"So she survived."
"She, and a few of the servants. Including, by the way, the boy who'd swept the ashes from the hearth.
"The one who'd led the riverman to her bed."
There he stopped, much to her astonishment.
"Is that it?" she said.
"That's it," he replied. "What more could there be?"
"I don't know… something more…" She pondered the question. "Some closure…"
Galilee shrugged. "I'm sorry," he said. "If there's more to tell I don't have it."
She felt faintly annoyed; as though he'd led her on, tempting her with clues as to what all this meant, but now that she was at the end-or at least as far as he claimed to be able to take her-it wasn't clear at all.
"It's a simple little story," he said.
"But it hasn't got a proper ending."
"It's as I said before: you could make it up for yourself."
"I said I wanted you to tell me."
"I've told all I know," Galilee replied. He glanced toward the window. "I think it's about time I was going."
"Where?"
"Just back to my boat. It's called The Samarkand. It's anchored offshore."
She didn't ask him why he had to go, in part because of her irritation at the way he'd finished his story, in part because she didn't want him to think her needy. Still she couldn't help asking:
"Will you be coming back?"
"That depends on you," he said. "If you want me to come back, I will."
This was said so simply, so sweetly, that her irritation evaporated.
"Of course I want you to come back," she said.
"Then I will," he replied, and then he was gone. She listened for him moving away through the house, but she heard nothing-not a breath, not a footfall. She slipped out of bed and went to the window. Clouds had come in to cover the moon and stars; there was very little light on the lawn. But her eyes found him nevertheless, moving quickly down toward the beach. She watched him until he disappeared. Then she went back to her bed, and lay awake in the darkness for an hour, listening to the double rhythm of her heart and the waves, wondering idly if she'd lost her mind.
She woke at first light and headed straight down to the beach. She'd hoped to find The Samarkand moored close to the shore-perhaps even see Galilee on deck-but the bay was deserted. She scoured the horizon, looking for a sail, but there was no boat in sight. Where the hell had he gone? Just a few hours before he'd asked if she wanted him to come back, and she'd told him unequivocally that she did. Had that just been a sop to her feelings; a way to extricate himself from her presence without having to say goodbye? If so, then he was a coward.
She turned her back on the water and started up the sand toward the house. A few yards from the path she came upon the remains of the fire Galilee had made the night before: a black circle of burned timber and ash, the latter being slowly spread across the beach by the breeze. She went down on her haunches beside the pit, still quietly cursing the fire-maker for his inconstancy. A bittersweet smell rose up from the embers: the acrid smell of dead fire mingled with a hint of the fragrance she'd carried into the house with her the night before: the aroma which had set her head spinning and put such strange pictures behind her eyes.
Was it possible, she wondered, that her first instincts had been correct and Galilee had been some kind of hallucination, a waking dream induced by an inhalation of smoke?
She got to her feet, and looked out toward the empty bay. Her memory of his presence was perfect: the way he'd appeared, the sound of his voice, the intricacies of the story he'd told her: Jerusha at the water, the river god in all his glory, the beetle carrying contagion. If there was any certain proof that he'd been there in the flesh, it was the story. She hadn't invented it, she hadn't told it to herself; somebody had been there to put those images and ideas in her head.
Galilee was no figment of her imagination. He was just another unreliable male.
She brewed herself a very strong pot of coffee, which she drank sickly-sweet, showered, ate a miserable breakfast, made some more coffee, and then called Margie.
"Is this a good time to talk?" she asked.
"I've got about ten minutes," Margie said. "Then I'm out of the house. I've got to be on time today."
Rachel was surprised at this; punctuality wasn't Margie's strong suit. "What's the occasion?"
"You mean: who's the occasion?" Margie said.
"Oh… the Fuck Fuck Man."
"Danny," Margie reminded her. "He's really good for me, honey. I mean really good. He told me last week he wouldn't make love with me if I was drunk, so the last couple of nights I didn't drink. We fucked instead. Oh Lord, we fucked! Then I didn't want to drink. I just wanted to go to sleep in his arms. Oh God, listen to me."
"It sounds wonderful, Margie."
"It is. So wonderful it's scary. Anyway… I've got to dash off, so just give me the highlights. How is it all?"
"It's as you said: it's magical." She wanted to start talking to Margie about her visitor, but with so little time to do it in, she was afraid she'd end up trivializing the event, so she said nothing. Instead she said: "When were you last here?"
"Oh… sixteen or seventeen years ago. I was very happy there for a little while. I was very consoled." The strangeness of the word was not lost on Rachel. "It was one of those times when I saw my life clearly for once. Do you know what I mean?"
"Not really…"
"Well that's what happened to me. I saw my life. And instead of doing something about what I saw, I just took the path of less resistance. Oh Lord, honey, I really have to go. I don't want to leave my lover-boy waiting."
"I understand."
"Let's talk again tomorrow."
"Before you go-"
"Yes?"
"-did anything really strange happen to you while you were here?"
There was a long silence.
At last Margie said: "When I've got more time we have to talk, honey. Yes, of course strange stuff happened."
"And what did you do?"
"I told you. I took the path of least resistance. And I've always regretted it. Believe me, there'll never be another time in your life like this, hon. It comes round once, and if you're ready, then you don't look back, you don't worry about what other people are going to think, you don't even wonder what the consequences are going to be. You just go." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "We'll all be jealous as hell, of course. We'll all curse you for doing what we didn't do, maybe what we couldn't do. But deep down we'll be happy for you."
"Who's we?" Rachel said.
"The Geary women, honey," Margie replied. "All of us sad, sorry and utterly fucked-up Geary women."
After lunch, Rachel went walking, not along the beach this time, but inland. There'd been a light breeze in the morning, but it had dropped away completely at noon, and the air now felt hot and stale. The atmosphere suited Rachel's mood. She felt stagnated; unable to move very far from the house in case she missed Galilee's return, and unable to think of very much other than him; him or his story.
There were some sizable bugs out today. Whenever one of them rose up from the shrubbery she thought of the beetle on Jerusha's thigh; and of how Galilee had imitated its bite. That had been his only touch, hadn't it? A cruel nip at her skin. So much for tenderness. But then as he'd retreated from her she'd caught hold of his hand, and felt the hard skin of his wide fingers, and the heat of his flesh.
She would have that again, and next time they wouldn't just be holding hands. She'd make him put his mouth to the place he'd pinched; make him kiss her hurt better. Kiss her and keep kissing, lower and deeper, and deeper, until he'd made amends. He'd do it too. She knew he'd do it. The story had been a game; a way of deliriously postponing the inevitable moment when they made love.