Hold Back the Night (21 page)

'How's Tasey these days?' The question was another small part of the ritual exchange indulged in during Domini's afternoon visits, one that had been neglected earlier because of the arrival of a customer. Ritual or no, Domini knew that Miranda's interest was genuine.

'She's fine, getting taller by the day. Do you know, her fourth birthday is only two months away?'

'I wish you'd bring her to visit.' Miranda sighed.

Domini merely smiled and gave a small shrug. She was running out of excuses for her failure to bring her daughter back to the gallery, in view of the oft-repeated invitation. Tasey, too, sometimes asked when she was going to see the ice-cream lady again.

'It might be a good idea if Sander got to know her,' Miranda suggested too artlessly with another oblique look at Domini's dampened hair.

'And then again it might not,' Domini said firmly. 'Sander hasn't got marriage on his mind, Miranda.'

'Maybe you could change it for him, if you let him know how you felt.' Miranda leaned forward earnestly. 'Actually I've been wanting to have a good long talk with you for some time, but you always race off before I can get my two cents in. I'm not half-witted, Domini. I know you're in love with Sander. Why, it sticks out all over you, and if he had eyes, he could see . it for himself. The way you look at him, the way you say his name . . . good Lord, even the way you walk up the stairs so flushed and expectant. But when you come down, you always look . . . well, kind of sad. Hopeless.'

'Is it that obvious?' Domini asked quietly.

'To everyone but Sander,' Miranda replied. 'Why, Joel noticed at once. Face it, Domini. Sander isn't going to suggest marriage because he wouldn't want to be a burden to you. He's too damn proud! But if you brought Tasey around once in a while, he might begin to understand that you need him as much as he needs you. You're always thinking about his problems .. why don't you let him think about yours?'

'I don't have any,' Domini said.

'Rubbish,' Miranda returned, eyeing Domini sceptically. 'Sharing troubles is a two-way street, and yet you keep all yours to yourself and try to solve ours. Don't think I haven't noticed how much you've helped us! You have a money shortage, too, I know it, but do you ever tell that to Sander? Do you discuss the difficulties you have with your clients? Do you talk about the nights you have to sit up when Tasey has croup? You never complain, and yet it can't be all that easy raising a child on your own, especially when you have to run a business too. If Sander could see that your daughter needs a father

Domini studied her fingers and tried to control their tremble. 'I don't think he likes her,' she said. 'In fact, I'm sure of it. He cut me up for not keeping her under control the night she was here.'

'Good grief, she wasn't that much trouble. Don't forget these past few years have been very difficult for Sander; it isn't easy for a man like him to adjust to blindness. He hates being helped and he hates feeling helpless. That's made him put a wall around himself and pour boiling oil on anyone who happens to get too close to the fortifications. But you know, Domini, he wasn't always such a bitter man. And he's not as bitter now as he was a few months ago, when you first appeared on the scene. You've helped draw him out of that terrible solitude he was in, you and the work he's doing now. I'll bet Tasey could help complete the job if you'd give her half a chance. Kids are so natural.'

'I don't know,' Domini said slowly. 'I don't think it would work.'

Miranda regarded her steadily and sternly. 'If you just keep giving Sander more of what he wants, he's going to keep taking. It's time you asked him for something in return, and I mean something that doesn't happen in bed. As long as you allow yourself to be a sex object that's exactly what you'll be ... a sex object and nothing more. Is that what you want?'

'No,' Domini admitted unhappily.

'I didn't think so,' Miranda said more kindly. After a moment's thought she suggested: 'Why don't you bring Tasey here for the weekend? Ask us to look after her, make some pretext of going away for a few days. The spare bedroom's filled with sculptures, but there's a cot in there I can pull into my own room for her stay. You know I love children. And if you weren't around, Sander would get to know her better, simply because he wouldn't be angrily looking to you to keep her under control. He used to be quite good with children. If he had to help take charge of Tasey for a while, it could make him feel needed. I think he'd get a whole new view of you too. Why, it might be just the thing.'

'I'll think about it,' Domini temporized. Could there be something in what Miranda said? Or would it simply amplify the internal anguish of these past months if it didn't accomplish anything? If Sander and Tasey took a real dislike to each other, Domini didn't think she could bear it.

'Don't think, just do it,' urged Miranda, and then as if Domini's extreme inward distress had registered in some way, she ceased to lecture. A moment later she tactfully changed the subject. 'How's the unicorn? Still bearing up? Or is Tasey getting too old for it?'

