He sat there in Saint Pierre’s a while longer. His eyes found a regiment of candles flickering in perpetual devotion for loved ones lost. He wondered if what he’d just offered himself was an explanation or only an excuse.
When he got back to the house in Eze some of that mood was still with him. He thought being with Catherine might pull him out of it; all he needed were a couple of laughs. However, he found she was secluded in her bedroom and a note to him was taped to her closed door saying she was having a snooze and why didn’t he do the same. Meaning join her? No, because there was more (over), telling him they’d be having dinner out at eight thirty. In case he was ravenous she’d arranged for a little something to tide him over.
Ridiculous, her suggestion that he take a nap, as though that were so easy. It showed how little she knew him. But then, when he went into his room he thought perhaps she did, because there on the side table on an ornate silver tray was caviar and a split of champagne kept very cold by shaved ice. Not just average good caviar and not just a measly portion of it. Huge gray grains of the largest fresh Beluga, a half-pound heap. The champagne was a ’59 Dom Perignon.
The sight of it raised Hazard’s spirit. He undressed, transferred the tray to the surface of the bed and lay beside it. He’d eaten nothing since breakfast, so sips of the champagne went all the way down into him like lighted arrows. He ate the caviar straight, enjoying the sensation of it bursting under the pressure of his teeth. The fact that each spoonful was worth about five dollars didn’t phase him, but it did occur to him that various gourmands had given testimonials on behalf of caviar’s aphrodisiac benefits. Could be, he thought, with his mouth full. Not that he needed it.
Promptly at eight thirty he went out and found Catherine was ready, waiting to go.
What she had chosen to wear was neither more nor less but allowed her the best of both possibilities. A long-sleeved caftan by Grés made of that finest weave of cotton called lawn. White, opaque, loose—more effective than a tight fit or transparency the way it declared, as she moved, that her body was absolutely uninhibited underneath. From Hazard’s reaction at first sight of her she was sure the score was already in her favor.
“My, don’t we look marvelous,” she said, complimenting him.
He had on the new dark blue suit he’d bought in London with some of his winnings.
Her eyes upon him went down, up and down. “Only one discrepancy.”
“What?” Hazard thought she probably meant no tie.
“Mind you, it’s not a complaint, but your front is open.”
He’d forgotten to do up his fly. It had buttons rather than a zipper. “A Freudian oversight,” he said, while fumbling to match the buttons with their corresponding holes.
Catherine decided that unfortunately it was a little too early for her to help.
To avoid the bother of driving somewhere, she’d reserved for dinner at a local place. They walked arm in arm over the narrow, cobbled ways of the old village, and when the going was steep she used it as an excuse to cling and press more to him. Within minutes they reached the restaurant, which was small and impeccable, with a dim, conducive ambiance. Hazard estimated its prices would be in keeping with where it was situated—high on the sheer hillside facing the sea.
Catherine acknowledged the maître d’hôtel by first name. He was suave and overly cordial. He ushered them to their table, isolated from all the others, which had been shifted away and given less space. Catherine and Hazard sat beside rather than opposite one another, their backs to the rest of the room, sharing the night and distant lights, a shimmering panorama from Nice to Monaco. It seemed unreal, at least to Hazard.
Everything had been prearranged by Catherine. Two waiters were assigned to them alone with instructions to be attentive but not to intrude. Hazard’s saying he thought he’d have a beer was disregarded. A 1962 Moet and Chandon rosé was served along with the first course. L’oursin natur—raw sea urchins plucked that day from the rocky waters and now served in half their spiny shells on beds of blue-tinted ice.
Hazard glanced dubiously at his portion and then summoned his courage. He scooped one out and up and into his mouth. The first he swallowed whole with some difficulty, the second he bravely chewed.
“Try a squeeze of lemon,” Catherine suggested.
“I prefer them plain,” he said, as though this wasn’t his initiation.
“They have a very distinctive flavor, don’t you think? Sort of … well, how would you describe it?”
He thought a moment and told her, “Carnal.”
“Femininely so?”
His shrug said what else.
“By that you mean unpleasant?”
“Not at all.”
She spooned one up, studied its slick, coral-hued flesh and took a nibble. Her tongue passed judgment. She smiled. “You know, you’re absolutely right.”
After the sea urchins came lapin sauvage, roast wild rabbit, braised celery, and artichokes sauced with fresh ground Dijon mustard. Not a heavy meal, actually. She didn’t want them handicapped later by feeling logy. Catherine had also stipulated that everything be amply seasoned with cracked cayenne and saffron. Each dish she’d chosen had a traditional reputation for its libidinal influence. (True or not, the possibility was worthwhile, she reasoned.) Particularly the fresh, raw Périgord truffles marinated in cognac.
Catherine purposefully led the conversation to such topics as erotic minorities, the advantages for a man in never having to work, and the guilt-ridden sex lives of most American women.
