The Swan Thieves

by Elizabeth Kostova

  He cast an eloquent, almost reproachful glance at me. For a moment, it shamed me. He was taking them; he had never shown any sign of resistance about that.

  "Well, so long," I said. "I'll look forward to seeing your work when I get back." I rose and stood in the doorway; I lifted a hand in farewell. There is nothing harder, at moments, than talking to someone who has all the power of silence. This time, I felt a strange flash of power, too, which I quelled at once: Good-bye. I am going to see your wife.

  At home that evening, I found a package of translations from Zoe in my mailbox; she had apparently made progress. I tucked them into my luggage, to read in Greenhill. They would be part of my vacation.

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  CHAPTER 10 Marlow

  I've loved Virginia since my days at UVA, passed through it many times on my way to other places, gone out into its blue and green for rests and painting excursions and sometimes even a hike. I like the long reach of I-66 that puts the sprawl of the city behind you-- although, as I write this, Washington has extended its tentacles clear to Front Royal; there are clusters of bedroom communities springing up like fungus all along the interstate and adjacent roads. On this trip, with the highways full of a midmorning quiet, I found myself forgetting about work before I had passed Manassas.

  Sometimes when I've driven this way, in fact, I've stopped at Manassas National Battlefield, alone or once recently with my wife, swinging spontaneously onto the exit ramp. One ghostly September morning long before I met her, I paid my fee at the visitor center and walked across the field to stand where some of the worst fighting took place; the landscape that sloped away from me, down to an old stone farmhouse, was filled with mist. There was a single tree in the middle distance that seemed to cry out for me to walk out to it and take up a vigil beneath its branches, or to paint it from where I'd positioned myself. I stood there watching the mist thin out and wondering why people kill each other. There wasn't another living soul in sight. That is the sort of moment I both miss and shudder to think about, now that I'm married.

  I pulled off the road near Roanoke and had breakfast in a diner. I'd glimpsed the sign for it on the highway, but when I reached its

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  dreary facade, with four or five pickup trucks parked around it, I found I'd been there before on some previous excursion, perhaps a long-ago painting trip; I simply hadn't recognized the name. The waitress, unapologetically tired, gave me my coffee in silence, but she smiled when she brought the eggs and she pointed out the hot sauce on my table. Two big-armed men were talking in a corner about jobs--jobs they didn't have or hadn't been able to get--and two women who were all dressed up, not well, were just paying their bill. "I don't know what he thinks he wants," one of them concluded loudly to the other.

  For a moment of near-hallucination in the midst of the steaming coffee, the reek of cigarette smoke, the dirty sunlight coming through the window at my elbow, I thought she meant me. I remembered my slow roll out of bed before dawn for this trip, the sense that I was breaking not only with my schedule but also with my professional code, the twinge of desire as I awoke and remembered the woman on Robert Oliver's canvases.

  I hadn't been to Greenhill before, but it was easy enough to find once I'd made my way up to a long mountain pass--there was a city nestled in the valley below. Spring here was indeed somewhat behind what we had in Washington; the trees along the roads were freshly green, and there were dogwoods and azaleas still in bloom in the front yards I passed on the way into town, rhododendron with conical thick buds that had yet to burst. I skirted the edge of downtown--a hilltop studded with red tile roofs and miniature Gothic skyscrapers--and headed up a winding street that my friends had described to me on the phone: Rick Mountain Road, residential but hiding its small houses behind a screen of hemlocks, firs, and rhododendron, and of dogwoods in floating, meditative bloom. When I rolled down my window, I could smell mossy darkness, deeper than the approaching twilight.

  Jan and Walter's house was just off a dirt drive, marked by one

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  wooden sign: hadley cottage . The Hadleys themselves were conveniently in Arizona, tending to their allergies; I was glad I wouldn't have to explain my errand in Greenhill to them in person. I got out of the car and stretched my legs, stiff. I certainly needed to spend more time running, but when and how to fit it in? Then I walked around to the backyard because it seemed to promise a view, and it delivered: there was a bench at the edge of the steep drop, an enormous vista--the distant buildings, a miniature of the town. I sat down, breathing in cool air and a sense that spring was rising up to me out of the pines. Why, I wondered, did the Hadleys live anywhere else even part of the year?