'Oh, I don't imagine we'll be scrapping it for a while.' Domini managed a brave smile. 'There's a little mileage in it yet.'

'I wouldn't scrap it at all,' Miranda remarked, flicking a fingernail at the newspaper she had been reading. 'Who knows, even though it's only a copy you soon may be able to sell it for a profit, because I imagine Le Basque's prices are about to jump to the moon. You know what happens when a great artist puts one foot in the grave ... the collectors who've already bought are quite happy if he puts the other one in too! Even his laundry list will be fetching a fortune now that the news it out. Isn't it always the way?'

Premonitions of disaster clutched at Domini's stomach. 'Isn't what always the way?' she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

'Read for yourself,' Miranda offered. She tossed the folded newspaper in Domini's direction. 'He's had a massive heart attack.'

Domini's face drained, and it was a lucky thing that two Japanese tourists chose that exact moment to walk into the shop, relieving her of the necessity of reacting to Miranda's revelation. Like an automaton, she turned her eyes to the art columns in the paper, finding at once the headline about Le Basque. While Miranda showed her customers a portfolio of large numbered lithographs, Domini quickly scanned the story, her numbness growing with every word she read. The columnist confirmed the worst. According to the story, Le Basque's three legal sons, Domini's American half-brothers, had been contacted by the newspapers and revealed that they were making plans to rush to his bedside.

And then, remembering something Miranda had said earlier, she looked and saw that the newspaper was a full week old.

She put the paper back on the desk but remained seated, trying to think through the swirl her thoughts had become. Papa dying! He was in his mid-seventies now, and it should not be a shock. But it was. He had always been so strong, so much a cornerstone of Domini's existence, that she had never thought of him in terms of death. And yet he was dying. He had been dying for a week, and she had not known...

Her brain refused to work very well, but she knew what she must do, and she knew she would need Miranda's help. It didn't matter whether Papa loved her or not; she loved him. She couldn't take Tasey to France, and she couldn't afford a live-in sitter, let alone find one on such short notice. For months she'd been ignoring former friends, making excuses in order to free time for Sander, and having done that, it was hard to approach others for help.

At last Miranda finished with her customers. Whether two minutes had passed or twenty, Domini was not sure, but it was a period sufficient to help her get some grip on herself. Her face was calm and set, if a little white, when Miranda returned to the sales desk and sat down with a sigh because no sale had been made.

'I've been thinking about what you said,' Domini started at once. 'I'm going to take you up on your offer, Miranda, and I don't even have to invent an excuse. I had news a few weeks ago that my aunt is dying.'

'No wonder you've been looking so drained,' Miranda sympathized. 'Is that the aunt who brought you up?'

'Yes, the one who lives in France.' The lie needed little amplification because Miranda had been told of Domini's fictitious background several months before. 'I had decided I couldn't fly over to see her because I couldn't afford a woman to look after Tasey. I simply don't have the money. But I'd really like to go because my uncle is very upset. The only thing is, it might mean leaving Tasey here for more than a weekend, but at least during the week she's in day care all day. If you could help me out, I'd be...'

The words choked to a halt as Domini bowed her head and pressed taut fingertips to her cheekbones. She ached for the release of tears, but they would not come. Had she really been making love to Sander while Papa was dying in France?

'You poor kid,' Miranda said, coming to her side and putting an arm around her shoulder. 'Didn't I tell you it's better to share your problems? Of course Tasey can stay with us. Bring her over any time.'

❧

There was just enough money in the bank, fortunately, to pay for a round-trip airline ticket. Domini drew it all out. As soon as she had wait-listed herself on half a dozen flights, pleading an emergency and earning a sympathetic but not entirely optimistic promise from the travel agency that was one of her own regular clients, Domini hurried back to her loft and placed a call to France.

The new servant who answered the phone was unfamiliar with the name Greey, and Domini had to assure the suspicious woman several times that she was not a member of the press, but a relative. Because her father had disowned her, she didn't wish to mention the exact nature of the relationship; nor was she sure of the reception her call would be given, except by Berenice herself.

The servant must have neglected to mention the name or had perhaps muddled it in the transmission, because when Berenice came on the line she was unprepared for the sound of Domini's voice.

'Berenice?'

'Didi,' Berenice whispered, choked, recognizing

Domini from the syllables of that one utterance, as if it had been only yesterday they had spoken. 'Oh, Didi

'How is Papa?' Domini asked urgently, sliding easily back to the language of her childhood.

