Justine was even more physically perfect than I had remembered. Her eyes were as hard as precious stones set in alabaster. Her flawlessness paradoxically helped me to stay in control of the situation. It reminded me how important it was to play the part well. Her statuesque looks symbolized how high the stakes were.
‘You must think it odd. Being approached by a complete stranger like this,’ Justine said.
We were standing by an open window which looked out on to St. James’s Square, but the air was so hot out side that it failed to alleviate the intent stuffiness of the library’s interior.
‘No, I don’t think it’s odd at all,’ I lied. ‘Not if you need help.’
Justine looked around us quickly but not furtively. Justine, no matter how much danger she was in, never looked furtive.
‘It’s difficult to speak here,’ she said. She was wearing an ice-green dress of rough silk that clung closely to her body and whispered to me when she moved.
‘I think I’m being watched’.
Yes, I thought, by me.
My reaction to her was confused, a mixture of elation that I was actually speaking to her for the first time and vague concern for the strange predicament that she seemed to be in. However, I could hardly take what she was telling me seriously – it read like something out of a bad detective novel. Part of me felt as if I were watching her act out a plot that she had taken from one of her hooks.
‘I know it sounds ludicrous,’ Justine said. ‘Like some thing out of a bad novel.’
Just then I caught sight of a man – or was it a shadow? – dodging behind one of the rows of shelves. Justine immediately followed my line of vision but he had vanished.
‘It’s easy to get paranoid. The slightest twitch, sound, shadow…’ She smiled at me. It was the first time that I had seen her smile. Her smile made a spontaneous connection with me, as if in the way it illuminated her face she had read what the future held in store for me. She then continued, as if unaware of the power her smile had had over me. As if unaware of the permission she had given me to share in her infallibility.
‘I’d feel safer outside,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘But tell me first. Why me? ‘
‘Because of your face. It is like Michelangelo’s Adam reaching out to God.’
I followed Justine out of the library. She walked always slightly ahead of me as if she didn’t want others to think that we were together.
THIRTY
The white heat of noon was scorching as we walked down the outside steps of the London Library. After the dark interior the bright light almost blinded me. However, Justine had the immunity of stone.
She crossed the road into the inner gardens of St. James’s Square, through the black railings of the gate. The formal gardens were shaped in the form of a cross. A rose garden had been planted at its centre. Pink, gold, cream petals filled the sky, as we sat down on a stone bench within the circle of flowers. Surrounded by thorns, Justine, I imagined, could be my Sleeping Beauty. All I had to do was bend over her and wake her up with a kiss.
‘He can’t reach us here,’ she said. I still didn’t believe in the gravity of her voice. I felt as if I were just listening to her from under water.
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Who can’t reach us here?’
Justine began to tell me her story.
‘My first novel Death is a Woman has been published recently to huge critical acclaim. The heroine, who also narrates the story, conforms to the male stereotype of the ideal woman. The trouble is I’ve made her too ideaclass="underline" a male fan of my writing has become utterly obsessed by her. Ironically, he has got the narrator (the heroine) muddled up with the author (me). He thinks she is me. A typical case of literary mistaken identity.
‘I can hardly get touchy about a bad reading. The only problem is that he’s dangerous. He has written letters to me via my publisher and agent. They are obscene. But it’s even worse than that – he has started to watch me, follow me around. I never catch sight of him. The only reason I know he’s doing this is by the calling card he keeps on leaving me. A white ribbon. I’ve found them attached to trees in my garden, to the handle of my car, even my front door. What I don’t understand is how he has found out where I live. I have told everyone who knows me not to let out my address to anyone.’
Her story was sounding to me more and more plausible. Regarding the fact that he had found out where she lived, my immediate conclusion was that Juliette had informed this madman of her sister’s address. One way of avenging herself on Justine would be to make sure she was kidnapped by a dangerous lunatic. I would not put her hatred past anything. I was probably Plan B.
‘Why don’t you move? Change your identity?’ I asked.
A bee landed on her dress, thinking she was a flower, and she brushed it away.
‘Believe it or not, I’ve already tried that once. It hasn’t worked. He somehow found out my new address. I’m fed up with those kinds of games. Even I am beginning to wonder who I am. I’ve also tried the police – but unless he actually causes me bodily harm they are legally unable to act. No, there has to be another way. That’s where you come in.’
The seriousness of her position was finally getting through to me. I was lost in admiration for her self-possession.
‘I don’t want any violence, you understand. But it has to be a stranger. I mean you have to be. He has been following me for months and he would immediately recognize any of my friends if they tried to tail him.’
I stared into her invulnerable eyes. I knew that coming to her rescue would be the only worthwhile act of my life. Even in the full glare of the sunlight, her skin remained pale. Even the sun was unable to touch her. Whoever this man was, whatever kind of monster, I would track him down.
‘We will have to set a trap for him,’ I said.
She nodded, ‘I will ring you tomorrow.’
We said goodbye in the rose garden. She kissed me on the cheek, but lingeringly and I realized that this was symptomatic of her appeal – she managed to convey distance and intimacy at the same time.
I watched her walk out of sight behind the roses. Sweat was now pouring down my body. I walked slowly through the garden to the northern exit. It was only as I was passing through the gate that I noticed that a white ribbon had been tied to one of the black metal bars, hanging straight down in the still air, as if someone had drawn a white line, with chalk, across the summer’s day.
THIRTY-ONE
The passing of the next day seemed hardly bearable as I waited for Justine to call. I dreaded to leave the flat in case she rang. I smoked opium almost continuously in order to dull the pain of waiting. My entire flat filled with its sweet succulent smell, and not even the light breeze of stale desiccated London through the wide open window could stir its smoky haze. The days passed and still she didn’t phone. I ate nothing but fruit and dry biscuits, drinking strong Turkish coffee in order to stay in contact with some kind of reality. In the misty heat I did not bother to dress, but wandered around my flat naked, drawing a bath of cool water whenever the mood suited me.
However, even in the most depraved moments of solipsism, I still felt in control. I was choosing to live the days in such a manner, get through them, eradicate them from my consciousness.