I pick up the letter and glance at the all-too-familiar opening curse, read the first lines again: ‘One year. Three-hundred-sixty-five days since you killed him. And I bet you think you got away. But I’ll never let you get away. Never.’
Suddenly I wish I could do something to assuage Louise’s pain, still so raw after all this passage of time. Would it make any difference if I answered her? Proclaimed a truce? Told her suffering was not hers alone, that I too had had my life ruptured. No. I let the letter slip through my fingers. Words will not bring Sandro back, Juanito’s father as she often calls him; and maybe Louise needs to carry on hating me so that she doesn’t have to hate herself.
I sink into the armchair and memories of Sandro take me over again. I no longer know if their dizzying poignancy is accurate. Ends shape beginnings and middles. And at the end there is only Sandro’s fractured body, his interrupted life. Whatever slice of the story I cut into, it races inexorably towards that single material truth. And my guilt, judged by Louise Jimenez and the popular jury of the press, but never in a courtroom. Perhaps a courtroom would have been preferable.
I doze. I must doze for I dream. I am scaling the facade of a building, brick by brick. My hands are bloody, the skin scraped from them. I will never get to the top where I once lived. No one can help me, not even the man who stretches out his hand through a window.
The sound of a buzzer presses itself into my consciousness and for a moment I think I am in the loft and Sandro is at the door - back then before he had any keys. Only when I get up and the bell isn’t where it should be do I realise I am in Paris and there is no reason for the ringing. But the bell is insistent and to stop its sound, I mumble a ‘Oui’ into the ansaphone.
‘Maria. At last.’
It takes me a while to recognize Paul’s voice and then I can’t find mine.
‘Let me up.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m alright. Really.’
There is no answering sound and for a moment I sigh with relief. Then I hear the unmistakeable click of the elevator and seconds later he is there pounding at the door in front of me. I open it. He stares at me.
‘You’re ill.’
I imagine what I must look like with my tangled hair and my red nose and Steve’s old robe and I nod.
‘Why didn’t you ring in, tell us?’ He closes the door behind him, examines me with those intelligent eyes. ‘I’ve been worried sick, thought you’d gone, thought… I’ve been phoning. Madame Duval’s been phoning. No answer. For days.’
‘Days?’
I shouldn’t have said that I realise for he is staring at me again, looking round the apartment. He puts his arm over my shoulder.
‘Three days, Maria,’ he says softly and with such concern that tears leap into my eyes.
‘Three days,’ I repeat stupidly. ‘I had no idea. I’m sorry. Sorry.’ I am crying and I have to fish into my pocket for those soggy tissues. ‘Can I get you some coffee? A drink?’ I burble through tears, hide my face.
‘I’ll get it.’ He urges me into the sofa, picks up stray cups, letters that have fallen on the floor, the letter. Do I imagine that his eyes skirt over it before he places it neatly on the pile. I hear him opening cupboards in the kitchen, slamming the fridge. ‘There’s no food here,’ he calls out to me. ‘Haven’t you been eating either?’
He comes out with a brandy bottle, glasses, a pitcher of water, peanuts I didn’t know existed and which must be staler than my breath. He hands me a glass and goes to the telephone. I hear him identify himself, give my address, place an order for what sounds like a mountain of food.
Then he sits down opposite me. ‘Okay, now tell me what’s happened.’
‘I have flu.’
‘Flu? In May? Tell me another story.’
‘Maybe it’s hayfever then.’
His eyebrows arch in scepticism. ‘Maria, I may not be a doctor, but I’m pretty good at knowing which approximations of the truth are closer to the real thing than others. So I’m going to sit here until you tell me something I can begin to believe.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean why?’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You know why.’ He looks at me with a directness which makes me shiver. ‘I care for you,’ he says softly. He doesn’t touch me, but it is like a caress.
‘Can I have one,’ I ask as he takes out a pack of cigarettes.
‘Remedy for hayfever, is it?’ He leans back into the sofa. ‘Well?’
The cigarette makes me dizzy. I stub it out, cough. ‘Will you excuse me for a minute.’
