He watched his own performance with a kind of breathless cynicism. At home he was approaching ruin and dishonour, and here he was, not exactly fiddling while Rome burned, which suggested genuine delight on Nero’s part, but maybe organising his wardrobe while the house fell down. At the end of the session, several people shook his hand, including a crucial bank manager who had been swithering for weeks about underwriting a loan and now conveyed, in a few laconic phrases, that he was ready to do so. Marco Ginestra, one of the directors, a slight, fair man of invincible charm, congratulated Ewan and invited him to dinner. “An informal meal,” he said. “Just family.”
When Ewan arrived in his taxi from the hotel, he found a dozen people gathered in the large house on the Via Umberto. He’d been there once before, last summer, when they dined in the garden by candlelight and Marco’s children had serenaded them with flute and violin. Tonight it was raining and they were indoors, in a room panelled with blue silk up to the moulded ceiling, where scantily clad putti disported themselves amongst fulsome clouds. A vase of daffodils on the table reminded Ewan of his walk across the moors. Was it only three days ago? Marco led him to one corner of the room and showed him a high-backed wooden chair. “We believe it belonged to Lucrezia Borgia,” he said. “One of our great patrons of the arts.”
“We tend to think she patronised pharmacy a bit too much,” Ewan said.
“Rumours.” Marco shrugged. “She was beautiful and had three husbands. People were certain to say unkind things. Like your own Mary, Queen of the Scots.”
Ewan bent over the chair, admiring the curving arms, the surprisingly delicate, gazelle-like legs.
“You may sit in it,” Marco said, “for a moment. We all need Lucrezia’s skills these days, even Scottish bankers.”
Gingerly Ewan lowered himself into the seat. He kept both feet on the floor and closed his eyes, waiting to see who or what would come to him. Might he catch a swish of skirts, a few notes on the lute, some lines from Dante?
When he opened his eyes, a woman was standing before him, holding a baby. “I’m Sophie,” she reminded him. “Marco’s wife. And this is Carolina.”
She held out the baby, perhaps merely for inspection, but Ewan unthinkingly reached for her. He recognised at once her warm, sleepy fragrance, the same as Olivia’s. Carolina was fair-haired, like her father, and dark-eyed, like her mother; she regarded him solemnly as if she foresaw serious matters in the night ahead. “Hello, Carolina,” he said, bouncing her up and down. “How old is she?”
“Six months, and already she rules the house.”
“She’s very pretty.” Then he began to say “I found a baby,” but either the words were not spoken aloud or Sophie, in spite of her excellent English, did not catch their meaning, for she was already thanking him for the compliment and whisking her daughter away to another group of guests.
Ewan sat there, in the chair of Lucrezia Borgia, overwhelmed with thoughts of Olivia: here was another area of life where he had failed to behave as he ought. He had seen her as interrupting his plans, but now it occurred to him that he had interrupted hers. He could have kept watch over her at the bus station, in case anyone came looking for her. Instead he’d carried her off and, save for one abortive phone call, made not the slightest effort to find her parents. He hadn’t even checked the Perthshire Advertiser. Remembering the times she cried, he wondered if she’d been trying to let her parents know where she was. And where was she now? he thought, picturing her alone in some grim institution.
He squeezed the arms of the chair and vowed, the moment he got back to London, to phone the police in Perth. He would have written a note if his briefcase had been to hand, but a promise to Lucrezia seemed almost as good.
At eight o’clock Sophie summoned them to the table, placing Ewan on her right. To his right was Nina, a family friend, who confessed charmingly that she was a pianist and knew nothing of business. They made their way through six courses, from calamari to tiramisu. As Ewan ate, the intensity he had felt during the presentation returned. Though he was used to foreign travel and exotic places, tonight his journey from the genteel suburbs of Edinburgh to this room, complete with a chair from the court of the Borgias sitting casually in one corner, seemed astonishing. Was this how Bridget felt in the States, her life lived at the edge of a waterfall, at that pent-up moment before everything cascades over the edge? He abandoned his normal reticence and chatted lavishly to Nina. He had not a second to waste. And at the end of the evening, with a slow smile, she offered to drive him back to his hotel.
