A Multitude of Sins

by Margaret Pemberton

  Elizabeth felt the familiar surge of almost unbearable excitement that she always experienced in the few moments before the baton was raised. Only this time it was different, even more heart-stopping. This time the superbly elegant figure in white tie and tails was not a stranger. It was Roman. Raefe’s friend, and now her friend.

  She withdrew her hand from Raefe’s, clapping wildly as Roman took his place on the podium and turned to the audience, acknowledging their applause. His unruly dark-gold hair had been brushed into submission and gleamed sleekly. His exquisitely cut evening jacket emphasized his powerful physique. As he bowed and the applause intensified, Elizabeth felt a sense of shock run through her. It was obvious, even before he raised his baton, why he aroused such fevered enthusiasm in his audiences. There was a virility about him, a personal magnetism that was overwhelming.

  Elizabeth slipped her hand once more into Raefe’s, squeezing it tight. The concert hall fell silent. There was a long pregnant moment of waiting and then Roman raised his baton. Elizabeth could hear her heart beating. He was opening with Mahler’s Fourth. It was one of her favourite symphonies, and one she had heard conducted magnificently by Wilhelm Furtwängler at the Albert Hall in London. That the performance she was about to hear could even begin to compare with Furtwängler’s seemed an impossibility.

  There was utter silence, and then Roman brought his baton down and almost from the first instant she knew that she had no need to worry. He was in complete and utter command of the orchestra, his rhythm flawless. The music flowed and surged, sank and rose again with glorious unforced urgency.

  She sighed rapturously, succumbing to Mahler’s sensuous richness and lush lyricism. Roman was a bold conductor, his use of rubato so adventurous he nearly took her breath away. At times he would pause for art instant of delicious expectation before launching into a heart-easing melody, at others he would press forward within a phrase towards its climax. Whatever he did he did with utter confidence, revealing a deep, almost mystical understanding of the score. ‘Oh, wonderful! Wonderful!’ she breathed when the last exquisite notes had died away and the auditorium erupted in applause.

  The applause died down, to break out again when the young man who was to play the solo in Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D walked on to the platform.

  It was as good as the Mahler. Roman’s conducting was big and bold and soaring. He possessed a charisma that not only excited the audience, but magnetized the orchestra as well. They played like angels for him. As the last, unbearably beautiful notes died away, Elizabeth could feel tears pricking the backs of her eyes and then she was on her feet with the rest of the audience, shouting out ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ and clapping until her hands hurt.

  ‘I told you he was incredible!’ Raefe shouted to her as Roman strode from the concert platform and the applause rose frenetically for his return.

  ‘I know … but I’d never imagined he would be quite so demonic!’

  Raefe laughed, and the applause reached fever pitch. Once again Roman strode across the concert platform to the base of the podium, sharing the applause generously with the orchestra, perspiration gleaming on his forehead, his dark-blond hair no longer smooth and sleek but gloriously unruly.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ the shouts continued, the orchestra clapping as unstintingly as the audience.

  As he took his fifth and final bow he looked laughingly down to where Elizabeth and Raefe were cheering, his eyes shining with elation and satisfaction.

  ‘Do you always achieve such an effect when you conduct Mahler?’ Raefe asked later as they sat at a candlelit table in the little Polish restaurant that had become their regular haunt.

  Roman grinned. His thick shock of dark-gold hair was still damp with perspiration, his eyes as brilliant as live coals. ‘What effect is that, my friend?’ he asked, attacking mushroom-stuffed beefsteak rolls with relish.

  ‘For the entire audience it was as if they had died and gone to heaven!’

  Roman laughed. ‘Was that how it felt? Then, that is good. That is how Mahler should make you feel.’

  Elizabeth and Raefe sat opposite him, their plates empty. They had eaten before the concert and were not hungry, but Roman signalled for the waiter, asking for a fruit compote to follow the beefsteak. ‘I’m not usually a big eater,’ he said apologetically to Elizabeth, ‘but after a performance it takes hours for my nervous energy to subside, and while it is doing so I eat like a horse!’

