“Did you burn yourself?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Someone was coming up the stairs. It was the coachman, bringing them their bags. Watching him with an abstracted smile, Bessian was thinking that those people who were coming and going on the stairs, bringing wood or their luggage, were arranging things so that he might be happy. He could scarcely keep still.
“What if we go downstairs for coffee until our room and the water are warmed up?”
“Coffee? If you like. But maybe it would be better to take a walk. I’m still a little dazed with travelling.”
A moment later they went down the stairs, that creaked under their tread, and Bessian told the innkeeper to take care of the fire because they were going to take a walk.
“Can you tell me if there’s a picturesque spot in the neighborhood, some place really worth seeing?”
“Something worth seeing in the neighborhood?” He shook his head. “No, sir. These parts are pretty much a desert.”
“Really?”
“Yes, except…. Wait a bit. You have a carriage, don’t you? That makes a difference. A half-hour, three quarters of an hour at most if your horses aren’t tired, you can get to Upper White Water to see the Alpine lakes.”
“Upper White Water is only a half-hour ride by carriage?” Bessian asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir. A half-hour, or three-quarters of an hour at most. Foreign visitors who come by this way never miss the opportunity to go there.”
“What do you think,” Bessian said, turning to his wife. “It’s true that we are tired of riding in the coach, but still it’s really worth seeing that village. Particularly for the famous lakes.”
“We learned that in geography class,” she said.
“The air is wonderful up there. And then, all the while our room will be warming up….” He broke off to look meaningfully at her.
“Fine, let’s go,” she said.
The innkeeper went out to call the coachman, who came in a few moments later, looking not too pleased. He had to harness the horses once more, but he was careful not to say anything against it. Climbing into the carriage, Bessian told the innkeeper yet another time to see to the fire. At the last minute, he wondered, just for an instant, if he had not been wrong in leaving behind so easily the room at the inn that he had been at pains to secure, but he was reassured at once by the thought that after a pleasant tour, Diana would be feeling better in every respect.
The afternoon sun shone gently on the moorland. A crimson tint, with no apparent source, put a touch of warmth into the air.
“The days are getting longer,” Bessian said, and he thought, Don’t I find the most interesting things to say! The weather is still fine. The days are getting longer.
These were things that people who have nothing to say to each other cling to in order to fill the emptiness of their conversations. Had they become strangers to each other so that they must have recourse to phrases of that sort? That’s enough, he thought, as if dismissing something regrettable. It’s already done.
A half-hour later, Upper White Water did in fact come in sight. In the distance, the towers looked as if they were covered with moss. In places the snow had not yet melted, the patches of bare earth looked all the darker.
The carriage followed the road towards the lakes, along the edge of the village. As they stepped down, they heard the bells of a church ringing. Diana was the first to stop. She turned in order to find where the sounds were coming from, but she did not see the belfry. All she could see were the patches of black earth alternating bleakly with the sheets of snow. She turned away from them, and leaned on her husband’s arm. They were walking towards one of the lakes.
“How many are there?” Diana asked.
“Six, I think.”
They walked side by side on the thick dark brown carpet formed by successive layers of dead leaves, here and there richly rotten, as if suffering a luxurious disease. Bessian felt that his wife was getting ready to say something to him. She appeared uneasy, but the sound of the leaves underfoot seemed to relieve her in part.
“There’s another lake,” she said suddenly, on seeing the shoreline through the fir trees, and when he turned his head in that direction, she went on: “Bessian, surely you’ll write something better about these mountains.” He turned as if something had stung him in the back. He almost said, “What?”, but at the last instant he stifled that exclamation. It would be better not to hear that suggestion again. He felt that someone had pressed a white-hot horseshoe to his forehead.
“After this trip,” she said gently, “it would be natural if…. something truer….”
“Yes, of course, of course.”
The glowing horseshoe was still pressed against his forehead. Part of the mystery was dispelled. The mystery of her silence. In fact it had never been that. He had been waiting, almost as a certainty, for her to say those words before the first night of their new love, as the price of their understanding, of their pact.
“I understand, Diana,” he said in a voice that was strangely weary. “Of course, it’s hard for me, but I understand—”
She interrupted him. “This is really a wonderful place. How right we were to come here.”
Bessian walked on, his thoughts elsewhere, and so they came to the second lake, and then they began to retrace their steps. On the way he got hold of himself; he was thinking of the room with the fireplace that was waiting for them, all warm, at the inn.
They came to the place where they had left their carriage, but instead of getting in they turned towards the village. The coach followed them.
The first persons they met on the way, two women carrying casks of water on their heads, slowed their steps and looked at them for a moment. In contrast, with the beauty of the countryside, the towers, close up, seemed especially gloomy. The village streets and especially the little square in front of the church were filled with people. Those tight trousers of heavy wool, milk-colored, with its black stripe, oddly like the symbol of an electrical discharge, that ran down their sides, expressed all the agitation that marked their bearing.
“Something must have happened,” Bessian said.
They watched the people for a moment, trying to imagine what might have occurred. But, apparently, what had happened must have been something rather peaceful and solemn.
“Is that tower the one that is the tower of refuge?” Diana asked.
“Probably. It looks like one.”
Diana slowed her step to look at the tower rising somewhat apart from the others.
“If the truce that was granted to that mountaineer we saw — you know, the one we talked about today — if the truce ended in the last few days, he would certainly have taken refuge in a tower of that sort, wouldn’t he?”
“Oh, certainly,” Bessian said, still looking at the crowd.
“And if, at the expiration of the truce, the murderer is on the highway, far from his own village, he could take shelter in any one of those towers of refuge?”
“I think so. It’s the same as with travellers overtaken by night who go into the first inn they find on the road.”
“So that he could very well have sought refuge in this very tower?”
Bessian smiled.
“It’s possible. But I don’t think so. There are many towers, and besides, we met that man a long way from here.”
Diana turned her head once more towards the kulla, and, in the depths of her stare and the corners of her eyes, Bessian thought he detected something like a gentle yearning. But in that instant he saw in the crowd someone who was waving at him. A checkered vest, some familiar faces.
“Take a look at who’s over there,” Bessian said, with a gesture of his head in their direction.
“Well, Ali Binak,” Diana said in a low voice that expressed neither satisfaction nor annoyance.