Paul laughs. ‘Our lady of ice-cream,’ he says to me, calls the waiter over. Before the little girl has made up her mind about flavours, a woman comes rushing down the lane. ‘Véronique,’ she calls, ‘where have you got to?’
‘Ronique,’ the little girl repeats happily.
The woman looks at her severely, apologizes to us, explains that she was talking to a friend for a moment and the child ran off. She moves to take her away, but Véronique starts to howl again. Only the arrival of the ice cream cone pacifies her. Then she waves to us merrily and goes off with her minder.
‘Maybe if I took up howling with that kind of persistence, I’d get somewhere,’ Paul chuckles.
‘Only with your mother.’ The child has lightened our mood.
‘Certainly not with my mother. I was thinking of you.’
I let it pass. ‘I liked your mother.’
‘She liked you. She spent one whole dinner reminiscing avidly about your father. Have you found out any more, by the way?’
‘I thought you told me not to talk about any of that in front of Beatrice.’
His face changes. He looks away. ‘Beatrice wasn’t there,’ he murmurs. He swallows his coffee in a gulp. ‘Maria, I know I said that night, it wasn’t possible. Between us. But I want it to be. I don’t know how, but I want it to be. And I don’t want you to disappear.’
I cannot bear the nakedness of his expression. I conjure up an image of Beatrice. ‘Is that the howl?’ I say with all the lightness I can muster.
‘Part of it,’ he scowls. ‘Do you want the rest?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Do you care for me at all, Maria?’ his tone is flat, the tone I can imagine him using with a client, lethally matter-of-fact. I don’t like the tone. I am about to be flippant and then I remember what it’s been like these last weeks when the busy-ness I’ve constructed for myself is over and I’m alone. I try to match my tone to his, ‘You should know the answer to that.’ I let myself meet his eyes and think that I shouldn’t have. They obliterate Beatrice’s image and a little demon in me begins to ask why it is that I care about Beatrice so much anyway. But Paul brings her back.
‘Beatrice and I don’t sleep together.’ The words half swallowed beneath his breath. He looks away.’Not that I suppose that will change anything.’
I don’t know that I believe him. I think of that scene I accidentally witnessed in the attic room and I don’t believe him. Men are always saying things like that to their ‘other woman’, as if one was supposed to feel sorry for them, instantly and gracefully assuage their desires. It isn’t worthy of Paul. ‘You and I don’t sleep together either,’ I grumble, laugh, add, ‘Poor Beatrice. I wish you hadn’t told me. You must have betrayed her a thousand times. A whole brigade of women haunting the wings.’
‘An army. Don’t undervalue me.’ His irony bristles. He puts a pile of change down on the table, gets up and as he does so I remember the time those words passed between us before, the other way round, and I ran in anger, and I know he is going to do the same now.
‘It’s no good today,’ he looks at me briefly. ‘Enjoy your weekend with Grant. I’ll see you at the office. Monday at three, isn’t it.’ He turns away without waiting for an answer.
I watch him, the quick stride down the path amidst the ranked trees. I watch him turn the corner, disappear. Something goes wrong in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s desolation. I run then, run after him, but when I turn the corner, he is nowhere to be seen. The park is crowded now with lunchtime strollers and I can’t see him. Tears clutch stupidly at my eyes. I slow my pace. It’s no good today and it will never be any good today between us. And it’s no good today because there are no tomorrows. No real tomorrows. Only stolen time, lost weekends. I never used to think about tomorrows before. Sandro’s legacy. And it’s no good today with Paul because Beatrice hovers over us and all the tomorrows. Beatrice whom he says he doesn’t sleep with.
And what if he wasn’t juggling with the truth, but sharing it, conveying an intimacy, while I responded with breathtaking callousness. I could ask Beatrice. She would tell me. The thought buzzes through my mind and stings me with self-loathing. For all my stupid efforts, I am clearly beyond redemption. My only forte is self-pity. The easy seductions of despair, Grant said. Yes. I shake myself.