In the lift of the hotel he put his arms around her, buoyed by this amazing new urgency. Nina sighed. How was it that he had not known sooner how to do these things? In the room, he set the door key down on the chest of drawers and turned to find her unbuttoning her blouse; a moment later she was naked, her nipples very dark. He came across and kissed her, enjoying the mild perversity of being fully clothed with a naked woman in his arms. “Ewan,” she whispered. “You are so proper.”
While they made love she spoke Italian and he spoke nothing, simply tried to lose himself in her articulate body. He had drunk more than usual—he could taste the grappa in his mouth and hers—but that only lent him courage. Nina laughed, a high, joyous sound. Would she have laughed to learn how few lovers he’d had? And that some of them had been paid for, back in the days when he did business in Amsterdam and such arrangements were safer? He suspected there was little he could do or say that would surprise her.
He kissed her ear and gently bit it. That the heart did not necessarily follow the body was a discovery he had made in his twenties and still not entirely come to terms with. The guilt he had felt, looking down on a woman whom he did not love, had cast a long shadow. If he could’ve stopped wanting women, as he had stopped learning to drive after his near accident, he would have. Now Nina cried out words of which he was thrilled not to know the meaning, and he said “Oh, darling” and pushed harder.
Afterwards she lay beside him for a decent interval, then slipped from the bed. There came the muffled sound of water running in the bathroom, followed by the nearby rustle of her dressing. Ewan kept his face hidden in the pillow and imagined her clothes flying on as easily as they had fallen off. She kissed his cheek. “Sleep well,” she said, and was gone. Without getting up to brush his teeth or draw the curtains, he obeyed.
He woke, startled, not knowing why. Then he saw the message light on his phone glowing; the sound had pulled him from sleep, but too slowly. He fumbled on the bedside light and rang the operator.
“Room 902,” she said in English. “You have a message, sir.”
“Wait, I’ll get a pen.”
“No need. It says, ‘Vanessa phoned. Will phone again.’ You understand?”
“Yes, perfectly. Vanessa.”
“Good night, sir.”
He got up and went to the bathroom. In the mirror he saw his cheeks still flushed and his hair sticking up in little tufts. The smell of sex rose around him. He stepped into the shower, turned the water as hot as he could stand it, and, seizing the little bar of soap, scrubbed furiously at every part of himself, even shampooing his hair. He wanted to be rid of everything that had happened since he arrived at Linate airport: his own mysterious efficiency; Marco, who had urged him to follow in the footsteps of Lucrezia; Nina, who had played him as if he were her piano.
When he emerged from the bathroom, the bedside clock showed quarter to four. What would Vanessa have thought of his not answering at such an hour? If she was phoning from London it was three in the morning; if from New York, then ten at night. He wished he knew which, since one implied desperate urgency and the other perhaps mere absentmindedness. He considered trying her London number but was loath to do anything so melodramatic. His whole respectable self protested any more unusual activity. To acknowledge that they were in the midst of a crisis would merely fan the flames. Instead he tidied the bed, meticulously smoothing out the signs of love-making, fetched his briefcase, put
on his glasses, and got back between the sheets.
In his notebook he wrote, Vanessa called, plus the day and the hour. Then he added a question mark. Olivia, he wrote in large letters. And, quite unnecessarily, Phone Yvonne. He tried to think of something else to write down. In Latin class at school he’d mastered Cicero’s trick of remembering a speech by placing the paragraphs in a house he knew. To calm himself now, he went through his house in Barnsbury, room by room, listing preparations for Mollie. New linen, he wrote. Fix the upstairs tap. Toaster.
