Fragile Crystal: Rubies and Rivalries (The Crystal Fragments Trilogy) (25 page)

“Is it true?” He was leaning in the doorway, a glass of amber-coloured liquid in his hands.

She couldn’t speak for a moment but instead just choked back her sobbing. “Daniel,” she said at last. “Please...”

“Is it
true
?” The shout was so loud, so piercing, that it shocked her out of her tears and she looked at his face, twisted in anger, with utter fear inside.

“I... I don’t...” Words utterly left her and she had no idea what to say. He simply watched her, taking a sip of his whisky and staring at her with ice-cold eyes. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like what he’d read, that these described only physical actions, not the locked up emotions inside, her disgust and fear afterwards.

“For the third and final time,” he said, his voice lower now but even more ominous, more terrifying. “Is it true?”

She hung her head in shame, her hand dropping beside her, still clutching onto the phone. “Yes,” she whispered.

He strode across the floor into the room and she flinched, wondering what he would do to her. But instead of coming up to her he grabbed the print and dress he had bought her and flung them onto the floor. The glass of the Rego print shattered as it hit the floor, clear shards scattering over the malevolent face of the crow.

“Those you can keep, but you don’t deserve the ring. Get your clothes and get out.”

“Daniel...” she began to say, her tears returning as she lifted her arms towards him.

“Get out!” His voice was harsh and brutal. “Get out and don’t come back!”

For a second her mind filled with accusations, of how he had hurt her, questions of what
he
had been doing in New York all those nights he was away from her. Maria’s words filled her head with poison—
you’re not the first and you won’t be the last
. But a mixture of fear and the realisation that this was the defence of cowardice made her hold her tongue.

With a snarl, he moved towards her and she flinched again, but he simply lifted her hand that held onto the phone and prised it from her grip. With a few quick movements he was by the door that led outside and had opened it. She felt the cool, crisp air on her skin as she watched him lift back his arm and throw the phone into the pool.

When he turned back to her, his face was calm, impassive. “Go upstairs and get dressed,” he ordered her. “I’ll get Jorge to take you back. I don’t want to see you again. It’s over.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The New Year was the most dismal she had ever experienced. For the first few days she had simply remained in her apartment, crying. She tried to call Daniel, to tell him how sorry she was, but the number she had for his mobile was unavailable, and when she had spoken to Anna she had been told, somewhat sadly, that Senhor Stone had decided to sell the villa and that she was not to phone again. She did learn, however, that Jorge had been sacked as soon as he had driven Kris back to Alfama, though as to the reason why Anna could not say. She and Joana were to be given good references and Senhor Stone had already arranged work for them, as well as Filipe.

For New Year’s Eve itself, she forced herself outside to participate in the festivities. She was growing to hate her apartment, and wherever she looked she was taunted with her smug memories of how this was to be a home. Daniel had insisted that she bring the Rego print back with her, as well as the dress, but she had thrown the latter away as soon as she could. She could not bring herself to destroy a work of art, but looking at that malignant crow and the bad luck he had brought her made her sick to her very soul.

Not that it was the crow’s fault, she thought as she slowly trudged down the narrow, cobbled streets that led from her house to the river front. Crow is as crow does, and it was she who had been the liar. She didn’t even hate Maria after a few days: her passion for Daniel, a burning, unfulfilled passion for seven years, was clearly a madness. Crow is as crow does.

She did find herself wondering about the other five, however. What had become of the banker, the lawyer, the teacher, the one whose career she didn’t know, the financier? Where were their emeralds, pearls, garnets, opals and amethysts? Had Daniel loved them as well—how much had he loved them? How successfully had Maria been in destroying these relationships, for she was sure the French woman had an evil purpose in breaking up any happiness Daniel might encounter, and how had he never suspected?