  Elizabeth smiled across at him, and at that moment, as their eyes met, she knew that they were truly friends. That they would have been friends even without Raefe’s influence. She knew exactly how he felt after such a performance, and he knew that she knew. She sipped at the Polish wine that Roman had insisted they drink, wondering if she could ever acquire a taste for it, and said: ‘Is Mahler very difficult to interpret?’

  The plate of mushrooms and beefsteak was cleared away and replaced with the compote. Roman ate a spoonful appreciatively and then said: ‘No, for me he is one of the easiest of composers.’

  Elizabeth rested her arms on the table, leaning forward slightly. She was wearing a sleeveless lemon silk dress. ‘Why is that?’ she asked with professional interest, her hair falling softly to her shoulders.

  Raefe grinned. The rapport between Roman and Elizabeth delighted him. He loved watching Elizabeth’s face, laughing and animated, as she and Roman enthusiastically discussed musical personalities and orchestras, and the vital question of whether there should be breaks after the fermatas in Beethoven’s Fifth. That he was able to take very little part in these discussions bothered him not in the least. Music was the world in which Elizabeth belonged and one in which he was determined that she should take her place. The day would come when Roman, with his connections and his influence, would be a great help to her.

  ‘Mahler was a conductor himself,’ Roman was saying exuberantly, ‘and it shows in his scores. He puts in so many marks and verbal instructions that it is impossible to go wrong. For instance, in the second symphony.…’

  Raefe gave a mock groan. ‘It’s nearly three in the morning, Roman. Have some pity, please.’

  Roman gave a deep chuckle. ‘You are a Philistine, my friend,’ he said indulgently. ‘But, for your sake, no more Mahler for the moment. Instead, let us drink Brudershaft together.’

  ‘Brudershaft?’ Elizabeth asked, hoping fervently that it wasn’t another Polish wine.

  ‘It is a ceremony we have in Poland. A declaration of lifelong brotherhood. You fill your glasses, so.…’ He generously replenished their half-full wine-glasses. ‘And then, still holding your glasses, you link your elbows around each other, so.…’ He linked his elbow with Raefe so that their arms were intertwined. ‘And then we drink from our own glass at the same time. It is a pledge. A promise that our friendship is for ever.’

  Entranced, Elizabeth watched as, their eyes holding each other’s fast, the two men drank. Despite the difference in their colouring, there was something uncannily similar about them, as if they really were brothers. They were both tall and broad-shouldered, and though Roman was heavier-built than Raefe he possessed Raefe’s pantherlike grace, moving with the easy strength and agility of a rigorously trained athlete. They shared other qualities in common, too. With both of them there was a sense of power under restraint, an impression of controlled vigour and sexuality. A self-confidence so total it was almost insolent. She suppressed a smile, wondering how their prestigious American university had survived them.

  ‘And now we will drink Brudershaft together,’ Roman was saying to her.

  Feeling slightly drunk, she lifted her glass, linking her elbow around his, and as she drank she felt overcome at her good fortune. She had Raefe, whom she loved with all her heart; she had all her friends in Hong Kong; and now she had Roman’s friendship, too, and looking into his brilliant grey eyes she knew it was a friendship that would last throughout her life.

  Four days later, when the time came for them to part, their regret was almos
t unbearable. Roman was returning with the orchestra to London, and then flying out immediately to Tel Aviv. They were returning to Hong Kong. None of them knew when they would meet again.

  ‘The next time we share a concert platform, it will not just be at a rehearsal, it will be before an audience,’ Roman said thickly to her, hugging her so tight that she thought her ribs were going to crack. He turned to Raefe, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Uwazaj, na siebie,’ he said huskily. ‘Take care, my friend. Goodbye.’

  It was early dawn when they arrived back in Hong Kong. Their aeroplane squealed to a halt on the tarmac of Kai Tak Airport, and through the windows she could see the sun rising golden over the Peak.

  ‘We’ll soon be home,’ he said to her, a curious gleam in his eyes as they stepped down on to the tarmac. She was carrying the painting that Roman had given them, holding it close to her chest. It had stood on the dressing-table of their hotel room all the time they had been in Perth. Now she would have to part with it. It had been given to them both, but it belonged now in Raefe’s flat, not in her impersonal hotel room.

