‘Okay.’ He gives me a soft smile. ‘Do you feel up to some work? There’s a poem Jennifer once sent me that I came across again recently. I’d like to use it. Do you think you can help with the translation?’
‘I can try.’
He hands me two sheets of photocopied paper. ‘It’s by W.H. Auden. Law like Love. Read it out to me. I’d like to hear it as it should sound.’
I look at him and I know the poem is another covert message, like the chapter of the book I read last week.
‘Go on,’ he urges and I read, read the mounting whimsy and doggerel brilliance of Auden’s commentary on the Law - of law defined in disparate and interested ways - by gardeners as the sun, by ‘impotent grandfathers’ as the ‘wisdom of the old’, by their grandchildren as ‘the senses of the young’, by the priest as the words in his priestly book, by the judge…
‘Read the stanza about the judge again,’ Paul chortles.
Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I’ve told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.
‘Sounds just like my father,’ he chuckles. ‘And now the next one, about the scholars.’
Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.
Two stanzas later, the poem’s tone changes. The irony is still there, but lyricism steps in as the lover addresses his beloved and timidly, wryly, hazards a wonderful conceit, another definition certainly as good as the others.
Like love I say.
Like love we don’t know where or why,
Like love we can’t compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.
I have been so intent on the poem and its translation that I haven’t been aware of Paul’s growing closeness, his arm around my waist.
I turn my face to him. ‘You understand all this too well,’ I murmur. ‘It’s just a ploy.’
‘Not a ploy. I want you to understand it too. Share it with me.’
He kisses me and it is as if he hasn’t stopped speaking, but the taste is stronger, like the last stanza of the poem, and I have to answer back, the argument is too compelling. And with it comes something I don’t recognize, something fresh, like plump green buds. Perhaps it is hope.
When I finally edge my lips away, he holds fast to me, whispers in my ear, ‘I’m glad you’re still there, Maria. I was afraid yesterday, this last week, all those weeks you were away… I might have lost you.’
‘I won’t…’
‘Shhh.’ He puts a finger over my lips. ‘Listen. I’ve thought about what you told me yesterday. Twisted it and turned it, tried to feel what you might have felt. And you can’t condemn yourself. You can’t give up on life until life gives up on you. Or love. You’ve decided you’re dangerous - to others, to yourself. But not everyone is Mr. Jimenez. I’m not. Nor would I hurt you, never like that. Trust me.’
The logic is as compelling as his touch. But I don’t want it to work on me. Not here, where the ghost of Sandro has been so vivid in these last days. Not yet either. I have not paid my dues. And that unrepresented third party hovers in the wings, all the more threatening because I know I already care for Paul far too much.
‘I’d like you to go now Paul,’ I say softly. My voice breaks in a way I don’t want it to.
‘Why?’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘Alright.’ He gathers up his papers slowly, holds the little statuette in his hand as if he is weighing its density. When he looks up at me, there is a wistful expression on his face. ‘Don’t let it be too soon forever, Maria. Life isn’t that long.’
I want to turn away so as not to have to meet the sadness in his eyes, but his hand grips my arm. ‘It’s because of my wife, isn’t it? You’re afraid.’
‘That too.’
‘Of course. That woman must have made your life hell.’ He looks around the room as if he is considering something, then turns back to me. ‘One day, when we have a lot of time I’ll tell you about my wife, Maria. She’s a remarkable woman. And about our relationship. I think you’ll see, every story is individual. Unique. But perhaps I need to trust you a little more first as well.’
I flinch at this, yet realise there is very little reason why he should trust me. I have taken his love and sent him away. I have taken his understanding, his friendship and given him only unhappiness in return.
‘I’d like to earn your trust,’ I say.
He ruffles my hair, smiles. ‘I shouldn’t think that will be an insurmountable task.’
I kiss him. His lips are warm. They taste of life. I need life. I have been living with shadows for too long. And his eyes when I look into them are vivid, present. ‘Soon,’ I murmur.
