We found him later, stained with blood and sitting alone by the sea, where he remained for two weeks until our ship arrived. He refused to return to what remained of the town and would not even speak with Canlia who still carried his third child. There were just enough men available to load the ingots aboard. The marauders, who had come from the sea, had not touched any of the tin. It was as if they cared little for it or knew not what to do with it and had landed only to wreak pain and death.
I offered to take the townsmen with us, but they refused. Canlia, at my insistence, did come aboard with us, and one summer’s morning after what had been two years of bliss concluded by the death of a beloved comrade and a sudden intrusion of Armageddon, we raised anchor and began the journey home.
Chapter 30
After some initial moments of crying and hugs at the airport in Barcelona, a bad mood began to take hold of Carmensina. This ill humour, and the bottle of wine she consumed at lunch egging it on, was primarily, albeit unconsciously, a camouflage for her excitement at being so suddenly close to attaining a genuine aristocratic title. It expressed itself as irritation, at the disruption Camilla’s death was causing – so much to organize, the sudden journey, having to remove the children from their normal routines. James, in the grip of strong emotions, was insisting they stay at Camilla’s house in Mallorca, even though the five-star hotel close by was one where they were known and welcomed. To comply with his wishes, Carmensina would have to get food and supplies, to deal with maids and a gardener, do the cooking, deal with the house’s antiquated heating system, its mismatching sheets and towels, all of this in addition to the funeral arrangements.
During the flight to Palma she kept at him on all these points. By the time he wrangled them into a red rental car he hated, his level of buried fury was threatening to explode. To be bothering him with these kinds of complaints, given the reason for the journey, seemed unforgiveable. It also granted him permission to absolve himself from the fast disappearing guilt he’d been feeling for having slept with Laura. ‘How is it possible to be so insensitive?’ was the mantra he repeated to himself over and over. But with the girls and Noelma present he didn’t say anything aloud.
When they reached Deià he left them at the house, promised to do the shopping himself, collected Camilla’s suitcase at the hotel, and drove alone to the town of Soller where, at his request, her body had been taken. The erstwhile beautiful village, overrun for twenty years by droves of tourists fleeing northern Europe, had at least some resemblance to its former self that day. He parked in front of the Gran Hotel and, filled with mounting dread, walked to the funeral parlour on the Plaza de la Constitución.
He found his mother covered with a sheet on a metal gurney in a neon-lit room. The police and local medical authorities had already finished their paperwork and he was brought there by a young woman in a white lab coat. She folded the sheet down exposing Camilla’s head and shoulders. Apart from a large hematoma colouring the left side of her face she looked peaceful. After he confirmed her identity he was left alone. He stood there, paralyzed by the absurdity of it, by the insane-making reality of it. As he leaned over and kissed her cold forehead the sound of little children playing outside reached his ears and it made him cry. He remained there for half an hour until the young woman returned to see if he was all right. He gave her a dress Camilla had packed in the suitcase, picked a casket, paid the bill, made final arrangements for the following day, and walked away. Coming back out into the light of day he observed the village absolutely oblivious to his tragedy. Shopping at a supermarket at that point was beyond him, and he drove instead to a cove below Llucalcari where, as a boy, Camilla had sometimes taken him to swim.
Access to the cove was difficult and he was glad to find only one other car parked by the stand of pines up top where the dirt road ended and a largely eroded path down to the beach commenced. He turned off the engine, got out, and listened to the breeze whispering through the boughs. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was difficult to imagine, but he did so nevertheless, trying to push away the image of his mother’s corpse, that he had been in bed with Laura in New York the day before.
He made his way down to the aqua-green sea that was visible through the branches. Though late in the day, the temperature was unseasonably mild. He pulled off his Shetland sweater and tied it about his waist, becoming aware once more of the new girth and softness awarded him for many dinners out, too little exercise, and a sedentary professional life. The path was steep and arbitrary in places, and he had to hold onto tree trunks sometimes to keep from sliding. Pinesap stuck to his fingers. Thirty years earlier, lean and sure-footed, he had raced down through this grove nimble as a goat, Camilla taking her stately time behind him carrying too much paraphernalia. He would swim there all day and she would feed him and make him nap under an umbrella and only join him in the water when they first arrived and just before they returned home. He remembered how slowly she got into the sea and always with a bathing cap, immersing herself by degrees, gingerly splashing herself until she would finally launch herself forward with a grand swoosh. But once in she stayed in for a long while, often swimming a steady, graceful crawl far out until, frightened, he would call her back. Now she was dead in that ghastly room.
Just before he emerged from the trees onto the beach he saw and then heard a couple having sex. It was impossible not to stare even as it annoyed him. He had hoped for a less adventuresome pair of occupants belonging to the other car. He wanted to sit on the sand undisturbed, to gather his thoughts and feelings and perhaps go for an autumnal dip. It was a young boy and girl splayed upon a large faded towel. They seemed to be in too much of a hurry he thought, as if they had come there to perform the act for its sheer theatricality rather than responding to an urge nudged awake by an afternoon of naked sunbathing. Such was youth he thought, youth looked upon from the perspective of his softening middle.
