I listened for his return and, when I heard him passing through the hall, I considered going to wish him good-night, but I did not feel entirely up to it. In the kitchen I poured boiling water on to a tea-bag and dropped a slice of lemon into the glass. I fished the tea-bag out immediately, just as the water changed colour. I added a measure of grappa as I always do when I take tea as late as this, for on its own it keeps me awake. I carried the glass on to the terrace. The sky was clear and full of stars. I could hear the whirring of mosquitoes, but the fireflies all had gone. It was as warm as day.
‘Madeleine.’ Otmar’s voice echoed, repeating the girl’s name, nothing more. As I sipped my tea, I heard as well the voice of Miss Alzapiedi telling us about the devil cast out of the Syrophoenician woman’s daughter. When evil was made good it was as though the evil had never existed. The greatest wonder of all, Miss Alzapiedi said.
In the kitchen I threw away the remains of my tea. I arranged two glasses and the grappa bottle on a tray. I was wearing an Indian silk dressing-gown, in shades of orange, and slippers that matched it, with gold stitching. I spent a moment in my room, applying a little make-up to my lips and eyes, a little powder, and eau-de-Cologne. I ran a comb through my hair.
When I knocked softly on his door there was no answering murmur. I had hoped he might be awake, thinking about things, but clearly he wasn’t. I pushed open the door and for a moment stood there, framed against the dim light of the corridor, before I moved towards his bedside table. I put the tray down and switched the light on. The notebook and the grey-jacketed volume had not yet been packed. I crossed the room again to close the door.
‘Once I sold shoes, Tom.’ I said that to myself, even though I spoke his name and glazed at his sleeping face. I stood leaning against the door, not immediately wishing to be closer to him or to wake him. I was still aware of the stockinged feet of women, of old shoes cast aside while I knelt and fitted whatever it was the women desired. As hot as ovens, the feet odorously perspired. ‘Swollen from walking, dear. Blown up beyond their size.’ They always bought shoes that were too small. The narrower fit, dear. Easily take the narrower.’ They stared down at the flesh that overlapped the straps and at the little fancy buckles. ‘Yes, I’d say they suit, dear.’
Quietly I moved to where he slept. His mouth was drawn down a little as if in some private despair, but I knew this was not the reason. In sleep his forehead wasn’t wrinkled, his closed eyes were tranquil. The lips’ expression was only a rictus of the night.
‘Mr Riversmith,’ I whispered. ‘Mr Riversmith.’
He stirred, though only slightly, one limb or another changing position beneath the sheet that covered him. I turned away, feeling I should not be too close when he awoke in case he was alarmed. I sat on the room’s single chair, half obscured by shadows in a corner.
Again my thoughts were interrupted by moments from my past. In the dining-room of the public house the clerks roughly called out their orders. In the Café Rose I opened a leathery old volume and was lost in another world: Only reapers, reaping early, in among the bearded barley, hear a song that echoes cheerly… ‘Two shepherd’s pie ’n’ chips. A toad-’n-the-hole. A plaice ’n’ peas.’ You had to repeat the orders so that the clerks could hear; you had to catch their attention, otherwise you’d bring the wrong plateful and then they’d jeer at you, asking you how long you’d been at it. ‘Nice pair of nylons, them.’ Quick as a flash the clerks would get a hand on you. On the S.S. Hamburg I was in love.
‘Oh,’ Mr Riversmith said.
‘It’s all right, Mr Riversmith.’
He pushed himself up, leaning on an elbow. He was looking straight at the grappa bottle. He didn’t quite know what was what. My voice might have belonged to the sleep he’d come from. He didn’t see me in the shadows.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Mr Riversmith.’
I remembered how, time and time again, I had lain there in the heat of Africa, waiting for whichever man had money that day. Afterwards, downstairs, I would make coffee and cook. The men played cards, I smoked and drank a lemonade. People who didn’t exist – not the people of the books I’d found but people of my own – flitted in from somewhere: as I’ve said before, I’d never have written a word if I hadn’t known the hell that was the Café Rose.
‘What time is it?’
‘Three, I think.’
‘Is something –’
‘No, nothing’s wrong.’
I rose, smiling at him, offering further reassurance. I poured some grappa, for him and for myself. I offered him a glass.
‘Look, I don’t think I can drink just now.’
‘Tomorrow you’ll be gone. Take just a sip.’
I returned to the chair in the corner. Tomorrow they’d both be gone.
‘I was fast asleep,’ he said, the way people who’ve been roused do.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For this morning.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me, Mr Riversmith.’
Even now, he wasn’t quite awake yet. In an effort to shake off his drowsiness he closed his eyes tightly and opened them again. He sighed, no doubt in a further effort to combat that lingering sleep.
‘I was almost dreaming myself,’ I confessed, ‘even though no one could be more wide awake.’
He hadn’t taken a sip of his grappa yet. I thought the hand that held the glass might have been shaking due to his not being properly awake; I wasn’t sure.
‘Phyl didn’t care for Francine, and Francine is to be Aimée’s second mother. That’s all I’m saying, Tom.’
Still the glass was not lifted to his lips.
‘You can’t blame Francine for hating Phyl, Tom. If you’re hated you hate back. It would be straining any woman’s humanity not to.’
‘My sister is dead. I’d prefer not to discuss this.’
‘I was there when her death occurred, Tom,’ I gently reminded him.
‘My sister’s child will be looked after by my wife and myself. To suggest otherwise is ridiculous.’
‘I know, Tom, I know. You will take Aimée back to Pennsylvania, and Francine will make efforts – an extra cut of lemon meringue pie, another chocolate cookie. And you will say, when things get dodgy, let’s go to the movies or let’s drive to Colorado to see the Rockies. You’ll buy Aimée a kitten; you’ll make excuses for the weakness of her high-school grades; you’ll say how pretty she is. But underneath it all Francine’s resentment smoulders. Francine is jealous of the attention you have to lavish on your sister’s child because of all that’s happened. Francine tries, but your sister spoke to her like that. Why should she be reminded of it now, day after day?’
For the second time I witnessed his anger. Crossly, he said I knew nothing whatsoever about the woman he was married to and very little about him. How could I possibly predict Aimée’s grades at high school?
I listened. I felt indulgent towards him, protective almost; he hadn’t experienced much, he hadn’t been much around; he didn’t understand how one woman can guess accurately about another. At the Café Rose men had insisted that I appeared to know only too well the women they told me about. ‘What must I do?’ the ivory cutter demanded. ‘Emily, tell me how I may have her.’ But when I told him, when I was frank and explained that any woman could see it coming that his violence would land him in gaol, he turned sullen and disagreeable.
‘I liked the look of Phyl, Tom.’
‘What you liked or didn’t like about my sister is without relevance.’
‘It’s just an observation. I only thought you’d care to know.’