Hazard was between a bit of spicy rabbit and a comment on Tantric Buddhism when he felt it. Like two subtle pressures on the back of his head, a sense of being under the beam of a stare. He glanced around and his attention fell on whoever that was standing to one side of the entrance. The dim lights obscured detail but he could see she was wearing faded denim—jeans and a matching short Western-style jacket. She had on mirror-surfaced sunglasses. Hazard turned back to Catherine, deciding it was only a resemblance or a product of his wishful thinking. But that disturbing sense of being stared at persisted. He had to look again. This time she was coming toward them and he saw it was definitely she.
“Fancy meeting you here and all that,” said Keven.
Introductions weren’t necessary. Keven and Catherine had met at Carl’s funeral. Hazard was so shaken by Keven’s sudden appearance that it was left to her to deliver their hello kiss. Her mouth, however good it felt to him, was a weapon that bit his lip sharply, just short of drawing blood.
“What luck,” said Keven. “Someone just happened to recommend this place to me.”
Catherine silently vowed her housekeeper would soon be unemployed. She also wished that Keven would evaporate in a puff of steam.
Hazard signaled a waiter, who brought another chair. Keven sat down and settled herself. She removed the Mexican-peasant net bag that was slung from her shoulder. “I’m famished,” she said, and demonstrated her rights by helping herself to a leaf of Hazard’s artichoke. The mustard sauce ventilated her larynx and made her eyes water. Regaining her breath she pointed at the truffles half submerged in cognac. “What are those?”
Catherine told her, as though it were unsophisticated of her not to know.
“I thought they were stewed prunes.”
“Really?”
“I read somewhere that they use virgins to locate truffles.”
“Pigs,” Catherine corrected.
Keven nodded. “No doubt that’s why they’re virgins.”
Hazard laughed nervously. He thought it better to stay out of it. He had plenty of questions for Keven but not then or there. Just to say something, he asked her why the mirrored sunglasses.
“So certain people can see how they look in my eyes.” She reached down into her net bag and brought out a handful of sunflower and pumpkin seeds. She deposited them on the table cloth, pinched up a few and began crunching away. The maìtre d’ had come to ask if she wished to order something.
He eyed the little pile of seeds with disgust.
“Maybe just a salad,” Keven said.
He suggested endive.
“How do you say manure in French?” asked Keven. “Is it merde de cheval?”
“Engrais,” said Catherine, accent perfect.
“I thought you’d know,” said Keven.
“Would you like it baked or sautéed?” asked Catherine.
“I never eat anything unless it’s organically grown.”
The maître d’ suggested une salade de Pissenlit.
Sounded like piss in bed, Keven thought.
“Dandelion salad,” the maître d’ translated.
That suited Keven fine. She imagined happy children sent out to gather dandelion greens from sunny hillsides.
The salad was brought right away and served with ceremonial flourish. Keven declined the dressing and ate with her fingers, delicately. The plain greens were a little bitter and nippy to her tongue, but she took that as evidence of their natural goodness. Completing a long, healthful chew, she asked Hazard in an offhand manner, “Where are you staying?”
Her question hung over the table.
Hazard popped a truffle into his mouth. It tasted strong, too much of a good thing. His silence was both an answer and a choice.
Catherine broke the spell by telling a waiter to bring her a double whiskey and a pack of Gauloises. She wasn’t a good loser but did hope to save some face. “It was sweet and very thoughtful of you to have dinner with me,” she told Hazard, “but there’s no need to waste your entire evening. My friend …” she said, implying a man and more than a friend, “… will be along soon, so whenever you like, please do feel free to go. Don’t be the least concerned about me.”
“I’m ready if you are,” Keven said, pushing her plate away.
Hazard got up.
Catherine extended her hand. A single fifteen-carat diamond issued a taunting flare.
Hazard gave it a platonic shake.
Keven was already headed for the way out.
She had rented a car, a dependable Peugeot. It was parked outside Catherine’s house. Keven waited while Hazard went in and got his things. They didn’t speak until they were well on the way to Cap Ferrat. “You’re my husband and you just came in on a flight from London,” Keven told him.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“They only had one room available at the hotel.”
“Really?”
“Believe me, I would gladly have gotten two.”
“They’ll want to see my passport.”
“No problem.”
“Our names won’t match.”
“I registered as Hazard.”
“How could you?”
“That’s what’s on my passport.”
“Who’s idea was that?”
“Kersh’s.”
By then they’d arrived at the Hôtel du Cap. As predicted, he had no trouble at the desk; was treated as though expected. For obvious reasons, he wished he’d been registered as “Stevens,” but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. The room, number 307, was third floor and second rate by du Cap standards. It overlooked the drive and parking area rather than the sea, but was otherwise pleasant enough.
Keven kicked off her espadrilles to be barefoot. She also removed the faded-denim jacket under which she wore an ordinary white-cotton tank top. Hazard busied himself with opening his suitcase, watching her peripherally and wondering if she would undress all the way. But she stopped at that and even kept on her sunglasses. She flopped down on the bed, propped a doubled-up pillow underneath her head and crossed her legs.