'Not at all well,' Berenice said, and Domini could hear the tears and the worry in her voice. 'You must come at once. You must hurry.'

'I am coming, Berenice, as soon as I can. I only learned today. Where is he? In the hospital?'

'He refuses to go to the hospital. He wants to die at home.'

'Then it's true,' whispered Domini.

'Where are you? If you're in Europe, I'll send a car...'

Domini controlled her voice. 'I'm in America, Berenice. New York. I'll be catching a flight as soon as I can. It's a little hard to get a seat because this is the tourist season, but I'm doing my best. Actually I'm planning to go to the airport on standby and take the first seat I can get. I'll call you from there as soon as I know when I'm coming.'

Berenice paused for only a fraction of a minute. 'No, no, leave it to me. Perhaps I can arrange something. Give me a phone number where I can reach you.'

Domini did. 'It's a business number,' she added. 'A little later I have to go out for half an hour, to . . .,' But this was no time to explain about Tasey, who would soon have to be picked up from day care, '. . . to do something. But I have an answering service, so if someone picks up and says Displays Unlimited, don't be surprised. Leave a message.'

'I'll be back to you soon,' Berenice promised.

'And please, tell Papa I love him, and that I would be there right now if I could. Tell him I'm sorry about everything. At least, tell him all that if... if it won't upset him or make him worse in any way.'

'I will tell him.' Berenice's voice dropped to an anguished whisper. 'He clings to life, Didi, for one thing only. He longs to see you.'

So Papa had forgiven her at last. When she hung up, Domini dropped to the floor beside the yellow unicorn and wrapped her slim arms around its neck. She rested her dry cheek against its carved surface and wished she could shed some of the terrible tears the years had put into her heart.

Berenice used the kind of influence wielded only by the very great or the very rich. Domini was on a Concorde to Paris within hours, in a seat procured heaven knew how. No one asked for money to pay for the luxury flight, and Domini did not offer because she simply didn't have enough cash anyway; she presumed Berenice had looked after it. At Charles de Gaulle Airport a limousine was waiting to take her to a small airfield, where a light plane had been chartered to fly her to Pau. At Pau, Georges, the chauffeur of former years, was waiting to take her for the final lap of the trip, over the twisting route into rugged terrain where no airstrips existed. The loyal Georges reassured Domini that her father still clung to life. She asked few other questions during the trip, not wanting to interrupt his concentration; Georges was driving at top speed. Less than twenty-four hours after learning of her father's illness, Domini drew up at the great ironclad front door of his home.

There were a dozen cars parked outside the gates, and an ambulance stationed on the driveway close to the house itself. Domini hurried from the limousine to the front door, found it locked, and had to ring the bell. A servant … perhaps the same suspicious woman who had answered the telephone … arrived and went to fetch Berenice, leaving Domini waiting in a small reception room.

It opened on to the courtyard, and while she waited, pale in the wake of a long, sleepless night, Domini walked over to look out on to the flagged area, once an enclosure where farm animals had been kept. For some reason she wanted to see her father's stone, perhaps because to her it was a symbol of his strength. She saw at once that it had been moved to a new place, a raised platform constructed of large flat flagstones. The great stone sat squarely on top, high as a man's head, more important than ever in its new position. But the stone was not the only thing Domini saw. Disturbed, she realized why there were so many cars around. People whose purpose she could not imagine lounged outside in the noon sunshine of the courtyard. A maid was serving drinks, and a table of sandwiches had been laid out.

Domini guessed that some of the strangers were members of the press, and at least one woman was wearing the crisp uniform of a nurse. One was a famous French politician, come to pay his last respects. He was posing for someone's camera, smiling and looking like a puffed parrot, with one hand resting on Papa's special stone. Domini wanted to rip it off at the wrist, screaming at the indecency.

Domini saw D'Allard too. Perhaps her father had mended fences with his one-time dealer, or perhaps D'Allard was also looking for publicity. He appeared overly and insincerely lugubrious in his expensive black suit. Domini knew he had privately bought a number of Le Basque paintings and sketchbooks before the falling out; he had probably been waiting for Papa's death to put them on the market. Domini felt ill.

Two prosperous-looking men, both in their late forties, were seated on a stone bench hunched in private conversation, with another slightly younger man standing behind them, listening intently. From photographs seen in her youth, Domini recognized them as her own half-brothers, who in all the time of her memory had never so much as sent her father a Christmas card, although he had settled enough money on their mother to make them all very wealthy men.