I have been walking in such a daze that I only gradually realise that I am crossing the Pont de la Concorde. So my feet have decided that I will not follow Paul to the office and try to make amends. They are probably right. I stop to look down river and follow the graceful curve of the Seine as it winds round the Ile de la Cité. I can see the dome of the Palais de la Justice from here, the twin towers of Notre Dame. I wait for the familiar buzz of pleasure the sight usually gives me, but it doesn’t come. Not today. It’s no good today.
It is as I turn away that I see him. I don’t know how long he has been standing there, but he is standing there now, leaning against the balustrade and gazing down river as I was a second before, utterly wrapped in his thoughts. He doesn’t notice me as I come up to him, doesn’t see me until I touch his hand.
‘Maria. I’m so glad.’ The melancholy vanishes from his features. He covers my hand gently with his. ‘I was making a wish and suddenly you’re here.’ He looks at me whimsically. ‘Shall we have lunch together, after all.’
I nod.
‘Breaking your prior arrangements?’
‘Just prior excuses.’
He squeezes my hand then lets it go. ‘Left bank or right.’
‘Left.’
We walk side by side. He doesn’t touch me now and we don’t speak until we have crossed the river and reached the Boulevard. Then he says, ‘I lost the case you know. It hasn’t helped my mood. The trouble is I don’t know whether it would have been lost anyway or I simply wasn’t paying enough attention. So I’m sorry if I growled before.’
‘For what it’s worth, Tanya told me it was a lost case days ago.’
He laughs abruptly. ‘Nice to know the office is gossiping about me. Did she also tell you that I growled at her too?’
‘I’m afraid she did.’
I can feel him casting a long look at me. I step onto the pedestrian crossing, heedless of the oncoming traffic. He pulls me back brusquely, his hand hard on my shoulder. ‘This isn’t London, you know.’
I laugh and I don’t know whether it is the mention of London or the brushing against him which makes me decide but I say it quickly, before I can change my mind.
‘Look, I know this little place on the Rue d’Oudinot. It’s very quiet and we can talk in peace. The only trouble is we have to bring our own food.’
I don’t think he understands me straight away and when he does, he gazes intently me for a moment. Then things happen very quickly. There is a stop at a traiteur in some little street, a short ride in a taxi during which all I am aware of is the closeness of our bodies and his hand on my knee and the growing wetness of my knickers. And then I am standing in front of the picture of the sandalled feet of my wandering woman and I tell her mine have brought me back to her willy nilly and that I don’t want to think about tomorrows. I don’t like the me who thinks of tomorrows any more than the one who doesn’t and once more won’t make any difference anyway and it will make him happy and he more than deserves any little happiness I can give him. And then I stop making excuses to her, for he is standing behind me and his arms are around me and I turn in them and say, ‘Once more,’ but he stops my words with his lips and I’m glad. I’m tired of the thoughts going round and round in my mind, like moths trapped in a small dark room where the light is just on the other side of the glass. I lose myself in the light.
So much time has passed, I had forgotten the sheer fit of us, the marvel of his skin, rough then smooth against my fingers, my bosom, the clasped limbs, the pulse and heave of him inside me, the sound of his breath in my ear. At some point, I think it is when I am on top of him because his eyes are very blue beneath me, I whisper
, ‘Remember, whatever happens tomorrow, today I love you.’ Or maybe I just imagine that I say it and that he says it back to me, but it feels very loud.
Later, we are silly, like children, and he feeds me ice cream straight from the container and calls me, Notre Dame des Glaces, and we find some music on the radio, water music I think it must be, for I feel myself melting into him as we make love slowly, softly, as if all the time in the world were ours.
Later still, or perhaps it is at last, we are dressed again and I am running late for my meeting with Grant and his clients and he for his homecoming and we are both sad. We sit round the low table where we once read a poem together and before that he picked up the pieces of me, and sip coffee and he says, ‘It’s true what I told you before, Maria, whatever you think. About Beatrice and me.’ His eyes are intent and he holds me with them, won’t let me look away. ‘We’re not taking anything from her by being together.’