  I thought of my harried commutes at home, the long drive out to Goldengrove through grueling suburban traffic. I could hear wind in pine boughs, a distant hushing sound that might be the interstate below, a sudden interruption of birdsong--what birds, I didn't know, although a cardinal flew out of the trees in the bluff just below the Hadleys' yard. Somewhere down in that town--I wasn't sure where, but I'd check the map this evening--was a woman with two children, a soft-voiced woman with her hands full, her heart broken. She lived down there in a house I couldn't yet picture, in a solitude that Robert Oliver had at least partly caused. I wondered if she would have anything to say to me. It would be a long way to drive just to have her change her mind about talking with her ex-husband's psychiatrist.

  The house key was in its promised place, under a planter full of dirt, but the front door gave me some trouble until I pushed it hard with my hip. I brought in a couple of flyers for pizza that were lying on the porch, wiped my feet on the mat inside, and propped open the door to let out the smell of musty winter that greeted me. The living room was small and crowded--rag rugs and outdated furniture, rows of paperback novels and a gilded set of Dickens on the built-in shelves, the TV apparently locked away in a closet somewhere, the sofa lined with needlepoint cushions

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  that felt faintly damp to the touch. I opened some windows and then the back door as well, and carried my suitcase upstairs.

  There were two small bedrooms, one obviously the Hadleys' own; I took the second, which had twin beds with navy bedspreads and watercolors of mountain scenes on the walls, originals, not too bad. I opened the plaid curtains--they were slightly damp, too, uncomfortably alive under my fingertips--and propped up the windows. The whole house was shaded by spruces and other evergreens, but at least I could get it aired out before I had to sleep there. Walter had told me a fire might help, and I found logs already arranged in the fireplace downstairs. I saved them for evening. There was nothing in the elderly refrigerator except a few jars of olives and packages of yeast. I wasn't hungry yet; I would drive down later for some groceries, a newspaper, a local map. Tomorrow afternoon I might have time to explore the city itself.

  I changed and went for a run up the mountain road, glad to shake off my car trip--glad, also, to shed my thoughts of Robert Oliver and the woman I would meet the next day. On my return I showered, grateful to find that hot water was available at the Hadleys' after all, then got out my easel and set it up in the backyard. There were similar houses on each side, screened by more spruces; those, too, seemed still deserted at this season. I hadn't expected a vacation, exactly, but as I rolled up my shirtsleeves and opened my watercolor box, I felt for a moment a sudden languid release from all the rest of my life. The evening light was beautiful, and I thought I would outdo those faded paintings in the guest room, perhaps leave a gift for Jan and Walter, a view of spring, their city down below, a small payment of rent.

  In my twin guest bed that evening, I began to read the letters Zoe had sent.

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  Cher Monsieur:

  Your note from Blois arrived this morning and brought pleasure, especially to your brother, In fact, I read it to Papa myself and described the sketch to him as fully as I could. Your sketch is lovely, although about that I dare to say very little, or you will understan
d what a beginner I am. I have also read him your recent article on the work of M. Courbet. He says he can see some of Courbet's paintings quite clearly in his mind's eye, and that your words recall them to him better than ever. Bless you for your kind attentions to us all. Yves sends fond greetings.

  With regards,

  Béatrice de Clerval Vignot

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  CHAPTER 11 Marlow

  Mrs. Oliver's house, as it turned out the next morning, was nothing like what I'd pictured; I'd imagined it tall, white, stereotypically Southern and gracious, and instead it proved to be a large cedar-and-brick bungalow with hedges of boxwood and towering spruces in front. I got out of the car as gracefully as I could, putting on my wool sport coat and taking my briefcase with me. I'd dressed with care in the Hadleys' dingy little guest room, meticulously not thinking why I was doing it. There was indeed a porch, but it was small, and someone had left a pair of muddy canvas gardening gloves on the bench next to the door and a pile of miniature plastic gardening tools in a bucket--toys, I assumed. The front door was wooden, with a big, clean window; through it I could see the deserted living room, furniture, flowers. I rang the bell and stood there.

