brilliant than he was, forgive me for saying so myself.
‘When he decided to set himself up in New York, I told him that he risked vegetating there a long time . . .
‘I went to ground in Brentwood, barely thirty miles from my father’s house, as if I feared losing that protection . . . And almost immediately, as if to protect myself further, I married Isabel.’
She listened, bewildered, and raised her glass, pointing to mine.
‘Drink . . .’
‘I’ve told you everything. You’ll guess the rest, my other thoughts that Saturday . . . Ray got you, became a partner at Miller and Miller . . . And along the way, he could pick up women like Patricia, casually . . .’
She spoke slowly:
‘And he was the one who envied you!’
‘Do I disappoint you, Mona?’
‘On the contrary . . .’
She was moved. Her upper lip was quivering.
‘How did you summon the courage to tell me all that?’
‘You’re the only person to whom I can talk . . .’
‘You hated Ray, didn’t you?’
‘That night, on my bench, yes.’
‘And before?’
‘I considered him my best friend . . . But I discovered on that bench that I’d been lying to myself.’
‘And if you could have saved him?’
‘I don’t know. I probably would have, unwillingly . . . I’m no longer sure of anything, Mona. You see, in one night, I changed a great deal . . .’
‘I’d noticed. Isabel did, too.’
‘She figured things out so well that she went to the barn and found the cigarette butts.’
‘Did she mention them to you?’
‘No. She disposed of them. For fear, I’m sure, that Lieutenant Olsen would discover them.’
‘Doesn’t Isabel believe that you . . . that you did something else?’
I preferred to speak bluntly.
‘That I pushed Ray off the cliff? . . . I don’t know. For the last week she’s been looking at me as if she didn’t recognize me, as if she were trying to understand . . . And you? Do you understand?’
‘I think so . . .’
‘Aren’t you disappointed?’
‘On the contrary, Donald.’
That was the first time I’d ever felt as if bathed in a warm feminine gaze.
‘I was wondering if you were going to speak to me about it . . . I would have been a little sad if you hadn’t . . . That took courage.’
‘Given where I am now, you know . . .’
‘And where is that?’
‘I’ve drawn a line through seventeen years – no, what am I saying, forty-five years of life . . . Everything is in the past . . . Yesterday, in front of my daughters, I was ashamed, because I felt like a stranger. And yet, I will continue to go through the same motions, to say the same things . . .’
‘Is that necessary?’
I looked at her. I hesitated. It would have been easy. Since I had erased everything, didn’t I have the right to start over differently? Mona was in front of me, solemn, trembling.
That minute was decisive. We were eating, we were drinking Riesling, we had the view of the East River flowing at our feet.
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘It is necessary.’
I do not know why. That ‘yes’, I said it with my throat choked up, looking intently at Mona. I was on the point of . . . No, not yet, but I could have, very quickly, begun to love her. I could have moved to New York as well . . . We could have . . . I don’t know if she was wounded. She did not show it.
‘Thank you, Donald . . .’
She stood up, shaking the crumbs from her dress.
‘Will you have some coffee?’
‘Please . . .’
She rang for Janet.
‘Where would you like to have it? Here or in the boudoir?’
‘In the boudoir.’
This time, I brought my briefcase. Then I walked beside her, slowly, one hand on her shoulder.
‘You understand me, Mona, don’t you? You feel, as well, that it couldn’t work . . .’
She raised her hand to take hold of mine, and again I saw that hand on the floor of our living room, in the light of the flames on the hearth.
I felt relaxed. A little later, I sat down at a small antique table on which I had placed pencil and paper.
‘First of all, do you know what your situation is?’
‘I don’t know a thing. Ray did not talk to me about his business.’
‘Do you have any ready money?’
‘We have a joint bank account.’
‘Do you know how much is in it?’
‘No.’
‘Did Ray have any insurance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what his arrangements were with the Millers?’
‘He was a partner, but not a full partner, if I’ve understood correctly . . . Every year, his percentage share increased.’
‘Did he leave a will?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did you look through his papers?’
‘Yes.’
I went with her to the office Ray had set up for himself, and we went through his papers together. We were perfectly at ease with each other, without any reservations. The insurance policy, with Mona as the beneficiary, was for 200,000 dollars.
‘Have you informed the insurance company?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Or the bank?’
‘No. I’ve hardly left the apartment since Thursday. Sunday morning only, I went out to walk up and down the sidewalk for some fresh air.’
