Hazard (18 page)

She settled on two girls and a young man off to the extreme left beneath a large maple. She told Peter, “Fetch Benedict for me,” and then to Hazard, “You'll take Benedict's place.”

“Anywhere's all right,” Hazard said, thinking he'd like to escape. “Don't bother what's his name.”

“No bother,” said Catherine. “It's your good turn, actually. Benedict couldn't possibly have been very content with those two.”

A servant brought a basket that Catherine passed to Hazard. A large, round wicker one with the necks of two wine bottles protruding from its yellow linen covering. Its handle was tied with a yellow bow, and in the folds of the bow was a white card with the name
Terence
crossed out and replaced by
Haz.

Catherine sat down and resumed her conversation. Hazard went over to the two girls under the maple.

Their names were Lindy and Laura. They were both extremely pretty, with brown hair and matching wide-set nearly pea-green eyes. They looked and moved very much alike. Lindy was the one with some fresh buttercups twined in her hair. The first thing they wanted to know from Hazard was, “Do you fancy birds?”

Meaning girls, he assumed. He told them he did.

“Exclusively or also?” asked Laura.

“You guess.”

“Also,” said Lindy.

“Also,” was also Laura's opinion.

“Wrong,” Hazard said, not entirely sure that would be considered a point in his favor.

But they seemed delighted, as though they'd come on something rare. They immediately changed toward him. For example, Lindy reached and intentionally allowed the loose armhole of her dress to fully expose her right breast. And Laura soon contributed a nearly identical maneuver to show she was by no means a slouch.

Trying not to be an obvious voyeur, Hazard paid some attention to his picnic basket. There was goose-liver paté, sections of cold roast pheasant, tiny cheddar-coated biscuits, a bunch of huge African grapes, a container of Beluga Colossal, some very thin chocolate-covered cream mints, and an individual round of well-aged Holland cheese. One of the wines was a vintage Burgundy 1966 Romanée-Conti
premier cru.
The other was a chilled champagne, Dom Perignon 1959. Crystal and silver were included, and, as an extra favor, a small vellum envelope contained three marijuana cigarettes bearing Catherine's monogram.

Hazard took a taste of everything. More than a taste of the Burgundy. He commented that it was exceptional.

Laura didn't agree. “I'd like some Campari. I love Campari.”

Lindy was sitting with one leg crossed under and the other arched. Her white chiffon dress was gathered up. She had on white silk, seamed stockings, and matching garter belt. To flash bare thigh accessorized by the fasteners and tendrils of a garter belt was apparently the newest old rage. “These grapes are orgasmic,” she said, biting one in half with her front teeth.

Laura flung the wine from her goblet, then took off her hat and sailed it away. Lifting her skirt she maneuvered around on her knees and then lay back, resting her head face up on Lindy's lap. It was all performed with nonchalance, as though her only purpose was to make herself comfortable. However, now her body was extended offeringly toward Hazard and her legs were relaxed, slightly apart. She tucked her chiffon dress down between her legs, defining herself. Then she held up her hand with only her index finger extended. “Know what this is?” she asked Hazard.

“Same to you,” Hazard said.

“Not that. I mean, right here is where they can stick an acupuncture needle to tonify your sex life.” She indicated a specific place on the back of the finger between the nail and first joint. “It's called point cx nine.”

“Tonify?”

“Stimulate,” explained Lindy. “Don't you think it's a coincidence that it should be
that
finger?”

“Same place both hands?” asked Hazard, going along with it.

“Only the right,” said Lindy.

“Then it's not a coincidence for anyone left-handed,” said Hazard.

That amused Lindy. When she smiled, Hazard noticed one of her upper front teeth was slightly crooked. The imperfection was an asset, adding an incongruous provincial touch.

Hazard accepted their routine for what it was. Seductive choreography. He wondered if they practiced regularly. But he had to admit he was flattered. They were very pretty, doubly so together. Which thought brought Keven to mind; however, he also remembered Kersh had prescribed distraction. He looked over and saw Catherine had left her place and was down the slope, mingling.

