But how could such a conclusion be trusted? God, his soul ached from the effort. He lay defeated, angry, feeling foolish and yet belligerent. He would have cried maybe if she hadn’t been there.
“Try it again,” she said now.
“It’s no good, it’s another language. I don’t know how to use it.”
“Try,” she said.
And he did. But he got nothing this time but the others. Flashes of sunny days, rushes of Ellie and then Graham, and others, lots of others, rays of light that would have taken him in this direction or that, the wheelhouse door banging in the wind, a tall man coming up from below, no shirt on, and Rowan. Yes, Rowan, Rowan, Rowan, Rowan there with every figure he had seen, always Rowan, and sometimes a happy Rowan. Nobody had ever been on this boat that Rowan wasn’t there, too.
He rose to his knees, more confused by the second effort than the first. The knowledge of having known her on that night was only an illusion, a thin layer of her profound impression on this boat, merely mingling with the other layers through which he’d reached. Knew her maybe because he held her hand, knew her maybe because before he’d been brought back he’d known how it would be done. He would never know for sure.
But the point was he didn’t know her now, and he still couldn’t remember! And she was just a very patient and understanding woman, and he ought to thank her and go.
He sat up. “Damn it all,” he whispered. He pulled on his gloves. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose and then he pulled his collar up against the wind, but what good did that do with a khaki jacket?
“Come on inside,” she said. She took his hand as if he were a little child. It was surprising to him how much he appreciated it. Once they were over the side of the damned wobbly slippery boat and he stood on the pier, he felt better.
“Thanks, Doctor,” he said. “It was worth a try, and you let me try, and for that, I can’t say thanks enough.”
She slipped her arm around him. Her face was very close to his face. “Maybe it will work another time.” Sense of knowing her, that below deck was a little cabin in which she often slept with his picture pasted to the mirror. Was he blushing again?
“Come inside,” she said again, tugging him along.
The shelter of the house felt good. But he was too sad and tired now to think much about it. He wanted to rest. But he didn’t dare. Have to get to the airport, he thought, have to gather up the suitcase and get out there, then sleep in a plastic chair. This had been one road to discovery and now it was cut, and so he was going to take the other road as fast as he could.
Glancing back at the boat, he thought that he wanted to tell them again that he hadn’t discarded the purpose, it was just that he couldn’t remember. He didn’t even know if the doorway was a literal doorway. And the number, there had been a number, hadn’t there? A very significant number. He leaned against the glass door, pressed his head to the glass.
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t want to go either,” he said, “but I have to. You see, they really do expect something of me. And they told me what it was, and I have to do what I can, and I know that going back is part of it.”
Silence.
“It was good of you to bring me here.”
Silence.
“Maybe … ”
“Maybe what?” He turned around.
She stood with her back to the lights again. She’d taken off her coat, and she looked angular and graceful in the huge cable-knit sweater, and all long legs, magnificent cheekbones, and fine narrow wrists.
“Could it be that you were supposed to forget?” she asked. That had never occurred to him. For a moment, he didn’t answer.
“Do you believe me about the visions?” he asked. “I mean, did you read what they said in the papers? It was true, that part. I mean the papers made me sound stupid, crazy. But the point is there was so much to it, so much, and … ”
He wished he could see her face just a little better.
“I believe you,” she said simply. She paused, then went on. “It’s always frightening, a close call, a seeming chance thing that makes a large impact. We like to believe it was meant … ”
“It was meant!”
“I was going to say that in this case the call was very close, because it was almost dark when I saw you out there. Five minutes later I might not have seen you at all, couldn’t possibly have seen you.”
“You’re casting around for explanations, and that’s very gracious of you, I really appreciate it, I do. But you see, what I do remember, the impression I mean, it’s so strong that nothing like that is necessary to explain it. They were there, Dr. Mayfair. And … ”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “Just one of those frissons, those crazy moments when it’s as if I do remember, but then it’s gone. I got it out there on the deck, too. The knowledge that, yes, when I opened my eyes I did know what had happened … and then it was gone … ”
“The word you spoke, the murmur … ”
“I didn’t catch it. I didn’t see myself speak a word. But I’ll tell you something. I think I knew your name out there. I knew who you were.”
Silence.
“But I’m not sure.” He turned around, bewildered. What was he doing? Where was his suitcase, and he really did have to go, only he was so tired, and he didn’t want to.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said again.
“You mean it? I could stay for a while?” He looked at her, at the dark shadow of her long lean figure against the distant faintly illuminated glass. “Oh, I wish I’d met you before this,” he said. “I wish I … I like … I mean, it’s so stupid, but you’re very … ”
He moved forward, the better to see her. Her eyes became visible, seeming very large and long for deep-set eyes, and her mouth so generous and soft. But a strange illusion occurred as he drew closer. Her face in the soft glow from beyond the walls appeared perfectly menacing and malicious. Surely it was a mistake. He wasn’t making out any true expression. The figure facing him seemed to have lowered her head, to be peering up at him from beneath the fringe of her straight blond hair, in an attitude of consummate hatred.
He stopped. It had to be a mistake. Yet she stood there, quite still, either unaware of the dread he felt now, or uncaring.
Then she started towards him, moving into the dim light from the northern doorway.
How pretty and sad she looked! How could he have ever made such an error? She was about to cry. In fact, it was simply awful to see the sadness in her face, to see the sudden silent hunger and spill of emotion.
“What is it?” he whispered. He opened his arms. And at once, she pressed herself gently against him. Her breasts were large and soft against his chest. He hugged her close, enfolding her, and ran his gloved fingers up through her hair. “What is it?” he whispered again, but it wasn’t really a question. It was more a little reassuring caress of words. He could feel her heart beating, her breath catching. He himself was shaking. The protective feeling aroused in him was hot, alchemizing quickly into passion.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.” And now she was silently crying. She looked up, and then opening her mouth, she moved very gently into kissing him. It was as if she didn’t want to do it against his will; she gave him all the time in the world to draw back. And of course he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so.
He was engulfed at once as he’d been in the car when he touched her hand, but this time it was her soft, voluptuous, and all too solid flesh that embraced him. He kissed her over and over, feeding on her neck, her cheeks, her eyes. With his gloved fingers he stroked her cheek, felt her smooth skin beneath the heavy woolen sweater. God, if only he could take off the gloves, but if he took off the gloves, he’d be lost, and all passion would evaporate in that confusion. He was desperate to cling to this, desperate; and she already mistakenly believed, she was already foolishly afraid …