He holds me close. The face he turns on me is filled with elation. He laughs. ‘I feel as if I’ve just won the second most important case in my life.’
‘Only the second?’ I tease him, happy too in this new mood. ‘And what was the first?’
‘I’ll try and remember it when the soon comes,’ he meets my tone.
It’s when we are standing by the door, loathe to say goodbye, that the words pop out, surprising even me. ‘Paul, do you think I’m too old to train? As a lawyer, I mean.’
He doesn’t answer for a moment and I babble, ‘Ridiculous notion, I guess.’
He laughs his boyish laugh. ‘Not at all. Brilliant idea. Even if it ends up by dulling your vision,’ he winks. ‘You’ve been bitten by the justice bug. That’s wonderful. I’ll dig out all the documentation for you. Tomorrow, if I can. We’re meeting at three as usual, right?’
I nod.
He pauses, looks at me with momentary concern. ‘You’ll be alright here? You won’t panic? You’ll have pleasant dreams?’
I smile at him. ‘I’ll be alright. I’ll dream about Mr Auden and law like love and growing into a black gown with a little lace kerchief.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘That sound’s just the thing. Though I wish I could be with you.’
-27-
Friday dawns as bright and fresh as if I were once again an eighteen-year-old aware only of the present and a tempting expanse of future. The streets shimmer moistly after their morning scrubbing. The chestnuts dance in robes of deep green and as I cross the river at the Pont du Carrousel, a hurdy-gurdy man churns out a sprightly air. I empty my change purse for him so that he can feel as light as I do.
In the office, Madame Duval is as solicitous as if I had just recovered from a major illness. ‘Don’t let the Maître work you so hard,’ she says to me with the closest thing I have ever seen in her to a gesture of complicity. ‘It doesn’t matter if the book takes a few months longer. These men, they get so obsessional.’
I nod sagely and she adds, ‘And he’s late himself this morning. Rang in to say he had a few errands to run, so he won’t be coming in until this afternoon.’ She looks down her notepad. ‘You’re scheduled for three. So make sure you have a good long lunch.’
At the corner of the long table which is my desk stands a pot of daisies with a note from Madame Duval. ‘To cheer up the subject matter’. Decidedly I am in Madame Duval’s good books and I have no idea what I have done to deserve this. Nonetheless, it makes me happy and I settle into work with more energy than I can remember. Something in me has been released, some dusty threatening corner opened to sunlight and I can bring all of myself to the tasks at hand. Even Tanya notices when we share a lunchtime baguette.
‘You look a whole lot better than you did last Friday. Someone hand you a big fat cheque? Or is it just sleep?’
‘Pleasant dreams.’ I smile at her
. ‘Why don’t you come round on Sunday and see my new place. It’s almost ready for visitors.’
The invitation seems to surprise her even more than it surprises me. I don’t think I’ve realized quite how secret I’ve grown.
‘Sure. Though next Sunday might be better. I’d half planned a trip to Chantilly.’
‘Next Sunday then.’
I give Tanya the address and note that I must give it to Madame Duval and Paul as well. I have stopped hiding.
Paul arrives promptly at three. He is wearing a deep blue suit which brings out the colour of his eyes and he smiles at me with such evident pleasure that I feel like telling him Cole Porter fashion that he’s the tops, he’s the colisum, the Louvre Museum, camambert and all the rest of those peaks, so outrageously rhymed..
He puts a pile of books on my desk and embraces me. ‘I know, not in the office. But just today. Today is special. Because you’re here. Because you’ve made decisions. Because…’
‘Because you’re piling on the work,’ I laugh at him.
He kisses me and I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I am and it feels good, it feels wonderful. And I think to myself that maybe his wife really is remarkable and that I’m just destined to be the other woman. And then I don’t think anything very much at all until we move apart.
‘We should go away together for a few days, Maria. Somewhere warm. In the sun.’