  ‘You had better take this now,’ she said regretfully, handing it to him as they walked across to the parked Chrysler.

  He opened the door for her, quirking an eyebrow, making no move to take it. ‘Oh, I think not,’ he said airily.

  She stared at him. ‘But surely you want it on the wall of your room?’

  He closed the door on her, walking round to the other side of the car, opening the driver’s door and sliding in behind the wheel. ‘Of course,’ he said unperturbedly. ‘Most definitely.’

  The engine snarled into life, and as they drew away from the airport she said suspiciously: ‘You’re playing games with me, aren’t you? What is it that is so amusing you?’

  He flashed her a down-slanting smile. ‘You amuse me, sweet Lizzie.’ He pulled out into Argyle Street. ‘You don’t really think, after the week we have spent together, that I’m docilely going to return you to the Pen, do you?’

  ‘The majority of my clothes are still there,’ she said without much vehemence.

  His smile deepened. ‘No, they’re not, dear love. They were removed the day we flew to Perth. They are now cosily nestling against my clothes in the extraordinarily large ward-robe that had to be bought to accommodate them. You are a very greedy girl, where clothes are concerned. I’ve never seen so much stuff. Armfuls and armfuls of it.…’

  ‘Your bedroom at the apartment has fitted wardrobes; a large wardrobe would look preposterous in it,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying!’

  He turned left into Waterloo Road. ‘You’re quite right. A wardrobe would look preposterous in the apartment. However, it does not do so in our new bedroom.’

  She gurgled with laughter, still holding the painting against her chest. ‘And where is that?’ she asked. She had no intention of arguing with him. She had known ever since Christmas that the period of adjustment was at an end. She no more wanted to return to the Pen than he wanted her to.

  ‘Sit still, keep quiet, and you’ll soon find out,’ he said, shooting down Nathan Road towards the vehicular ferry.

  Once on Hong Kong Island, he drove eastwards through the still quiet streets of Victoria and the gaudier streets of Wanchai.

  ‘Where on earth are we going?’ she asked, her arm through his, her head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Patience,’ he said in loving chastisement, taking the road out towards Sai Wan Ho.

  He drove on, past Lei Yue Mun Bay and Chaiwan, and then, as the morning sun bathed Mount Collinson and Pottinger Peak in liquid light, he took a small turning up into the foothills. The track wound round, bumping and swaying over the ruts which marked the course of winter overspills of mountain rain. It churned its way up round a steep bend and ground to a halt, the dust of its wake hanging thickly in the air behind them. ‘Oh,’ she breathed rapturously. ‘Oh, Raefe, it’s beautiful.’ The house was small, secluded, nestling against a backdrop of fern and mountain pine. Away in front of it the hills rolled down to the bright blue gutter of the sea.

  ‘I warn you now, it isn’t furnished,’ he said as they stepped out of the car and began to walk towards it. ‘Apart from two or three essential items, that is.’

  It was unlike any other house she had seen on the island. There were no pillars, no porticoes, it bore no resemblance at all to the luxury houses of the Peak. It was built of stone, with an outside staircase leading to the floors above, each step whitened at the edge, and on every step there were terracotta pots and tubs of flowers. Deep drowned purple pansies; scarlet geraniums; milk-white anemones with lamp-black centres; a tangle of honeysuckle tumbling riotously. The doors and shutters had been painted cornflower blue and had been thrown open welcomingly.

  ‘We can have something much grander if you like,’ he said, seized by sudden doubt as to its suitability, as they stepped over the threshold.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh, no, Raefe. This is what I want. This is perfect!’

  The sun streamed in through the windows on whitewashed walls and gleaming pine floors. She walked through the rooms, the scent of the flowers drifting in fragrantly through the open shutters. His two or three essential items of furniture were a large brass-headed bed, the bed-linen snowy white and lavishly trimmed with lace, an enormous wardrobe holding all her clothes, and a Steinway concert grand. ‘I thought you would want to choose the rest of the furniture yourself,’ he said, standing close behind her, his arms around her waist. ‘I want your personality in every room, Lizzie.’