“You going to drink that?” he asked Laura, indicating her bottle of Burgundy. He'd finished his. She handed her bottle over to him, and he got up and walked away.

He went around the side of the house and off into a grove of oaks, over a falling rock wall, and across a small swale of wild grass. Walking anywhere just for the walk, pausing frequently to swig from the bottle. The sun was on its way down, not yet setting but already its light was a weaker amber. It was the time of day he liked most, from then until dark. The wine was getting to him, not a lot but he felt it some in his legs and head. He knew he ought to be concentrating on the Badr problem, trying to figure out his next move. He also felt guilty that he was feeling so good.

His eyes caught on a structure on the opposite side of another rock wall. He went to it, climbed over, and found it was the remains of a small stone cottage, overgrown with ivy and creepers, roofless and with only three sides.

On the north side some moss had grown a bed.

On it were Laura and Lindy.

They provided a tableau. And for a man who fancied only birds, the rest seemed inevitable.

Hazard had no trouble finding his way in the dark back to Catherine's house. He merely headed in the direction of loud, thumping music.

He was astonished at seeing the inside of the house for the first time. Its authentic Queen Anne exterior was only a façade. Inside every surface was linear, stark white contradicted by jolting splashes of primary color, accessorized by mirror and chrome and lucite. It was brightly, evenly lighted, shadowless, enhancing the clean, spatial effect. Neon geometrics, huge mazes of shining wires. Even incidental functional objects such as ash trays seemed cool and unfamiliar. It was like transcending the present, stepping from the past right into the future.

He felt a hand take his, fingers lacing. “I was wondering about you.” Catherine smiled.

“It's a big place.”

“You've been exploring?”

“I need a ride back to London.”

“We haven't had a chance to talk.”

He almost told her that wasn't his fault.

She led him away from the crowd, out of the room, and down a long, high passage only wide enough for two. It seemed to go nowhere but as they approached the end of the passage a partition automatically opened to reveal a small elevator. It was entirely mirrored inside, and going up in it Catherine waited for Hazard's eyes to find the view reflected by the floor.

“That's the one disadvantage,” she said.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

They stopped at an upper floor where there was the same sort of décor but in pastels, a softer effect.

“This is my part of the house,” she said. “There's no way up except the elevator and no way for anyone to call it down. How's that for guaranteed privacy? Here …” she went ahead “… is your room.”

“I can't stay.”

“I'll be hurt if you don't.”

He glanced around the room but didn't see his piece of luggage. Catherine slid a panel back with her finger, revealing a built-in wardrobe. His things had been unpacked, folded and put away. In the top drawer was his Llama in its holster, with the straps wound neatly around it. And his knife. On the wardrobe's mirror-top surface were his three passports and the carton of images. Maybe it was English hospitality, but he resented it.

“See, you're all moved in,” Catherine said. “All three of you.”

He didn't have to explain, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't have to tell her the truth. “I'm in a hassle with the government,” he said, the first thing that came to mind. “They don't believe I reported all my income over the past ten years. And they're right. So, before they could put me in I got out. Under an assumed name.”

“Stevens or Beech?”

“Stevens. The other's a spare.”

She seemed to believe him. “Evidently you were prepared to shoot your way out.”

The gun. “No,” he told her, “just an old friend who never goes anywhere without me.” He realized how phony-tough
that
sounded.

She stepped back and looked him down and up. “You're a wanted man.”

“In some parts,” he said, straining to keep it light.

“Edmund Stevens. Must I call you that?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“I much prefer Haz.” She added pointedly, “I always did.”

He thought how right he'd been about her. He remembered telling Carl she needed a kick in the ass. She hadn't cried a drop at the funeral. It was a wonder she'd even showed up. “Get me a ride back to London,” he told her.

She shrugged. “I'll have my driver take you.”

He expected her to go to make that arrangement but she stayed there as though entertained by his angry movements as he packed.