At four-thirty he turned to The Dark Forest. Wasn’t this what novels were for, to fend off the dark night of the soul, or at least to offer solace in that night? Ewan looked at the familiar cover—the wood, the clearing, the two figures—and was peculiarly pleased that he’d carried the book from Mill of Fortune to London to Milan. It suggested, despite the great distances, a kind of continuity. He skimmed the remainder of Leo’s time in Boston and jumped ahead to the next chapter.
• • •
At Edinburgh airport I hired a flimsy black Maestro, very different from Helen’s stolid Volvo, and drove into the city. I hadn’t had a chance to use the credit card Roman had lent me. Now I snapped up three shirts and a pair of jeans in a pleasant half hour. In the loo of the Caledonian Hotel I finally shed the obnoxious tweedy suit and put on a new shirt and my old jeans. By this time it was just after eleven. A quickie for the road was definitely in order.
In Boston no day had passed without my thinking only X days before I’m free. I’d assumed that as soon as the taxi pulled away from Aunt Helen’s, I would cease to be Roman. Now, sitting sipping vodka in the almost empty bar, I felt oddly stranded between my two identities. Getting rid of Roman was not quite as easy as changing clothes or growing back my beard. On the flight I had got up in the middle of the night and put the moves on a tall, giggly stewardess. When she asked my name, I answered Roman. And the car was hired in his name. Beneath the table I ran my hand down my thigh until I found the dent. It was all pretty weird.
Fortunately two businessmen sat down at the next table and began a noisy argument about golf. Glen Eagles either was or was not the best course in Scotland. Forget the existentialism, I told myself. What I had to focus on was getting my brother to cough up. He might call our agreement a contract, but what could I do if he reneged—take him to the small claims court? So just one drink and another visit to the Gents to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. Walking across the thickly carpeted lobby, I felt more cheerful. Soon I would see Maudie.
I drove out past Fettes and Blackhall. Near the Forth Road Bridge the rain started. I trundled along in my little metal coffin, windscreen wipers swishing back and forth. The sound reminded me of an Indonesian lover I had once. She told me the Indonesian word for sex was mik-mek and offered a properly energetic demonstration.
• • •
Ewan stopped in amazement. Years ago in Amsterdam, a woman had told him this very thing as she led him to her room. He still remembered the Van Gogh print above her bed: A Starry Night in Arles. He could not envisage any route by which a conversation with Chae would have reached such a topic, but apparently it had. Further proof of my indiscretion, he thought bitterly.
• • •
I arrived at Larch House around one. Again no one answered my knock, not even the pointy-nosed dog, so I went directly to the pottery and banged on the door. “Who is it?” called Maudie.
“Me.” I was still grinning at the ambiguity, when the door opened. Before she could say anything I kissed her on the mouth. “Honey, I’m home.”
“Leo,” she exclaimed. There was a smudge of clay on her forehead and she wore a baggy grey sweatshirt and jeans. “Leo,” she said again. “This is so strange. I don’t even know what to call you anymore. I talked to you on the phone as if you were Roman, then I had to turn around and tell him what you said. It was like having two husbands.” She looked down at my hand. “See, you’re even wearing my ring.”
“So is your second hubby hard at work on the whisky?”
“He’ll be back later tonight or first thing tomorrow.”
I’ve done enough of those Shakespeare plays where characters claim their actions are governed by the stars to occasionally find myself thinking along those lines. When Maudie explained that my brother was at a meeting in Glasgow, I metaphorically hitched up my toga, forgot about the risks of being ripped off, and settled down to business.
“Come in for a moment,” she said. “I need to wrap the clay. Then I can be a proper hostess.”
“An improper one is fine with me,” I joked. She turned away as if she hadn’t heard.
Inside, while she covered the clay, I drifted over to the shelves where the finished plates, vases, and bowls were stored. I’m no judge of such things but they looked just like the stuff you see in shops. I was examining a small grey and purple bowl when she came up behind me. “It’s the first of the elephant series. You can look later. Let’s go and get some lunch.”
As we ate our omelettes, Maudie asked about Aunt Helen. “I was afraid the sight of her beloved nephew might send her into decline. That your visit was all she’d been hanging on for.”