  Nothing moved inside. After a few minutes I began to feel foolish because I could see so far into the house, as if I were spying. It was a comfortable, simple front room, decorated with quiet-colored sofas, lamps here and there on what looked like antique tables, a faded olive carpet, a smaller Oriental rug that might be a very fine one, vases of daffodils, a darkly polished cabinet with glass panes, and above all books--tall cases of them, although I couldn't read any titles from where I stood. I waited. I became aware of the birds in the trees around the house, calling or singing, taking off with a rush--crows, starlings, a blue jay. The morning had begun springlike and bright, but clouds were coming up, making the front porch cold, the light gray.

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  Then for the first time I felt hopeless. Mrs. Oliver had changed her mind. She was a private person and I was probably in the wrong. I'd driven nine hours, like a fool, and it served me right if she had decided to lock her door (I did not, of course, try the handle) and go somewhere else instead of talking with me. I might, I thought, have done the same in her place. I rang the doorbell a second time, hesitantly, vowing not to touch it again after this.

  Finally I turned away, my briefcase hitting my knee, and started back down the slate steps, riding a surge of anger. I had a long trip ahead of me, with too much time to think. I'd already started the thinking, so that it took me a second to register the click and creak of the door behind me. I stopped, the hair rising on the back of my neck--why should that sound startle me so badly when I'd been waiting five minutes for it? In any case, I turned and saw her standing there, the door opening toward her, her hand still on the knob.

  She was a pretty woman, a quick, alert-looking woman, but she was certainly not the muse who filled Robert's drawings and paintings at Goldengrove. Instead, I got a sudden impression of the seashore: sandy hair, fair skin starred with freckles of the sort that fade as their owner ages, ocean-blue eyes that met mine warily. For a moment I was frozen on the steps, and then I hurried up to her. Once I was close I realized that she was small, delicately built, and that she would come up to my shoulder and therefore up to Robert Oliver's breastbone. She opened the door a little wider and stepped out. "Are you Dr. Marlow?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. "Mrs. Oliver?"

  She took my extended hand quietly. Her own hand was small, like the rest of her, and I expected her grip to be soft and childlike, but her fingers were very strong. If she was almost as small as a little girl, she was a strong little girl, even fierce. "Please come in," she said. She turned back to the house, and I followed her into that living room I'd been staring at. It was like walking onto a stage set, or perhaps like watching a play where the curtain is already up when you sit down in the audience, so that you've

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  studied the scenery for a while before the actors come on. The house was deeply hushed. The books, as I came close, turned out to be mainly novels--two centuries of them--as well as some poetry and works of history.

  Mrs. Oliver, a few steps ahead of me, wore blue jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved top of slate blue. She must, I thought, know the color of her own eyes well. Her body looked limber--not athletic but graceful, as if finding its outlines constantly through movement. There was something determined in her walk; it excluded any gesture that might have appeared forlorn. She motioned me to a sofa and sat on another one just across from mine. The living room made a bend there, and now I could see huge windows, floor-to-ceiling, with a view out over a broad lawn, beech trees, a giant holly, flowering dogwoods. It hadn't seemed so large from the driveway, but her property extended far over two open lots, verdant and tree-lined. Robert Oliver had once enjoyed this view. I set my briefcase at my feet and tried to compose myself.

  Looking across the room, I saw that Mrs. Oliver was already fully collected, her hands clasped on the knee of her jeans. She wore childish canvas sneakers that might once have been navy. Her hair was thick, straight, cut with rough elegance to her shoulders, with so many tints of lion's mane and wheat and gold leaf that I would have found it hard to paint. Her face was beautiful, too, with little makeup--soft lipstick, the finest lines around her eyes. She didn't smile; she was examining me gravely, poised on the edge of speaking. At last she said, "I'm sorry you had to wait. I almost changed my mind." She offered no apology for her doubts, and no further explanation.