Domini turned away. Papa was dying, and the vultures had descended. And yet, would he feel that she was only one of them?

Berenice hurried into the room a moment later. They embraced wordlessly, too moved for immediate greetings. When Berenice pulled back, Domini saw that her father's long-time companion looked older than her forty-odd years, her fine dark eyes lined and deep with the strain of living in the shadow of death.

'Before I take you in to him, Didi, there are some things you must know about your father. Dying like this with all these people around … ,' Berenice's voice broke and then calmed. 'He would have preferred a simpler ending. But to bring you here, the whole world had to be told, and it was he who told me to tell them. If you doubt that he cares for you, think of that.'

Domini's eyes stung, as if the tears she could not shed had already fallen. So she had been right in thinking that in his heart Papa did not change. Why had she ever doubted him?

'For a long time he tried very hard to find you,' Berenice went on. 'I'll explain later when we talk, because now there is no time to waste; you must go to him. One more thing. He has not been at peace with himself since . . . since that day. He cannot forget what he did. Can you tell him you forgive him?'

'Oh, Berenice,' Domini said through a hurting throat, 'I did that long ago. I thought it was he who had not forgiven me.'

'He doesn't know you're here yet. But I did tell him you had called, and every time he wakes he asks for you. Now come.'

Domini controlled her emotions because she knew she must do so before going in to see her father. She followed Berenice through the familiar halls of her childhood, memories flooding over her at every turn, every time-indented stair. She knew it all by heart and loved every carved post, every mullioned window, every windowseat, every piece of panelling along the way. Her father's paintings crowded the walls, and many were of her; of those done during Domini's adolescent years, none had ever been sold. It moved Domini to see them still hanging. Remembering the destructive slashes of black paint that had destroyed one portrait, she had sometimes wondered if all of them had suffered a similar fate.

Inside the house it was relatively peaceful because all the visitors but Domini were for the moment outside. But there were nurses and two doctors in attendance in Le Basque's room, and equipment that must have been rushed from a hospital in Lourdes. Berenice told Domini to wait at the open door. 'He will want to see you alone,' she said, 'and with no one to watch.'

She hurried the nurses out easily enough, but Domini heard one of the doctors objecting in a low voice. Berenice literally pushed him through the door. 'And what do you think you have been keeping him alive for?' she hissed, sottovoce.

Domini entered her father's room, closing the oaken door quietly behind her. This great sunny bedroom was loved and familiar too. In her very youngest years she had often come bouncing in to wake her father in early morning, certain of her welcome even when there was a mistress in his huge old four-poster bed. There had been romps and tickles and screams of laughter, the good-natured Basque women in their voluminous white nightdresses joining in as easily and naturally as Domini did herself.

The room was unchanged but for the I.y. stand and other medical equipment. Even the sun spilled in, and Domini knew it was because her father preferred it so; he had never liked sickrooms and darkened windows. She walked to her father's bedside. His eyes were closed, his face grey, his cheeks shrunken, his skin like parchment. He might have been dead already but for the faint, irregular breathing that lifted his once burly chest. Without hesitation Domini dropped to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and picked up a hand that looked far too limp and lifeless. She kissed it and then pressed it to her cheek.

'I've come home, Papa,' she said.

His sunken eyes opened. Although his great heart had almost given out, the spark of life in his eyes was not yet dead. They were not focused on Domini though, and he muttered as if in pain, 'Didi? I think I dreamed. Oh, God, I dreamed...'

'No, Papa, you're not dreaming. I've come home,' she repeated and moved to sit on the edge of the bed where he could see her more easily. She kept his hand in both of hers. 'I love you, Papa,' she said simply and leaned over to rest her face against his time-weathered cheek. 'I love you more than I can tell.'

'Didi,' he said, and Domini could feel the tremble in his mouth, the heave of his chest, the quiver of his hand. His voice was agitated. 'There's so much to say, so little time to say it. I destroyed your picture, but …., '

'Hush,' she whispered to calm him. 'It doesn't matter. I love you, Papa. The rest can wait.'

For a time neither spoke nor moved. When Domini felt peace begin to steal through her father's body, she finally raised her head so she could see him. There were tears standing in his eyes, but he was calmer.

'Will you forgive me, Didi?' he whispered.

'Will you forgive me, Papa?'

'How could I not forgive, when I love?' he said, trembling. 'I forgave you long ago.'