“Not a chance,” I said, reaching for the bread. “She’s a feisty old bird—she’ll probably make the century. We had some ding-dong rows about politics. I did worry once or twice I’d gone too far, but when I was leaving she told me she’d enjoyed our discussions.”
“And how was it for you, living as someone else? Roman said actors were used to that, killing Claudius every night. But I thought this was a bit different.”
I nodded emphatically. “Totally different. Hamlet’s a doddle compared to the last fortnight. After all, everyone knows you’re acting. Whereas the tricky thing was that Helen mustn’t guess I was giving a performance. If I hadn’t been able to talk to you I’d have floated right off the planet.”
Maudie smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”
After lunch I went to take a nap. I woke at five, had a bath, and came downstairs to find Maudie reading in the kitchen. She’d changed into a black tunic and leggings, much better. “Roman just phoned,” she said. “He won’t be back ’til tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” I did my best to frown and offered to take her out to dinner, but she said it was already organised. In my honour we were having an American meal: steak and baked potatoes. Meanwhile what about a walk? We put on our jackets and boots. Of course the dog went bonkers. Outside it was a mild autumn evening and the swallows were flying low, because of the rain earlier, Maudie said. As we climbed the hill behind the house, she told me the story of The Little Swallow. I listened happily. In my experience it’s a good sign when women embark on this kind of conversation.
“Eventually,” she concluded, “the prince has the swallow pluck out his sapphire eyes. Winter comes and they both die.”
“And the moral is altruism doesn’t pay,” I said lightly.
We were passing a chestnut tree and I picked up one of the spikey green nuts and cracked it open. I held out the single glossy kernel to Maudie, then asked about the steak for supper. “I thought you two were die-hard vegetarians.”
“He is, but when he’s not around I lapse. For all I know, he does too. You end up with lots of secrets after ten years of marriage.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “How come you’re not married, Leo? Or the equivalent?”
“I’m not sure.” I’d been about twelve when I realised confiding in Roman was a mistake, and I’d applied the same rule to Maudie. Now I said something vague indicating heartbreak in the not too distant past. “I suppose we had different priorities.” I let my voice fade.
We came out from beneath the trees onto a ridge. Below us lay the town of Perth and the river Tay winding slowly towards Dundee. Two sailboats tacked back and forth on the water. “Sometimes,” I said, “I think I must be mad to live in London.”
“But look at all the things the city has to offer,” said Maudie. “Work
. Pleasure.”
“Of course, but it’s so easy to lose sight of what matters. Remember that sonnet?
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
I saw Maudie’s mouth open in surprise—nothing like the odd poem—and didn’t mention the gig I’d done on the Romantics. Instead I said those lines haunted me. She assured me that even in the country they had angst.
Back at the house, while she cooked the steak I made a salad and set the table. Soon we were eating by candlelight. I began to ply her with wine and questions. She gave the usual story about developing late, her older sister being effortlessly popular. (Somehow I never do meet those older sisters.) Then, to her amazement, boys started paying attention to her. “That led to a lot of bad behaviour.”
“You’re probably exaggerating.”
“No, quite the reverse.” She smiled and pushed back her hair. “I must be tipsy to be talking this much.”
“So what happened?”
“I started going out with a rich old man called Tom Patterson. He wore purple shirts and leather trousers and drove a vintage Rolls. We went to fancy restaurants where I drank too much. Then he’d drive me home. One time he was going down to Durham and I asked if he’d give me a lift to visit some friends. We went out to dinner and back to his house. He had a castle, a modest castle, just south of Edinburgh. I was staying the night so we could get an early start.
“And this is where it gets impossible. I was sharing Tom’s bed, you know. He was forty years older than me. I trusted him. Suddenly he was climbing on top of me—he was huge, six foot, sixteen stone—and forcing his way inside me. I wish I could say I kicked and screamed but I don’t really remember.”
Criminals Page 13