Hazard didn't really know her, had never wanted to, had seen her briefly only three or four times over the past five years. Probably he'd never see her again. She was truly nothing to him now that Carl was gone. He'd often wondered about her, though, especially why she'd married Carl. They were such an obvious mismatch. Carl had been way out of her freaky league and she must have realized that from the beginning. So why had she married him? Hazard decided to ask her now.

“Didn't Carl ever tell you?”

“We never talked much about you.”

She thought back a moment, then said, “I owed it to him.” It sounded as though it had been a debt she'd grudgingly paid. “We first met in Cairo …”

That Hazard had known, but not the rest of it.

It had been June, 1967, the second day of the Six-Day War. Israeli planes were over the city and nearly everyone had taken shelter. Carl was at the U.S. embassy. Looking out the window during a raid, he saw a pretty girl just walking along the deserted street with incredible nonchalance, as though it were any pleasant, peaceful afternoon. Carl opened the window and shouted down, warning her, but she only looked up, smiled, and waved. Carl hurried down and out to her, urged her to come inside. She first ignored him and then resisted when he forcefully carried her in.

She was not grateful for the rescue, called Carl a meddler, and sat brooding by a window like a child prohibited from going out to play. She'd been well aware of the danger, had been inviting the sky to send down her death, hopefully a direct hit. To die that way was abstract, impersonal, not the same as suicide, which required too much of one's self. It had been an opportunity and Carl had deprived her of it.

When Carl learned that these were her thoughts, he looked on her as a victim of another sort of war. She immediately became his private cause. Dedication made him almost immune to the abusive ingratitudes she put on him. He never wavered, kept her there, tried to reason with her, watched over her. She was literally a prisoner of his concern. Until, on the seventh day, the war was over. She was free to go.

She left on a final, thankless note. But two days later she was back. His optimism was contagious, and she'd caught some of it. He'd given that to her, and she wanted to repay him. No matter that he didn't suit her customary tastes and values. That, at the time, only qualified him all the more. He was good to her, for her. Hadn't she lately been laughing almost genuinely; wasn't she almost content to be only with him; didn't she nearly believe it herself when she said she loved him?

Within a month they were married.

Within another two she was miserable, as miserable as ever. Her sanguine outlook was that quickly corroded by self-doubt, habitual fears, the same old hang-ups. They hadn't really gone away for good, just for a holiday, and with their return came the need for the same old defenses. Such as ennui. Life with Carl now bored the hell out of her. His patience and devotedness irritated her. The whole new hope thing had been no more than an illusion. She'd been temporarily deceived into believing she had the ability to love and feel loved. She'd never be fooled again. She wanted out.

Now, with a resigned smile and her eyes set against showing regret, she told Hazard, “Except for the unsavory minor details, that's how it went.”

Hazard hadn't expected such openness from her. Maybe he hadn't been fair, had based his opinion of her on superficial things. He remembered what she'd said that afternoon at the Pierre about being the one who wanted to die. Maybe underneath she was less a barracuda, more someone in deep water who had to tread like hell to keep from going under. “Why didn't you divorce Carl?” he asked.

“He didn't want a divorce.”

“Why didn't you?”

Hazard was asking her to peel off another layer. Reluctantly she told him, “I suppose I always held a bit of hope for myself. It was something to go on, a sort of life line that might let me find my way back again to that first good feeling I had with him.”

An understanding nod from Hazard. He'd finished his packing. Now he unzipped his bag, flipped it open, and said, “I'd like a beer. Can you get me a beer?”

Catherine was very happy to oblige.

They sat side by side in another room, more neutral than a bedroom. She called it her gallery. A completely enclosed area where several paintings took the place of windows. One, a Nolde, gave a view of some dark, furious sea, the madness of the waves ridged with luminous gold beneath a vermilion sky. Another was a Leonor Fini, a nude young girl, pearl-skinned chimerical, her head laden with vague flowers, in her hands a large, platterlike leaf serving her breasts to the onlooker. The only lights in the room were those exactly illuminating the paintings, heightening the impressions that those creations existed in an outside world. There was also a portrait of Catherine.