Hazard sat in a chair opposite the foot of the bed, about as far away as he could get, short of retreating into the bathroom. To escape the twin mirrors that hid her eyes and, as well, the twin punctuations of her tank top, he surveyed the room. Among a scatter of other things on the long dresser he noticed a room-service tray with three compote dishes that he guessed had been a triple order of ice cream. There were also a portable tape recorder and several cassettes. Next to that, wrapped in clear plastic, was a six-inch-square chunk of light-gray stuff that looked like modeling clay, the kind he used to take his hostilities out on when he was a school kid.
“What’s that?”
“What does it look like?”
He told her.
“I brought it along just in case,” she said.
“Of what?”
“I feel the need to express myself.”
Better she should take it out on that stupid stuff than him.
“How’s Kersh?”
“Fine.”
“Julie?”
“They send their love.”
“She had the baby yet?”
“Any second now.”
Another long silence. It was punishing for him because he was really happy to see her; excruciating for him because she was a million miles away across the room. He tried sending her that but apparently her receiver wasn’t switched on.
“How did you know where I’d be?”
“It figured.”
“You didn’t just know.” He hoped to God she wasn’t tapped in on him to that extent.
“The queen told me.”
Meaning Peter, Hazard realized. She’d been to London. He pictured her going to all that trouble to track him down and he liked it, but then his thoughts turned practical. “You shouldn’t have come,” he told her. “I’ll bet Kersh was against it.”
“He suggested it. He thought it would help,” Keven said.
“I don’t need help.”
“No one said you did.”
“Besides, what about the exercises?”
“They were a bust.”
“Nothing got through?”
“See for yourself.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the desk in the corner. Hazard went over to it and found a manila envelope that contained Xerox copies of reports covering the first three of the overseas exercises. They showed the images he’d sent compared to those she’d received. The first, the gull, was a reasonable match. The second, the time he’d failed to send, looked right because her big green X was a sort of graphic cancellation. The third he’d sent had been a photograph of a group of fifty men standing on the steps of a public building. What she’d recorded were five horizontal lines of ovals, but exactly fifty of them in an arrangement that corresponded with the men’s faces. So that one was hardly a total miss.
Hazard was pleased. “I’d say we did damned well considering.”
“Yeah, considering.”
“There was nothing wrong with my sending,” he claimed.
“Okay, so the reception was bad.”
“How come?”
“Too much interference.”
Her tone warned him not to pursue that. He asked her about the night before last, if she’d received the one he’d sent from the plane, the Byron quote.
“No,” she said indifferently.
He was disappointed. He’d been so sure about that one. “Why not?”
“I forgot to try.”
More silence.
She remained the same, legs crossed.
He’d gone back to the far-away chair. Unable to avoid looking at her, he imagined leaping high at her, floating down in slow motion upon her, softly, his mouth finding her mouth finding his and all of him sinking into her so nicely, together.
“Been getting any?” she asked.
“Any what?”
“Sleep.”
“How about you? You been sleeping?”
“Like a baby. I can drop right off any old time.” She did a big yawn to demonstrate.
That did it. He got up fast and went into the bathroom, closing the door hard. Angry at everything, he pulled off his jacket and ripped off two of the fly buttons while getting out of his trousers. One bounced and clicked happily on the ceramic-tile floor. The other flew mockingly into the bidet.
There was a glass-enclosed shower stall. He stepped in an
d turned the water control handle half way between chaud and froid. Cold came shooting out but before he could swear much it changed to warm. He adjusted it to hotter and let it hit between his shoulderblades, a point he always considered the center of his tensions.
He didn’t hear her enter the bathroom. He didn’t know she was there until she opened the shower door.
All she had on were the sunglasses.
“I want in,” she said, contritely.
His smile welcomed her.
They hugged tight as possible, kept their full lengths pressed for a long while.
The water splattered and ran in rivulets down the mirrored surface of her sunglasses. She let him take them off.
He was happy for himself and sorry for her when he saw the little dark circles below her eyes. Gently, he kissed, left and right, that evidence of her lack of sleep.
She reached for the bar of hotel soap and said, “I’ll lather.”
15
CATHERINE.
Ten o’clock the next morning.
She was wrapped in one of Pinchon’s silk robes. Sometime after midnight she’d come roaring, swerving in and managed to park her yellow Ferrari half on the drive and half on the lawn. She’d left the lights on and motor running, so Pinchon had personally gone out to turn them off.
In any condition, even that drunk, he was glad to have her there. And despite her drunkenness, she knew clearly why she had come. She wasn’t the type to take rejection standing up.
Now she was in the anteroom off Pinchon’s bedroom, where he usually took breakfast when the weather wasn’t nice enough for the terrace. He was trying as best he could to minister to her hangover. Aspirins, black coffee laced with brandy, and frequent consolations.
She was, however, far from restored as she looked out the near window and thought the day, dull and drizzling, was a suitable accompaniment to her feelings. She placed her cup on the table. The front of her robe slipped carelessly apart. She sat back and closed her eyes. “The son of a bitch,” she said.
Pinchon knew whom she meant from her mumblings the night before. He gathered, with pleasure, that she’d had a falling out with Stevens over some other woman. It only bothered him that Catherine was reacting so to it. He advised her to forget it.
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