  "I don't blame you." I'd thought for a split second of more gallant statements, but they seemed useless in this situation.

  "Yes." It was simple concurrence.

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Oliver. Here's my card, by the way." I handed it to her and then felt I had been too formal; she looked down.

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  "Can I get you some coffee, or a cup of tea?"

  I considered refusing and then decided it was better manners, in this pleasant Southern room, to accept. "Thank you very much. If you have coffee already made, I'd gladly have a cup."

  She rose and went out--that compact grace again. The kitchen wasn't far away; I could hear dishes clinking and drawers opening, and I glanced around the room while she was gone. There was no sign of Robert Oliver here, among the lamps with their flower-painted porcelain bases, unless the books were his. No trace here of oily paint rags, no posters from the new landscape artists. The art on the walls consisted of a blurred heirloom needlepoint and two old watercolors showing a marketplace in France or Italy. There were certainly no vivid portraits of a lady with curling dark hair, no paintings by Robert Oliver or any other contemporary artist. Perhaps the living room had never been his domain; it was often a wife's sphere anyway. Or perhaps she had erased every reminder of him on purpose.

  Mrs. Oliver came back in carrying a wooden tray with two cups of coffee on it. The china was a delicate blackberry pattern; there were tiny silver spoons, a silver cream-and-sugar service, all very elegant next to her blue jeans and faded sneakers. I noticed that she wore a necklace and earrings of gold set with tiny blue gems -- sapphires or tourmaline. She put the tray on a table near me and handed me my coffee, then took her own cup to her sofa and sat down, deftly balancing it. The coffee was good, warming after the chill porch. She regarded me in silence, and I began to wonder if the wife was going to prove as laconic as the husband.

  "Mrs. Oliver," I said as easily as I could, "I know this must be difficult for you and I want you to understand that I don't wish to force your confidence in any way. Your husband is proving to be a challenging patient, and as I said on the phone I'm worried about him."

  "Ex-husband," she said, and I sensed something like a hint of humor, a gleam of laughter directed against me, or possibly

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  against herself, as if she had said aloud, "I can be firm with you, too." I hadn't yet seen her smile; I didn't see it now.

  "I want you to know that Robert isn't in
any immediate danger. He hasn't attempted to harm anyone, including himself, since that day in the museum."

  She nodded.

  "He actually seems quite calm a lot of the time, but he goes through periods of anger and agitation, too. Silent agitation, I mean. I intend to keep him until I can assure myself that he's really safe and functional. As I said on the phone, my main problem in trying to assist him is that he won't talk."

  She, too, was silent.

  "By which I mean--he doesn't speak at all." I reminded myself that he had spoken once, to tell me that I could talk with the woman sitting across from me now.

  Her eyebrows rose over her coffee cup; she took a sip. Those eyebrows were a darker sand than her hair, feathered as if painted by--I tried to think what portraitist they reminded me of, what number brush I would have used. Her forehead was broad and fine under the glinting wave of hair. "He hasn't spoken to you even once?"

  "The first day," I admitted. "He acknowledged what he'd done in the museum and then he said I could talk with anyone I wanted to." I decided to omit--for now, at least--his having said that I could even talk with "Mary." I hoped Mrs. Oliver might eventually tell me whom he'd meant by that, and I hoped I wouldn't have to ask. "But he hasn't spoken since then. I'm sure you'll understand that talking is one of the only ways he can let go of what's troubling him, and one of the only ways we can figure out what triggers make his condition worse."

  I looked hard at her, but she didn't help me with even a nod.

  I tried to compensate with reasonable friendliness. "I can continue to manage his medications, but we can't work on much unless he'll talk, because I can't know exactly how the medications help