I go to the bathroom. I wash my face. I brush my hair. I look at myself. I look terrible. I jab on some lipstick, see my clothes heaped on the floor of the bedroom, put them on and still look terrible. Good, I think. I walk back to him, sit down. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You want a story you can believe. Here it is. I killed a man. And I got away with it. Scott free.’
I watch him watching me. I don’t know how long he watches me, but there is no expression I can read on his face. At last he says, ‘What weapon did you use?’
I have forgotten I am dealing with a lawyer. I laugh. ‘Does it make a difference?’
‘A big difference to what I decide to believe.’
‘I used love,’ I say. My voice is hard, grates even my ears. ‘And then the lack of love.’
His eyes do not leave my face. ‘A powerful weapon in the right hands,’ he acknowledges. ‘But in that case, too many of us are murderers. Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, siblings - we would have to turn the whole country into a prison. Luckily the courts don’t judge metaphor.’
‘I am not talking metaphor, Maître Arnault. I am talking real bodies. One dead body in particular.’ Suddenly my voice breaks and I start to weep. He is beside me, stroking my hair as if I were a child.
‘Suicide,’ he murmurs.
‘But with a very active accomplice,’ I blurt through my tears.
‘It sometimes feels like that, I know.’
He is silent while I wipe my eyes. Then he murmurs, ‘But it’s also sometimes meant to feel like that. A violent act performed not only against oneself, but against those around one.’ He pauses to look at me, but I won’t look back and he goes on. ‘Self-murder used to be considered a crime not so very long ago, but as far as I know there were never any accomplices named.’
‘This one was named.’ I don’t know why I am suddenly angry at him, but I am and I take Louise’s letter and thrust it at him. ‘Here,’ I say rudely. ‘Practise your English.’ I rush from the room. I pour cold water over my face again. I sit on the edge of the bed. I wait. I suddenly wish that he would come in here after me and shake me hard, slap my face.
Instead, when I finally go into the living room, he isn’t there and my face tingles as if the slap had happened. Maître Arnault has judged me. I am not worth the confession he encouraged me to make. I should feel relieved. I laugh out loud, sit down with a thump so that the springs of the sofa squeal.
His face, as it suddenly appears from behind the kitchen door, scares me. ‘Food’s here. When you’re ready.’
I jump up. ‘I thought you’d gone,’ I mumble.
‘And I’ve told you before that I am well brought up and I usually say goodbye before I leave.’
He is watching me again, watching me as I take in the spread on the table which seems to include everything in a traiteur’s window, smoked salmon and langoustine and little pastry shells stuffed with green.
‘I imagine you haven’t eaten properly for days. And you need to eat. You’re light-headed.’
‘Is that the name for it?’ I murmur, but I smile and tuck in. It occurs to me that I am ravenous.
‘Not too fast,’ he gives me a worried glance. ‘And there’s another course in the oven.’
I slow down and after a few more mouthfuls, gaze up at him. ‘So?’
‘So…’ he knows what
I mean. ‘So if my English serves me there’s a wife and child in the case. Which explains a great deal.’ He gives me a look which brings a flush to my face and holds my hand for a moment. ‘A very great deal. But it only gives me a fragment of the story. I’d like to hear the rest.’
Silence falls between us. In it I can hear myself chewing. I swallow hard. The food is suddenly as distasteful as my own story, but I start to tell him anyway, bluntly, coldly, so that I can get it over with quickly. It will be just as well if he hates me by its end. I do not look at him while I speak. I tell him about Sandro, how he falls in love with the glittering mannequin who can help him wheel and deal his way to his dreams. I tell him a little about the project and less about my work. I tell him how the glittering mannequin cannot cope with difficulties and rejects that love once Sandro has cut himself off from his family, his base, and how Sandro topples from a window. I sit there and wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t say anything for a long time.
‘Well?’ I say when I can stand the silence no longer.
‘Well, as a murder confession, it doesn’t wash, Maria. No prosecutor would take you on. Not enough of a motive.’ He gives me a funny half-smile. ‘And as a personal confession, it doesn’t altogether wash either. I can’t find you in it. You were there weren’t you?’