I laugh too loudly. ‘You can’t know that.’
He shrugs, ‘I’ll try and explain it to you. One day, soon. When we have a lot of time. It will take a lot of time.’
I don’t think I want to know this. That sense of betrayal is beginning to churn again in my stomach.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t tell me. Or perhaps I just shouldn’t see Beatrice anymore.’
‘No.’ It is almost a cry.
I stare at him and he looks away.
‘She would be too unhappy to lose you,’ he murmurs.
‘More unhappy than you?’
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then runs his hand tensely through his hair. ‘Differently unhappy,’ he says at last, then tries a grin which doesn’t quite work. ‘You’ll just have to make do with us both.’
I don’t shake my head then, but I have a feeling at the base of my spine, a little shiver which runs up it, and I know that it isn’t possible.
He insists on seeing me to my door, says he will even see me up if I like, after all, we work together, there is no problem, but I feel like a thief skulking round corners, feel door codes are too good for me. ‘Maria,’ he walks into the building with me, lets the door fall shut behind him. ‘Thank you.’ He holds my hand, won’t let it go. I kiss him quickly on the cheek. He clears his throat. ‘If… tonight… if… please draw your curtains,’ he finishes abruptly.
A sullen ache jolts through me as I realise what he means. ‘Is that really what you think of me,’ I lash out. ‘Really?’
He stares at me intently. ‘It’s not what I think of you Maria. It’s just that I’m sadly aware that I have no rights. Or that my rights end where his nose begins. And yours …Which of course, is the usual case.’
‘And you think we’re talking about rights here. You think if you had those nominal rights, a bit of a marriage contract, a piece of scribbled paper it would make any difference?’ I am so angry my voice has risen abruptly.
He looks sheepish. ‘No, of course not. Don’t take it like that. Please. It’s just that I could be with you then. I want to be with you.’
I gaze at him unconvinced. He takes my hand and holds it again, ‘Don’t you understand, Maria? I’m just translating feelings into lawyer’s language. They don’t live together very happily. Bad co-habitation.’ His eyebrows arch in self-irony. ‘I’m just telling you I’m jealous. That’s all. It’s not an emotion I’m comfortable with.’ He performs an exaggerated squirm, mocks himself.
I like the irony, the fact that he can joke about jealousy. So different from Sandro. I laugh. ‘So next time you have to defend a crime passionel, you can do it with a little more conviction. You’ll have lived the motive.’
He laughs too. ‘As long as I’m doing the defending and not being the accused.’
We hug each other lightly and he is gone.
It is then that I go to open my letter box and find the note bearing the stamp of the Vietnamese Embassy.
-30-
I am sitting in a red plush booth in a Vietnamese restaurant near the Avenue de Maine. Paper lanterns swing from the ceiling. The mirrors are old. They put waves in one’s face. The waitress walks and talks so softly that there is a hush in the air. Not that she talks to me. She smiles a timid smile but she talks to the man I face, who orders dinner for us. He is tall for a Vietnamese and he wears a cotton suit in worker’s blue. That’s how he described himself on the phone when we agreed to meet. I told him I was quite tall too and had a lot of auburn hair and would wear white. He laughed. ‘You can always ask for me by name,’ he said. ‘Pham Ngog Thuan.’ I repeated it lamely and thought his French was far better than my ability to pronounce a name.
I repeat it again now and ask in momentary confusion whether I should call him Monsieur Pham or Monsieur Thuan.
He smiles. It is a nice smile, a little sad perhaps because it never reaches his eyes which are soft and black. There is a catlike quality about him, a nimble grace, and his hands move quickly, are small, dainty, for his shoulders.
‘Why not call me by my French name,’ he says. ‘Pierre.’
‘I can manage that. And you must call me Maria.’
‘Maria. Maria Regnier. Dr. Guy Regnier’s daughter,’ he muses. ‘He had a photograph of you in his office. But you were only knee high. I couldn’t have recognized you.’
I laugh, but the notion of me at whatever height in my father’s sight makes me feel odd. I existed for him. Warmth floods my cheeks. ‘You worked with him?’