When they finished, the girl got up quickly, laughing and exhilarated, running to the water, diving in and swimming out. The skinny boy leaned up on his elbows and watched her for a while before joining her. James remained hidden at the edge of the wood and only stepped onto the beach once they were out of the water and collapsed back onto their towel. He nodded at them briefly and then found a spot by the water’s edge as far away from them as possible. The girl said something to her mate and giggled. James sat on his sweater looking out to sea, ignoring them and rejecting two calls from Carmensina. He sent a text to Laura:
Am alone on a familiar beach, missing you. What a horrible day in such a beautiful place.
Twenty minutes later the young couple stood and dressed, gathered their things and left. Though he had not found their encounter erotic, it did fill him with envy. As an enormous weight of loss crushed down on him, he vowed to change his life while there was still time. He thanked his mother for her departing gift, her insisting that he go and find Laura at The Wounded Hart the other night, something that felt like it had happened months ago. As he rose and stripped down to swim, he swore upon Camilla’s departed soul that he would not go on like this.
As soon as she saw him return to the house empty-handed Carmensina resumed her recriminations. ‘Where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you answer the phone? What are we supposed to eat? What about the girls? The swimming pool is empty. They took one look at it and burst into tears.’
‘Show me,’ he said.
‘What? You think I am lying?’
‘Show me.’
He put up with it as they walked down through the garden because he wanted to move her out of earshot from Noelma and his daughters.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the navy canvas tarpaulin covering the empty pool. There was a puddle of rainwater suspended in the middle of it where dead leaves had gathered.
‘You look,’ he said, turning to her, furious. ‘This has got to stop. Right now. What is wrong with you? My mother is dead, and we have come here to bury her. This is a terribl
e thing for me.’
‘It is a terrible thing for me too,’ she said, refusing to cede protagonism.
‘Then stop your whining. Stop your drinking. Stop your complaining. Just stop. Show some compassion for God’s sake. I can’t stand to hear your voice anymore.’
‘You wanted to stay here,’ she said, ignoring the insults, holding on like a terrier. ‘If we stay here, we need food and drink. Is that being so demanding? We’ve only one car. You volunteered to do the shopping and I thought I was doing you a favour by sending you on your way.’
‘What I shopped for was my mother’s coffin.’
‘I’m sorry James, I truly am. But—’
‘I don’t want to hear anymore ‘buts’ from you. I don’t want to hear you anymore.’
‘What are you saying? What do you mean by that?’
Tears came into her eyes. He looked at her and then looked at the puddle in the tarpaulin and damned everything to hell. He felt terrible, for her and for everyone.
‘We’ll go stay at the hotel,’ he said, deciding in an instant. ‘Come. Get Noelma and the girls.’
‘You don’t want to hear my voice? I’m your wife. I am the mother of your children.’
They took a suite at La Residencia, plus an additional room with three beds, and had a family dinner in their room, and when they finished eating the girls zoned out on a sofa watching cartoons on a massive flat-screen television. The marital spat devolved into a soul crushing, simmering silence they both knew by heart. Finally, James stood and wheeled the room service table into the hallway outside their door and announced he was going for a walk. Neither of them was looking forward to the moment they would get into bed together.
He strolled down to the large hotel pool, illuminated and solitary in the damp night. A layer of mist hovered over the surface of the heated water. He had to admit that moving to the hotel had been smart, and the proper thing to do. He would throw her that bone later in the hope it might be enough to allow them both to sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, the day of Camilla’s funeral, something – his visit to the funeral home notwithstanding – that still felt absolutely and brutally surreal. He dialled Laura.
Chapter 31
She was in London by then dining with Fiona at La Famiglia in Chelsea.
‘Mummy’s in shock,’ Fiona said, digging into a risotto with asparagus.
‘Me too.’
‘She said Camilla had always been a disaster behind the wheel.’
‘I don’t know what to do, say, or think.’
‘Oh God, that’s right. What about the job?’
‘I wasn’t referring to that, but there’s that too.’
‘Have you spoken to James about it?’
‘It’s not the right moment. Best to let some time go by.’
‘He must be devastated. He really relied on her.’
Laura had not said anything to her friend about meeting James in New York. Part of her wanted to, just to have someone to talk to about it, but she had decided to hold back for a while. Fiona, in the midst of her own adulterous affair would have too many opinions and she felt her own news would lose its patina somehow, even in her own eyes perhaps, getting pulled as it inevitably would, into Fiona’s relationship vortex. Worse still, she had got into bed almost immediately with James, something Fiona had failed to do after trying all manner of tactics. Even though that was a story from years ago, her intuition counselled silence for a while. But she did tell her about Nathan and the Veselka waitress.
‘You’ve certainly had a freaky time of it,’ Fiona said.
‘I keep thinking that if I had just stayed in Cornwall none of this would have happened. Camilla would still be alive, and Nathan would be happily screwing his teenager …’
‘In your bed, the sod. Don’t go down that road.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Fate is fate Laura. Shit just happens. You know that. Just one thing after another.’