I get up and start to clatter plates away into the dishwasher. Paul talks over it and I want to cut him off. ‘You did love this man, didn’t you? So when did it start to go wrong? Did he do something? Did you? Did he hit you? Did he defile you? Did you start sleeping with other men? Did you tell him his work stank? Did you goad him? Did you suggest he kill himself? Open the window? Push him?’
‘All those things,’ I mumble. An then I turn on Paul, lash out as vehemently as if he were Sandro and my anger had just been born. ‘He betrayed me, deceived. Lied to me. About his wife. And he started to hate me. He didn’t understand why, but he hated me. And himself. And I hated him, too. Wanted revenge. He placed me on a pedestal and we both hammered at it until it toppled.’ I am screaming. I try to moderate my tone. ‘It was all tangled up. Love and hatred. Jealousy and love and hatred. A trap. And I wanted him gone.’ I rush from the room.
He is right behind me. His hand is on my shoulder, restraining me. ‘Guilt is a very bitter emotion, Maria,’ he whispers. ‘Punishment sometimes relieves it. Haven’t you punished yourself enough yet?’
I meet his eyes. They are sombre. They understand too much and it occurs to me that this is my punishment. I would like to love Paul. I would like to touch his face now. I would like to curl into bed with him, feel the smoothness of his chest. But I can’t. Sandro has stolen a part of me away, buried it with him in the grave. That part of me that dares, that is bold, that flaunts fate, that cares nothing about tomorrow, about others. He has stolen that and in its place given me fear, a sense of mortality. I am angry with him. I do not want this awareness of the fragility of things.
Perhaps Paul knows, for he holds me very close for a moment.
‘Thank you for coming to find me,’ I say.
He nods, kisses me lightly on the forehead. ‘Just carry on being angry. It helps sometimes. And if you’re not in the office tomorrow morning, I’m coming along with the fire-brigade.’
‘Not tomorrow.’ I demure. ‘I’m not up to it yet. Friday.’
‘Friday then.’ He looks at me and I think he is going to kiss me and I am going to have to move away. But he doesn’t. He just looks at me, smooths my hair softly away from my face. A sad little smile curls his lips. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ he says and then he is gone.
That night I do not dream of Sandro. I dream of Paul instead. But he isn’t Paul, he is a judge in scarlet robes and I am in the dock. But when I look round the courtroom, I am in the prosecutor’s chair as well. I know it is me, though the face is Beatrice’s and the face is speaking words I cannot hear, speaking for a long time until the judge interrupts. ‘Insufficient evidence,’ he proclaims and I stand up in the dock. There is a rumble in the courtroom. I see I am wearing only a white towelling robe and suddenly with the gestures of a stripper I take it off, throw it towards Paul, but he is already gone and the prosecutor, everyone, is pointing at me and I am afraid. I laugh. Or cry.
The sound wakes me and I lie in bed until the dream traces evaporate. Then I lie there some more and try once again to pull together the pieces of my life. One of my mother’s accounts books comes to mind and I list the pluses and minuses. On the plus side I have work which fascinates me, a friend found again in Beatrice, a lovely apartment, a daily life which is more than bearable. And Paul, who must count as a friend as well, to whom I have bared myself, who has judged me and not found me a monster. That is a definite plus. It makes me more tolerable to myself. On the minus side, there is an enormous debt which can never be repaid in kind, but which through work, through a kind of penance, I may be able to convert into a plus.
I suddenly feel light. I leap out of bed, remembering smaller but significant debts, to Steve whose apartment I must scrub and polish so that it is ready for him. I will do that today and buy him a present, something to be left here in anticipation of his arrival. To Beatrice, whose language class I utterly forgot about yesterday. I will ring with an apology, invite her out to the theatre, one of those treats she has told me she has too few of; perhaps offer to look after Marie-Françoise for a day, so that she can treat herself.