Pierre shakes his head. ‘I didn’t have that privilege.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘You probably know many of the things I can tell you.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ I think it comes out as a wail and I try to retrieve myself. ‘My mother didn’t talk much about him. Not that she ever really gave him up,’ I rush to defend my mother, ‘but she didn’t talk. Probably didn’t think it was good for me. So what I know wouldn’t even fill the tiniest obituary. And what I’d like to know is everything, anything. Did he smile a lot, did he have a bad temper, what flowers did he like, did he find another woman after my mother?’ My voice rises. ‘I just want to have some sense of him as a man.’
Pierre sits through this barrage without stirring. He is looking at me, seriously I think, though I can’t tell since his face doesn’t move. Meanwhile, a mass of small plates, filled with dumplings and spring rolls and tiny shrimp, have arrived on the table and he courteously urges me to eat, heaps my plate, begins to chew slowly.
After a moment, he says, ‘Perhaps the easiest thing is for me to tell you a story.’
‘Please. Any story.’
He nods. ‘Guy Regnier worked in the Hôpital Grall, the big French Hospital in Saigon. It’s still there, has probably always been there.’ He laughs. ‘He worked mostly in surgery. He was an expert in burns, skin grafting. The hospital catered largely to the French, but also, particularly after ‘54, to the richer Vietnamese - not to the Americans, they had their own.’ He pauses, looks at me quizzically. ‘Do you know anything about the recent history of Vietnam?’
‘A little. Very little.’ Like a dutiful student, I give him a check list of what I have garnered from my reading.
‘That’ll do.’ He smiles that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘So you know that the war with the Americans really took place in the countryside, not in Saigon, though the city was bloody enough in its own way. Guy Regnier wasn’t a particularly political man, a humanist perhaps. But he did know that the Saigon government was brutal and corrupt and his sympathies during the American war were with the Viet Cong. Because he had a deep loyalty to the Vietnamese people among whom he’d grown up.’
He stops as if I were about to question him or argue the point. I don’t. ‘Go on,’ I urge.
‘Well, one day, it must have been in 1967, one of his rich Vietnamese patients, a regular, took him aside and asked him whether he might consider making a little overnight journey into the countryside with his black bag and all the burning tricks of his trade in tow. It wasn’t that far,
but it wasn’t that safe either. In fact, it was downright dangerous and he would have to be blindfolded as well, for his own safety. The Vietcong didn’t trust Europeans much and just in case anything went wrong and on his return he was asked questions, he could legitimately say he had seen nothing. The rich man would accompany him part of the way.
‘So Guy Regnier went off into the night with his black bag and blindfold and ended up in a little village where a number of young men, boys really, but high enough ranking guerillas or he wouldn’t have been sent for, were suffering from severe burns, and worse. And he helped them. Saved a few of them. And others. Later. He went back when he was called to other sites. Went and tried to shrink his height and cropped his hair short so that he wasn’t so visibly who he was.’
I move the food round my plate and smell seared flesh and sit very still. ‘Thank you for telling me the story,’ I say as the silence between us seems to grow as fat as the lump in my throat.
He nods. ‘I was one of those boys. In the first village. So I have a particular debt to Guy Regnier.’
I stare at him. I want to touch him, sniff him, see if I can find the scent of my father on him. ‘You look well,’ I say inanely.
He laughs. ‘It was a long time ago. Though I don’t think you’d like the sight of some parts of me even now.’ He winks, I am sure he winks, though his face is serious again so quickly that perhaps I imagine it as I try to imagine those scars. I want to touch them too.
‘And you knew him before you went into the countryside,’ I say. ‘Because you saw my picture in his office.’
He nods. ‘Now tell me about you, and about Françoise Regnier. One story deserves another.’
‘Nothing so dramatic,’ I mumble and I tell him quickly about my mother. Perhaps I emphasize what I call her good works too much, or the number of Vietnam committees she sat on, for he looks at me strangely.
A Good Woman Page 32