‘I know. But even so.’
‘Even so my ass.’
This made Laura laugh.
‘How are things with Giles?’ Laura asked, looking to change the subject. ‘Good I hope – I couldn’t take any more bad news.’
‘I’m meeting him in Amsterdam next week, for two nights. I’m so looking forward to it.’
‘And the wife still suspects nothing.’
‘Who knows?’ Fiona said. ‘The key is that she doesn’t ask him any questions, no email or text message snooping. She deserves an Oscar.’
‘Or another husband.’
‘I’ve brought this up with Giles and he doesn’t think so. He says he can’t imagine her going out with anyone, doing all one has to, to make that sort of thing happen. That she’s complacent by nature. And you know. He’s there most of the time. They go to the school plays, they take their summer holiday together – most of it anyhow.’
‘How about sex?’
‘That too, every other Christmas.’
They both laughed at this. Then Laura thought about James and it brought her up short. Fiona noticed.
They walked past the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and crossed the Fulham Road and made their way to Fiona’s house on Redcliffe Road. It was three storeys tall and very grand for one person and Fiona had friends staying with her often. Laura was exhausted from the flight and everything else and wanted to go upstairs to take a bath and write to James before going to sleep. But Fiona was still wired and insisted they have some green tea in the kitchen. Another hour passed before Laura got into the tub in the bathroom adjacent to her room. It had a pergola over it laced with green ivy and it was there the call from James reached her.
‘We’re all here – and fighting as usual,’ he said.
‘How awful.’
‘I miss you.’
‘I miss you too. Where are you?’
‘Out by the hotel swimming pool.’
‘I feel like I should come. I feel bad not being there.’
‘It would just be too confusing.’
‘I know. But I will go, afterwards, sometime soon I hope. I’ve promised myself that.’
‘She would have liked to know that. Maybe I can come with you.’
‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘I’m in an altered state. My mother and best friend is dead. But thanks to you I’ve never felt more alive. But then I think of Carmensina and the girls and I feel terrible.’
‘I know.’
For both of them the evening’s end was an occasion for further mourning. Lying in bed in the dark at Fiona’s house, exhausted from travel and emotional upheaval, Laura’s tears turned into tears for the loss of Nathan as well, and for the hurt his anger had inflicted on her. Try as she might to hold on to all of the bad things, things that had been so easy to access the past few weeks, she lost her footing and was swept into a flood of tender memories. They had first made love in that very same bed at Fiona’s four years earlier. She had thought him an exciting catch then and he had played his role – the charming intellectual satyr – to perfection. She remembered their trips, to Paris and to Berlin, to St Petersburg and to Washington, when things were still good between them. New York and NYU had done them in. Both of them had been burned by the city’s voracious appetite for celebrity, and the university’s rampant competitiveness. It had gone to his head and pummelled hers. But was he so self-involved and so narcissistic that he was unable to offer her the slightest indication of common courtesy? Perhaps she had been too harsh with him these last few days, but wasn’t it up to him to respond with something other than texted vitriol? What was it in these angry men that caused them to close up like molluscs? James at least spoke. He recognized demons. He was not afraid to admit to being afraid.
When James returned to the hotel room a thousand miles south of London, Carmensina was in bed looking at a photo album she had taken from Camilla’s house. Going through it together, delving into the past, fostered a kind of truce between them. They looked at pictures from w
hen Camilla had been young, lithe, smooth, tanned and coquettish, when James’s father had been thin and tanned, in espadrilles and always with a cigarette in hand, and often holding little Inmaculada aloft on his shoulders. The cocktail parties, the birthday parties, the costume balls, the beach picnics, the tennis games, and always with the Mediterranean present and the same plants and shrubs, the same bougainvillea and palm trees he and Carmensina had argued by that afternoon near the covered swimming pool.
There were pictures of himself as a boy, wrapped in a big towel after too much swimming, as an adolescent with bad skin and ridiculous hair, with an adored teenage girlfriend he had lost track of completely. And then it was him and Carmensina at the beginning – in one she looked alluring in a bikini, in another one the two of them were in formal summer dress posing at an Andratx regatta dinner next to one of the Spanish Infantas and Queen Sofia. Then there was a picture of Carmensina pregnant with Anna, tanned in a T-shirt and panties playing solitaire, radiating sensuality and satisfaction.
‘We were happy back then, weren’t we?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We were.’
As Camilla’s funeral mass came to an end the following day, Laura reached the estate in Cornwall. She had taken a taxi from the Truro train station. Finn came to the door wearing a black armband about the sleeve of his jacket. With a grave and embarrassed face, he told her she would have to leave.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do we, Miss. But Mrs Figueras was very adamant about it.’
‘What did she say exactly?’
‘She called this morning and said that your position with Mrs Trevelyan ended with Mrs Trevelyan’ demise, and that you were not to stay here any longer.’
‘I have things of mine here.’
‘I know, Miss. Please, come in and we can help you with that.’
She was furious.
‘I can’t believe this.’
‘I’m so sorry miss. We’re not even sure how much longer our services will be required.’
The Secret of Provence House Page 15