As I change linen and scrub and polish and dust and tidy, I make a host of resolutions and the activity, the resolutions, in turn fill me with energy. While I shower, it occurs to me that perhaps after my work with Paul is finished, I might train as a lawyer. Not criminal law, no, but something more ordinary. Immigration law. I will speak to Tanya about it, to Beatrice, perhaps even to Paul. I am filled with plans. I imagine myself as Jennifer Walters, a briefcase under my arm.
By mid-afternoon the apartment sparkles and I am ready to go home. On the way I browse in bookshops and boutiques, looking for something for Steve. The day has taken on a holiday feeling. It is warm and the pavement terraces are crowded with animated faces. I pause in front of a man’s shop. The mannequin in the window wears a plantation suit, the lightest of beige on white stripes, loose trousers, a panama. I have an irresistible urge to try it on and succumb to it, despite the shop assistant’s barely controlled surprise. The suit makes me happy, the hat, as I tuck my hair beneath it, even more so. I laugh, posture in front of the glass, find a pale yellow shirt, am told trousers, sleeves, can be taken in and up within the hour.
I sit in a café and spoon frothy milk into my mouth, down pungent coffee, and set off to scour some more boutiques. In the Rue du Dragon, I find a long thin shop with a bizarre assortment of bric a brac, amongst which stands a green ironwork reindeer, some two feet high, its antlers tapering into candleholders. I know instantly that Steve and Chuck who have an eye for artful kitsch will adore him. While the owner wraps the reindeer, I spy a small bronze figurine, scales in one hand, sword in the other. Justice, yet without the blindfold. The face is wise, peaceful, and the figure is altogether too rounded and charming - a soft, compliant justice. I hold her. She is only a little larger than the palm of my hand. For Paul, I think, who has been a merciful judge. I lug my purchases back to the man’s shop, try on my suit and decide to wear it straightaway. As I reach in my bag for my chequebook, my fingers touch the soft silk of the scarf Paul gave me in London. I tie it round my neck. A talisman.
On the street, a taxi has just dropped someone off and I leap into it. The reindeer can go to Steve’s apartment straightaway. I know exactly where it will stand.
When I get out of the cab, there is a man hovering in front of the entrance. He is half hidden by a bouquet of flowers and I do not recognize him until he steps towards me.
‘Another fifteen minutes and it might well have been fire-brigade time.’
I smile. ‘I’ve been out.’
‘So I can see. And I thought you might be in and not letting anyone
else in.’ He grimaces, then grins as he holds open the door of the lift. ‘Hello. You look ravishing.’
‘I feel better too. Thank you. For yesterday, I mean.’
‘Thank you for wearing this.’ He touches the scarf at my throat.
Our eyes meet and in that small cramped space the leap of mutual desire is too palpable. I look away.
‘And you’ve been working,’ he says as we go into the pristine apartment.
‘I’m sorry you had to see it all in such a mess yesterday.’
‘I’m not.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘The mess isn’t separate from the rest, Maria. And better in the front room, than hidden away in a dusty cellar where it’s too hard to get at.’
I know he is telling me something, but I don’t want to hear it now. I take off my hat, shake out my hair.
‘And presto. She’s a woman again.’ He bows comically, hands me the bouquet.
‘Did you ever have any doubts?’ I laugh as I tear open paper, bury my face in sweet-smelling stock, pink and white and purple.
‘Not on that score. Never.’ There is a rough edge to his voice and I turn away. ‘Maria, I…’
‘I’ve got something for you too.’ I burrow in my bag, bring out the small wrapped package. ‘And we need some drinks. A vase.’ I rush into the safety of the kitchen. I feel so open, so exposed to him today that the test his presence sets is almost unbearable. I want to reach out and hold him, be held. I take a deep breath, a second, go back to the salon. He is gazing at the statuette.
‘Do you like her?’
‘She’s very fine. And it’s nice to be able to look back into her eyes and argue. A placable justice,’ he laughs, ‘muse of defence lawyers’.
‘You did such a good job yesterday of defending me to myself.’
‘So you know it isn’t a life sentence? You can come out of prison whenever you decide.’
I hand him a glass. ‘I’d rather not talk about it today.’
A Good Woman Page 26