I imagine pine-fragrant evenings with him, the chirruping of cicadas, strolls in moonlight, the distant sound of waves.
‘Soon,’ I mouth at him, clear the ache in my throat, shake myself. ‘First I imagine I have to get through all those books you happen to have dumped on my desk?’
He chuckles, ‘Those, my lovely lawyer-in-waiting, are your work, not mine. Though I might help you just a little with it if you like. It looks quite daunting.’
I glance down at the top volume and see Faculté de Droit printed in large black letters. ‘Course brochures! How kind of you.’
‘Wait till you’ve read them before you say that. In the meantime…’
‘In the meantime, we’ve got a mass of stuff to get through.’
‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry. I don’t want you disappearing out of my life.’
‘I’m not planning to disappear.’ I meet his eyes and the pull is so strong that almost I reach out to touch him again.
‘Good.’ There is a hoarse edge to his voice. ‘That makes me very happy.’
We look at each other in silence until with an abrupt gesture I force myself to turn to my list.
‘Have you had a chance to go through my notes on the Martha Roberts trial yet, Maître?’ I ask with an attempt at Madame Duval’s brisk efficiency.
‘Barely. Shall we do that first?’
I nod and we begin to work, work avidly as the excitement of the material takes us over. I feel strangely free with him now: I can say anything because he knows what there is to know about me. It makes our arguments doubly exhilarating.
At one point, he is almost angry, shouting: ‘Why are you so keen on punishment, so averse to reasons. Isn’t ostracism, a fractured life, punishment enough? You’ll end up a prosecutor if you’re not careful.’
I flush. ‘But Jennifer Walters said herself that…’
The phone rings and I reach to answer it.
‘Madame Duval for you.’
He picks up the receiver and mouths a mocking kiss at me.
‘Oh, of course. Send them up.’ He turns back to me, smiles. ‘I hadn’t realized it was so late. My children have arrived. I’d like you to meet them.’
My mouth drops so far down, I think I will have to scrape it off the floor.
He laughs. ‘Don’t be afraid, Maria. They’re nice. Usually that is.’
I don’t have time to say anything before there is a knock at the door, quickly followed by a thin sandy-haired boy in jeans and denim jacket. He is at the awkward age and he stands looking from one to the other of us, unsure whether to cross the threshold or run.
‘Come in, Nicolas,’ Paul encourages him.
‘Wait for me,’ a voice pipes from the stair well, and a little girl bursts into the room.
I stare at her and blink and stare again. Dark hair, a heart-shaped face, a navy blue frock with a white collar.
Somewhere beside me I am aware that Paul is embracing the boy.
‘And this is Maria d’Esté,’ I hear him say and I shake Nicolas’s hand, but my eyes are still on the girl.
‘I’ve already met Maria,’ the girl says shyly then bounds into her father’s arms.
‘Hello Marie-Françoise,’ I murmur, not sure whether my voice will even allow that much speech.
She gives me a soft peck on either cheek and goes back to her father.
‘You know each other?’ Paul asks, a smile of delight on his face.
‘I met Maria with Maman. And she brought me the most yummee flaky chocolate from London. In a big box. And I haven’t said thank you yet. And she said she would take me out for ice-cream.’
‘I see.’ Paul’s face mingles astonishment and trepidation. I don’t know what mine reveals but I have the distinct feeling that in a moment I might burst into tears.
‘Yes,’ I say, gathering up my papers so I won’t have to look at him. ‘Beatrice is my oldest friend. From schooldays.’
‘How very extraordinary. I had no idea.’
‘Is Maria coming to dinner with us?’ Marie Françoise asks, ‘It would be nice. Since Maman couldn’t come.’
‘Why don’t you and Nicolas invite her.’ Paul’s voice is odd. ‘It would be grand. If she’s free.’
‘Oh yes, come,’ Marie-Françoise is far more forthcoming than when I last saw her. ‘It’s Papa’s birthday and we always take him to his favourite restaurant.’