  She turned in the circle of his arms, touching his face tenderly in absolute love. ‘We can start furnishing it now,’ she said softly. ‘This very minute.’ And she gently freed herself from his embrace and walked out to the car, returning with Roman’s painting of the boy David.

  They hung it in the sun-filled room that looked out over the sea. He held her close. ‘And we can start living in it now,’ he said huskily, lifting her up in his arms and carrying her towards the bedroom and the snowy-white bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The master bedroom of Tom Nicholson’s house was in deep shade, the blinds drawn down against the fierce brightness of the afternoon sun. A slight smile touched Julienne’s lips as she lay on her back, her hands moving caressingly over his shoulders and up into the dark thickness of his hair. Tom had never been a very imaginative lover. He, unlike Derry, would never have considered making love in a rocking sailing-boat off Cape d’Aguilar. But his very prosaicness made a change, and her appetite for change was inexhaustible.

  ‘That is good, n’est ce pas?’ she whispered, her hips moving with increasing speed as she sensed that he was coming to a conclusion.

  She closed her eyes, the sexual images she conjured up amply compensating for Tom’s deficiencies. His mouth ground deeply on hers, his hands tightened convulsively on her breasts, and as he groaned in the agony of climax she knew without offence that he wasn’t making love to her at all. It was Lamoon who was filling his head, Lamoon he was mentally expending his passion on. She was merely giving him sexual relief, easing his pain. Her arms cradled him close, the knowledge giving her a satisfaction that was far deeper than the transient satisfaction of successful copulation.

  When, at last, he rolled his weight away from her, lying exhaustedly on his back, she raised herself up on one elbow, looking down at him compassionately. ‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked, her fingers playing slowly across his chest.

  He grinned. ‘You sound like a nurse.’

  She giggled. ‘I feel like a nurse. A very personal nurse, chéri.’

  His grin faded, and his eyes darkened with affection. ‘You’re worth your weight in gold,’ he said huskily, pulling her down beside him, grateful for her sexual generosity and her blessedly uncomplicated nature.

  She nestled against him, her vibrant red hair tousled, her breath soft against his flesh. ‘I am having lunch with Elizabeth tomorrow,’ she said as he reached out
to the bedside table for cigarettes and lighter. ‘Having a baby suits her. She looks more beautiful than ever.’

  Tom blew a wreath of cigarette smoke into the air. ‘I still can’t believe that she has left Adam.’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I had ideas myself once where Elizabeth was concerned.’

  ‘Quand?’ Julienne demanded, sitting upright, her eyes widening with interest. ‘When? Tell me!’

  ‘It was when I first met her, aboard the Orient Princess. I thought maybe an affair with her would help me to say goodbye to Lamoon.’ He was silent for a minute or so. He never talked about Lamoon. The pain was too deep, too raw. She waited, and at last, when he had regained control of his voice, he said: ‘I never approached her, of course. She seemed to be so happy with Adam, and I couldn’t imagine her being unfaithful to him in a million years.’

  Julienne gurgled with laughter, swinging her legs to the floor and reaching for her scattered clothes. ‘That is where you made your first mistake, chéri. You should never assume. Especially where women are concerned!’

  The next day, at the Floating Palace Restaurant in Causeway Bay, she said to Elizabeth: ‘Lamoon might just as well have vanished off the face of the earth. No one knows where she is, or what has happened to her. Tom won’t speak of it. If he did, I think he would simply go to pieces.’

  Elizabeth put down her menu, unable to decide whether to have lobster or oysters or fresh crab. Raefe had done everything he could to discover Lamoon’s whereabouts, but even he had failed. The Chinese grapevine was ominously silent. It was almost as if Lamoon had never existed.

  ‘Raefe thinks she was bundled out of Hong Kong and married to a man of her father’s choosing, while he and Tom were still in hospital,’ she said, her voice vibrant with the rage she still felt. ‘It’s unbelievable that in this day and age a girl of twenty can still be treated as if she’s nothing but a chattel!’

  Julienne lifted her shoulders in mutual disbelief. ‘I agree with you, chéri. It is medieval. Thank your lucky stars that you are a European.’