She had no answers and realised, with a huge pang inside, that she would never know what had happened. One afternoon she had realised with disgust that Maria’s number still remained in her phone, and to her horror she realised that she wanted to call, to demand some answers to her questions. Yet she could never give Maria Gosselin the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had hurt her. She had paid for the blood she had spilt, mere drops, and the price she had paid was greater than any she had ever known. She deleted the number: that door should be closed to her as well.

And so, as she slowly put one foot before the other, following the steep pathway that threatened to pitch the heedless traveller down the treacherous steps, she finally realised that everything was gone. She was broken, utterly. Part of her told herself that it was stupid, of course. These things happen all the time, and yet the world continued to spin on its access, and night followed day as day followed night. Stoicism was not for her, however. Her quietude was that of despair, not resilience. What had given her more strength than ever before had been taken away, and now she was so fragile that she feared a single tap on her skin would shatter her into a million fragments. A single word could do it, the wrong thought even.

It was already dark as she reached halfway down the hill. Pausing for a moment, she looked around. Tall buildings rose on either side of the cobbled street, some of them dark and silent sentinels, monoliths that blacked out the sky, others with lit windows open onto balconies, sounds of life and laughter emanating out into the night air. It was cool rather than cold, and the occupants of the city were gathering for their midnight celebrations, with lights visible along the harbour front and across the river. It had been a hard year for many of them, she thought to herself a little guiltily: jobs lost, financial woes and the strains of making do, and yet here they were gathering together to celebrate an old year finished and a new one coming in.

A couple walked past her, descending the hill with greater speed than she. She could hear them laughing and she stood to one side. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, she repeated the mantra to herself as they passed, but it did not stop one of them, a handsome young man with his love holding onto his arm, glancing across at her. His face clearly expressed his shock as he saw her, though he also smiled sympathetically.

She had an idea of what he must be seeing. She had not bathed or washed for a week, and her hair was already starting to tangle into a matted mess. Her jeans were filthy and her shirt and sweater was becoming grubbier by the day, but she wore them as a penitent. She rarely slept and could not eat. With a wry smile she pondered what someone had told her once: he prefers them taller and thinner. She could not increase her stature, that was for sure, but soon she would become a stick-thin model, a paper crow to fly away on any breeze.

She felt sick as she neared the level streets that led to the square. Perhaps she should go home, she thought to herself. Avoid people. But tonight she was driven on, the woman in the crowd, forced to seek company not because she desired other people but because she was becoming genuinely frightened as to what she would do to herself if she remained alone any longer.

There were knots and threads of people making their way towards Rossio Square, and she could hear music playing faintly, bursts coming through more clearly as the wind shifted from time to time. It was not a Fado performance, and for that at least she was thankful. Sentimental songs of lost love would have reduced her completely to a wreck. She had a vague recollection of some pop or rock group having been booked for the evening, and there were to be dancers on a giant stage in the square. She could drown herself out in loud music and in the crowd: that would be her consolation tonight. The cup was a bitter one, but she would drink it.

As she made her way into the square, the silhouette of Dom Pedro IV inky against the sky, a few people looked at her strangely while she followed the crowds towards the stage. She ignored them, watching with dull lights the blinking lights on the frame raised above the podium where a band was playing. She had no idea of who they were, but the young men sang with a gusto that did not feel faked, even if she had no real joy in sharing it.

At the front of the stage, other young men and women went through carefully choreographed movements, their muscled bodies sweeping against and almost through each other. In other circumstances, Kris would have been impressed, but at one point when she saw a broad pair of shoulders lifting up a woman easily, the taut chest glistening in the red and blue lights that flickered across it, she had a painful memory of Daniel and turned her eyes away.

Still, there was a kind of comfort in the anonymity of the crowds. They would stay here for a while, conversation drowned in music and the closeness of their bodies. She did not need to speak or think for a while, and when they broke up and moved away she would haunt the gay groups of people as they made their way pleasantly through the city, a single ghost at their banquets.

When there was a break in the music, she glanced sideways and saw a man looking at her. He was perhaps the age her father would have been had he still lived, and when he saw her glance in his direction he did not look away but, instead, smiled at her.

