Not on your life!
Antonia’s glance flickered around the domed room in the illogical hope of finding a hidden inside exit. She saw nothing but a window with opalescent glass in it; she could see shadows moving past it on the other side. And no one passed the next window. That made things pretty clear. And just exactly what was it, this audacity of an exit? An unprotected exterior staircase, perhaps? A man who’d been blocking about a third of the opalescent window for some time now also seemed to regard the descent as a challenge. Or maybe he was waiting for someone? He wiped his face and lifted a hat or cap that Antonia couldn’t see clearly through the window until he turned and stood in silhouette. It was a beret — just like the one a few minutes ago, worn by that man who looked like Peter... Was that this man? Was it Peter after all? Was he waiting for her? Without thinking, Antonia took one step toward the platform. The act pulled her out of her visions. Yes, that’s what they were, visions, because just at that moment, the man on the other side of the window turned toward the exit and his silhouette disappeared. Antonia forced herself to breathe out. This beret wearer was just a Fata Morgana, a déja-vu. His old-fashioned beret, unusual for a man these days, had confused her so much that she’d lost her grip on the facts. Because she’d seen Peter’s body. Yes. So that man out there could not be her one true love.
Not on your life.
The security guard was mistress of the spiral staircase, a Cerberus between Antonia and the road back to life. Her eyes caught and held Antonia’s restless glance. Antonia smiled conspiratorially and, as unconcernedly as she possibly could, whispered, “Exit,” and pointed toward the platform. The guard nodded severely. Antonia nodded. Slowly and more often than was necessary. Don’t lose your poise now. Cerberus began to swell. She seemed to crowd Antonia, to push her away from the stairs that would rescue her by taking her down, but were only meant for coming up.
So Antonia got up from the cold stone ledge she’d been sitting on and took a small step outside. Two teenagers stormed past her, taking her with them a few inches. Her heart stopped, and then began to race. There! Wasn’t that bit of stone giving way under her feet? The floor tilted forward, she could feel it; it tipped toward the edge with an almost lustful speed! Why didn’t anyone else notice? But the railing stayed where it was — how could that be? — and came closer and closer. Antonia gripped it and pushed back. But the magnet on the other side of the railing was much stronger, and it sucked at her head. The square in front of the cathedral tilted and began to pump like a huge heart. At the same time, its surface became soft, tempting her to jump. It looked like one of those rescue air-cushions used by the fire department. How long would a free fall last? Ten seconds? Twenty? Or just five? Suddenly the picture shook and someone behind her bellowed, “Sorry!” at her neck. Antonia turned around reflexively — the instinctive British “Sorry!” had become such a habit over the last two weeks. The stone wall was solid and the siren call of the railing behind her grew weaker. She grabbed the man, and, using him as a pivot, took one giant leap back into the darkness of the dome.
Not on your life!
Why did her sister have to be sick today of all days? Hypochondriac! Lying around in their hotel room. A sniffle was really no reason to miss all the exciting new things on this trip. And Valentina would have seen that man for what he was — a figment of Antonia’s imagination, not in the least like the original. They would have listened in peace to the choir rehearsal, and right now they would probably be sitting somewhere, enjoying a hamburger with those wonderful homemade French fries. Instead, Antonia crouched in a trap set for her at dizzying heights.
But why? Why?
Cerberus looked at Antonia like a predator studies its prey, and then motioned outside. Twilight was dissolving the skyline; the black of the railing softened and blended into the dusky air. Antonia looked at her watch. The cathedral would close in twenty minutes. Shouldn’t her life, threatened by such a steep fall, be passing before her eyes? Or would this much-vaunted phenomenon only occur during the final five seconds, when she was eye to eye, so to speak, with the asphalt rushing up to meet her? And what would her unconscious show her then?
Suddenly, Antonia felt a terrible desire for a cigarette. It was a feeling she thought she’d gotten over three years ago. She began to laugh. If she’d only known then that she’d die in a fall from St. Paul’s Cathedral, she’d have gone on puffing. She’d have dismissed Peter’s health mania with a languid wave of her hand. She’d probably also have gone on smoking if she’d known they only had eighteen more months together. What were a couple of black spots in your lungs compared with a gunshot in the head? None of it had helped, not his obsessive workouts, his abstinence, his vegetarianism, his vitamin candies. Nothing. Coincidence had decided to send him across the path of those hoodlums in the parking garage. And they weren’t the least impressed by his flawless face, they’d just shot it all to a bloody clump of flesh. They’d done the job so well that Peter could only be identified by his just as flawless body and the W-shaped scar above his right hip. In just a second or two, those thugs had rendered everything senseless, all their work and dreams, hers and Peter’s.
But why? Why?
It was all part of a giant clown’s act. Why, after all, had she insisted on this trip to London, a trip that now spelled her own end? What had she hoped to find here in Peter’s hometown? Words of comfort? That was the farthest thing from Scott’s mind; she’d seen that in his dulled eyes once he’d finally realized who she was. A loser in the suburbs, come down in the world and with a bad case of acne he would doubtless carry to his retirement. Presuming anyone ever gave him a pension. It hadn’t been easy to find him. But she’d finally hunted him down in the eighth pub named “Bloody Mary.” It was astonishing how different best friends could be. And it was a little clearer to her now why Peter hadn’t invited Scott to their wedding. He must have been ashamed of him. Which threw a shadow across her hero, admittedly: A truly noble man is not ashamed of his friends. Or maybe it was true, what Peter said, that Scott had a fear of strangers so bad that it would cause his acne to swell and smother him if he ever had to leave England. That he really was the living proof of the saying “My home is my castle.” At any rate, all her efforts had been for nothing. Scott was one of the tight-lipped of this world — and, to conclude from his darting eyes, he had a big problem with women. Which was neither surprising nor particularly noteworthy.
And why hadn’t she listened to Valentina and banished all thought of a visit to Peter’s parents? If she’d gone to Cambridge with Valentina instead, she’d have spared herself one of the most painful experiences of her life. Oh yes, it was really helpful, this if-onlying of hers. Because if she hadn’t been so frustrated by Scott and her own stupid ideas, she wouldn’t have gotten into a drinking match the night before with that pro golfer, and then she wouldn’t have been hung over when she met the Clarks. And if she hadn’t been hung over, she would have been more quick-witted, would have told the two of them exactly where they could stuff their accusations. Because if she had gone to the parking garage with Peter — against his express wishes, let it be noted — then she’d be dead too. Yes indeed. And if she’d never been born, she wouldn’t now be maneuvering herself into a situation with no way out.