‘May I make a few phone calls?’
I was back in my role as a lawyer and notary. She listened to my calls, impressed by the way things were being so easily arranged.
‘Would you like me to go to see the Miller brothers on your behalf?’
‘Yes, do that, will you?’
I telephoned the Millers and told them I would be coming over.
‘I’ll be back to see you in a little while,’ I told Mona.
I took my briefcase. In the living room, I turned to her and, quite unselfc
onsciously, as I expected, she came into my arms and kissed me.
The offices of the Miller brothers comprise two entire floors of one of Madison Avenue’s new buildings, near the archbishop’s drab grey mansion. In one immense room alone, more than fifty employees were working, each at a desk, with one or two telephones within reach, and I had glimpsed in passing the same bustling scene in the creative department.
They were both there waiting for me, David and Bill, short and fat, so alike that people who did not know them well could not tell them apart.
‘We are glad, Mr Dodd, that Mrs Sanders chose you to represent her. If she had not, we would have chosen you, as I told you at the cemetery.’
The office was vast, luxurious, just solemn enough for a consultation this important.
‘What can I offer you? Scotch?’
A mahogany panel concealed a bar.
‘I suppose you are, loosely speaking, abreast of the situation? Here is our partnership contract, as it was drawn up five years ago.’
It consisted of about ten pages; I simply skimmed through it. A first glance indicated that Ray’s share might come to around half a million dollars.
‘Here are the latest statements . . . You’ll have time to study these documents at leisure and contact us again. When are you going back to Brentwood?’
‘Probably tomorrow.’
‘Might we have lunch together?’
‘I’ll phone you in the morning.’
‘Before you leave, I would like you to have a look in the office of our poor friend and see if there might not be some papers or personal objects to take with you . . .’
Ray’s office was almost as impressive as the one I’d just left, and his beautiful red-haired secretary was working at a table. She rose to shake my hand, although I had the impression that she did not appreciate my visit.
I knew her from having stopped by now and then to pick up Ray at his office.
‘Do you know, Miss Tyler, if Ray had any personal papers here?’
‘That depends on what you would call personal . . . Take a look . . .’
She opened the drawers, leaving me the task of flipping through the files. On the desk sat a silver-framed photograph of Mona.
‘I’d best take that with me, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. If you’d be kind enough to collect his small personal effects . . .’
‘There’s even a coat in the closet.’
‘Thank you.’
I had myself driven to the bank, then to the headquarters of the insurance company. I was liquidating, not only a man’s past, but the man himself. I was legally erasing him, the way the Miller brothers were erasing him from their corporate name.
It was six o’clock when I arrived at Sutton Place. Mona opened the door to me, and we kissed as if this had become a ritual.
‘Not too tired?’
‘No . . . I still have lots to do tomorrow . . . It would be better if you came to the Millers’ office with me.’
Without asking, she was pouring our drinks.
‘Or do you want . . .’
She was going to ask me again if I preferred the living room or the boudoir.
‘You know perfectly well . . .’
We began drinking, both of us, without much talk.
‘You’re rich, my dear Mona . . . Including the insurance, you’re going to find yourself sitting on seven hundred thousand dollars.’
‘As much as that?’
She was astonished, but you could tell that the figure meant nothing specific to her.
‘May I call home?’
Isabel answered right away.
‘You were right . . . I won’t be able to come home to Brentwood tonight . . . I saw the Millers, yes, and I have to study the documents they gave me for tomorrow’s meeting.’
‘Are you at Mona’s?’
‘Yes, I just got back.’
‘Are you planning on staying at the Algonquin?’
That’s the old hotel we used when we spent the night in the city. It’s in the theatre district, and I was eight the first time I went there with my father.
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘I understand.’
‘Is everything fine at the house?’
‘There’s nothing new . . .’
‘Goodnight, Isabel.’
Goodnight, Donald . . . Give my regards to Mona.’
I repeated aloud, turning towards her, ‘My wife sends you her regards.’
‘Thank her and give her mine . . .’
After I’d hung up, she looked at me questioningly.
I understood that she was thinking of the Algonquin.
‘Because of Janet,’ I said softly.
‘You think that Janet doesn’t already know?’
She looked over at the couch.
‘Why don’t we have dinner in a little restaurant off the beaten track and then come back here to bed?’