“
Felize ano novo
,” he said to her. She mouthed the words back to him, but did not listen to herself. He, however, refused to be discouraged.

“And a hard year, too, by the look of things,” he said.

For a second she glared at him. She wanted to shout something brutal, coarse and rude at him, to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. But his grey hair and his kind eyes deserved more respect than that. Her problems were not his fault, so she held her tongue and said nothing.

He sighed. “It’s been a hard year for us all. This music,” he gestured dismissively towards the stage, “it’s not really my thing. But sometimes you just need to be around others, you know?”

She nodded, barely hearing him.

“Such a hard year, and when will it get better? Where is the light?” He was warming to his theme, mistaking her silence for interest. “I used to be a teacher, was due to retire this year but... they could no longer afford so many schools, so many teachers, especially us old ones.” He shrugged. “Will I see my pension? I don’t know. My sons and my daughter, they don’t see a future here. They’ve left, all abroad now. One is living in Brazil, one in America hoping to get a visa, the other in Germany. I want them here but, what can you do?” He shrugged.

Kris couldn’t care less about his sons and daughters, nor whether he received a pension or not. She felt vaguely guilty about this, but again he mistook her silence for attention. He told her how much he had enjoyed teaching, his worries not so much for his own future as for that of his children. Then a thought occurred to her.

“Your wife—where’s she?”

A look of pain passed across his face and he sighed. “She died, ten months ago. Cancer—very sad. I spent the last of our savings trying to care for her, to keep her going as long as possible, in as much comfort as I could afford. But...” he raised his hands and gave a sad smile. “Thirty years—thirty years we were married, and for five long, slow months I saw her fade away in front of me.” He shrugged.

For the first time Kris felt a pang in her heart that was not simply that of self pity. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “For your loss, I’m sorry.”

He reached across and squeezed her wrist. “Thank you, my dear, and God bless you. It has been a hard year, but we endure. Remember that.”

She watched the dancers and musicians again impassively, but at least she watched, and when the fireworks were released she turned her head to the sky, watching the gigantic flowers blossom in all their fiery colours against the darkness. They were so brief, so evanescent, and all their promises faded away so quickly, yet she smiled as the crowd around her let out cries of pleasure and surprise.

She could no longer hold herself to the dire promise that she would pursue the crowds like a lost soul, but when the hour of twelve was struck she joined in the greetings and benedictions, even hugging other people, before heading home. She was tired, so very tired, and she hoped that tonight at least she would sleep. Her stomach churned, but the hunger was mixed with such a sickness that she was not sure she would be able to keep anything down.

When she opened the door to her flat, she wondered whether she had done the right thing. The light in her hallway was bright and artificial, harsh on her tired eyes. She wanted so much to sleep but rest seemed even further away than ever before.

She poured herself a glass of wine, looking over the empty bottles in the sink. Sometimes she drank so much that, on her weakened stomach, she would vomit and retch before returning to another bottle. She realised how self-pitying and pathetic she was, but she had no control over herself.

Taking the glass through, holding it weakly, she paused by the door to her studio. The room was cursed, and sometimes she felt that it was haunted by the presence of Maria Gosselin. The thought of the blonde witch made her stomach heave, and her face twitched in a murderous snarl.

But there was nothing she could do. Her passions were ineffectual, beating against the air and harming no one other than herself. She pushed open the door and switched on the light.

On the wall were her drawings, sketches of birdmen and scenes of Lisbon, watercolours and charcoals, while about the floor were oils stacked up against each other. To the one side was the table where she had mixed her paints and prepared her materials. It was a mess, she realised, an utter chaos out of which nothing good could come. She noticed with a wry, black humour that she had not even cleaned up the spilled turps and paint on the floor, embedded with glass from where she had smashed the jar into Maria Gosselin’s face. The memory of that brought a flare of satisfaction but it faded all too quickly. She had got rid of her rival, but the price she had paid was far too high.