‘I don’t think I…’
‘Oh please. It’ll be more like a party if you come. You ask her, Nicolas.’
The boy shuffles his feet and gives me an embarrassed look. ‘We’re going to the Colbert. Food is tops,’ he garbles his words, gets them over quickly.
‘Well, that’s decided then,’ Paul is suddenly definitive. ‘Now you two run downstairs and talk to Madame Duval while we finish up in here. Five minutes. No more.’
He waits until the door is closed, then takes my hand. ‘I really don’t know what to say, Maria. Beatrice never mentioned you. I… She never comes here. She doesn’t like lawyers,’ he laughs strangely.
I wrench my hand away from him. I feel as if the world I had just begun to put into place block by careful block has toppled. Like one of those over-reaching children’s towers, the foundations weren’t sound. I wasn’t sound and this is my punishment. Beatrice and Paul. Paul and Beatrice. My friend and the man I have let myself love. Not separate sustaining columns in my life, but one unit, so that the new roof comes crashing down round my head. And I can’t even be angry. Beatrice deserves him, this handsome, passionate and compassionate man, with his quicksilver intelligence. This man of integrity. Beatrice merits him. And he her.
‘Beatrice your childhood friend.’ Paul is musing. And you kept in touch over all these years. Funny that she never said anything.’
I can’t tell whether he is more distressed by the revelation or by the fact that Beatrice has never told him. ‘We only met again this year, after a long time,’ I murmur. I gaze out the window. Sunlight sparkles over silver rooftops. In the distance I can see the blue-uniformed guard at his post behind the Elysée Palace. The world goes on.
‘You know it has to be over now, Paul. I’ll have to leave. The job. You. I can’t do that to Beatrice. Your remarkable wife. My friend.’ A strangled laugh comes to my throat.
‘No.’ He grips my wrist, forces me to look at him. He looks weary, bruised. He looks the way I feel. ‘No, there’s no need. And it’s not the moment for decisions. And it’s my birthday.’ He tries a smile which goes wrong at the edges.
‘I know. I’m coming to your party, tomorrow night.’
‘No, I’ll tell her. I’ll ring her as soon as I get home.’
‘Which will be just after dinner tonight.’
He holds up his hand as I start to protest. ‘No, please Maria. First for Marie-Françoise’s sake. She’s been a little unhappy of late, I don’t know quite why, and this is the first time in a long time I’ve seen her bubble. Then for my sake - because I can’t bear the thought of you going off and feeling miserable and hating me. Then for Nicolas’ sake, because he doesn’t like having to talk to me too much and having a beautiful woman there might make him cheerful. Finally…’
‘Aren’t you ready yet, Papa?’ Marie Françoise bursts in the door. ‘It’s much more than five minutes. Much.’
‘Yes, my little Miss, we’re ready.’
‘Oh good,’ she claps her hands. ‘And Maria is coming too.’
I go with them. I don’t know how not to. Marie-Françoise has her hand firmly in mine and she is telling me with great enthusiasm and in systematic order the chocolates she likes best. First the ones I gave her, then white chocolate with those little nuts all crunchy in the middle. Then praline. The list takes us almost to the Palais Royal. Paul and Nicolas walk ahead of us, the boy ambling self-consciously, surreptitiously seeking his image in shop windows, edging uncomfortably away when his father places a hand on his shoulder.
‘And you can have all of your chocolates at once now that Lent is over.’
Marie Françoise screws up her little serious face. ‘Oh no. Maman won’t let me. She says I’m too greedy. And I don’t like keeping Lent but she says I have to, because I’m so greedy.’
‘I see. Well your teeth will be the happier for it.’
‘I could get false ones. Like grandmaman. Once I saw them in a glass by her bed.’
We have reached the entrance of the Palais Royal with its striped columns of varying sizes set out above and below ground for some mad Alice in Wonderland game and suddenly Marie Françoise releases my hand, races away.
A Good Woman Page 27