She filled the glasses.
‘I’ll have to get used to drinking less. I drink way too much, Donald.’
Then, after some thought, as if struck by an idea:
‘Aren’t you afraid Isabel will call you back at the Algonquin?’
I replied with a smile.
‘You think she doesn’t know, too?’
I wondered if I’d be obliged to sleep in Ray’s bed. In the end, we both squeezed into Mona’s bed, next to the one left empty.
PART TWO
* * *
1.
Isabel continues to watch me. Nothing else. She does not ask me any questions. She does not reproach me. She does not cry. She does not play the victim.
Life goes on as in the past. We still sleep in the same room, use the same bathtub, eat together and, in the evening, when I haven’t brought home work, we read or watch television.
Every two weeks, the girls come for the weekend, and I believe that they don’t notice a thing. True, they are more preoccupied by their own personal lives than by ours.
Basically, they have already lost interest in us, at least where Mildred is concerned. The twenty-year-old brother of one of her friends claims a greater share of her attention than we do.
Every day, morning, noon and night, Isabel looks at me with her pale-blue eyes, and it feels like a collision. I wind up no longer knowing what those eyes are saying.
Do they contain a message? Sometimes I wonder.
‘Careful, my poor Donald . . .’
No. They don’t show enough warmth for that.
‘If you think I don’t understand what’s going on . . .’
She certainly wants to show me that she is lucid, that nothing escapes her, has ever escaped her.
‘You’re going through a crisis typical of almost all men your age . . .’
If she thinks that, she’s mistaken. I know myself. It isn’t the infatuation of a man growing old. Besides, I am not in love. Neither am I plunging into some kind of pathological sexuality.
I remain composed, attentive to what is happening inside me and around me and am alone, no doubt, in knowing that there is nothing new in my innermost thoughts, except that I have finally dared to look at them in the light of day.
So, what is it those eyes want to say?
‘I pity you . . .’
That is more likely. She has always harboured a need to protect me, or to seem to protect me, just as she imagines that she protects our daughters, that she is the driving force in all the projects she undertakes.
Modest, self-effacing, she is actually the most arrogant woman I have ever met. She never allows the slightest fault to show, none of our little human weaknesses.
‘I will always be here, Donald . . .’
That is also there in her eyes: the faithful companion who sacrifices herself to the very end! But in the end, there is something else.
‘You imagine that you have freed yourself . . . You think you are a new man . . . In reality, you remain the li
ttle boy who needs me and you will never free yourself.’
I don’t know any more. I lean now towards one hypothesis, now towards another. I live under her gaze, like a microbe under the microscope, and sometimes I hate her.
Three months have passed since the bench in the barn. The bench is gone, back in its place in the garden, near the cliff, as it happens, from which Ray fell. The last scraps of snow have been absorbed by the warming earth, and the jonquils are sprinkling their yellow accents everywhere.
The first month, I went to New York up to twice a week, staying overnight almost every time, because Ray’s estate and the incumbent formalities required much time and effort.
‘Where should I call you in the evening if something urgent comes up?’
‘At Mona’s.’
I’m not hiding away. I am, on the contrary, behaving rather brazenly and when I return from New York I’m glad to smell Mona’s scent on my skin.
Bad weather no longer forces me to take the train. I drive my car. There is a parking lot across from her building. Or rather, there was, because as of two weeks ago Mona no longer lives in Sutton Place.
Through friends, she found an apartment on 56th Street, between Madison and Fifth Avenues, in one of those narrow row houses in the Dutch style that are so charming.
The ground floor tenant is a French restaurant that makes a savoury coq au vin. Her apartment is on the fourth floor, much smaller, of course, than the old one.
Warmer and more intimate as well. For the new living room, she used the furniture from the boudoir, including the couch upholstered in golden-yellow silk.
The bed is new, a vast double bed, very low, but the dressing table and French armchair are still the same ones as before.
The dining room will not hold more than six or eight at the table, but Janet has a rather big kitchen and a pretty bedroom.
I don’t know which friends found her this apartment. In Ray’s time, they frequented many people, entertaining or going out almost every evening.
That is a subject that remains closed to me. As if by agreement, we do not discuss it. I have no idea whom she sees when I’m not in the city and no idea if she has one or several lovers.
It’s possible. She loves to make love, without romantic illusions, I would almost say without passion, as friends.
The Hand Page 10