'And so did I,' Domini said gently. 'I stayed away out of pride, only pride. I would have come before if I had known you needed me.'

'Tell me about.. .' Effort had made his words weak, and although Domini could not hear the rest of his sentence, she guessed that he wanted to know where she had been, what she had been doing, how she had been surviving. And so she told him, in simple words and omitting all the more painful parts, including any mention of Sander.

'Anastasia,' he muttered at one point, with a smile hovering at his lips. 'Is she... like you?'

'She has my eyes, Papa. And .. . yes, I think she's a little like I was at that age. Very happy, very trusting, very ... full of joy. I think you would love her.'

'Yes,' he said without question and did not ask who the father had been. His eyes closed tiredly, but he looked quite pleased. Serenity washed over his face while Domini talked on, telling quietly of happy times until she saw that he was growing too weary to listen more.

'Papa, you should rest now,' she said. 'I can come back in a short while.'

At once he seemed to grow restless again, and his fingers found the strength to clutch at hers. 'No,' he mouthed, the word too weak to be heard. And so Domini sat, no longer speaking because she was afraid she had overtired him. Within moments he slid into a shallow sleep, not quite relaxed because every once in a while his mouth would twitch as though he were trying to say something.

When her father spoke again, his voice was so faint, so far away, that Domini had to bend her head to hear it. 'Something else... wanted to say...'

'You can tell me later, Papa.'

'No . . .' Effort was rattling his chest, moving his mouth in meaningless little mutters. '. . . sold the . . . sold the unicorn...'

'You don't have to explain, Papa. I don't mind at all. After all, I grew out of it years ago.' Domini looked at her father ruefully, realizing from all she had learned that he must now deeply regret that time when he had tried to thrust her from his life. She wondered what she could say to put some peace in his soul.

'Do you know, just a few months ago I bought one almost like it for Tasey,' she said gently. 'It was only a copy, but I bought it because . . . because to me it meant love, your love. You gave me the most beautiful childhood in the world, Papa. If you sold the unicorn it doesn't matter, because it will always be here in my heart.'

Le Basque's face lit into a dim smile, and he slept.

He died peacefully towards the very end of that same night, with Berenice and Domini beside him. The doctors had thought him improved. They and the nurses had been told by Berenice to stay out of the room, and because she could be very firm, they had finally withdrawn. She knew Le Basque's time had come, with the inner knowledge of someone who understood his true heart and not merely the erratic patterns on a screen. If she had been the great love of Le Basque's latter years, for her he had been the great love of her life.

The daily retinue of those who had come to see Le Basque die had left some time before. Some had returned to Paris, and some … Domini's half-brothers among them, and a few persistent journalists … were staying at a local hostelry.

Berenice had prepared a room for Domini, and because she alone of the visitors was asked to stay at the farmhouse, others remained for the time being unaware of her arrival. Only the doctors and nurses and a few of the servants knew. Berenice had suggested some discretion, thinking to spare Domini the agony of unnecessary publicity. Already there had been too many questions over the past few days about the whereabouts of Le Basque's famed illegitimate child. In the latter part of his life Le Basque had protected his privacy, and so it had not been generally known that Domini had vanished some years before; but one of the servants had let it slip, arousing immediate curiosity. Only the day before, a photographer had been caught trying to take a shot of one of the portraits of Domini in her late teens. The publicity could not be avoided forever, but at least it would not mar the time of deepest grief.

In the bedroom of her childhood Domini had slept the sleep of exhaustion after the afternoon visit with her father, and wakened for a late supper before joining Berenice for the long night's wait in her father's room. It was nearly dawn when he died, and even then Berenice did not call the doctors at once. Quietly she closed his eyelids, her final gesture of farewell. Then she said to Domini, 'If they come now they will thump at his heart and do undignified things to try to make him live. Your father would not have liked that; he knew he was mortal. He will live, but not because of anything the doctors do.'

And then Berenice bent her head and murmured, 'He wanted no priests to be with him when he died. He said they would have him soon enough, and for all time.' In the tongue of the Basque people she added so quietly that the words could hardly be heard:
'Orhaithilceaz
.'

Remember Death. It was an inscription often seen in the Basque Pyrenees, where the end of life was accepted with peace ... not as a penalty, but as a fair and natural price to be paid for the gift of living. Since that long-ago when one dead lamb had been used to save the life of another, Domini had not been uneasy in the presence of death. It is not death that matters, but life, her father had said. Not long after the incident of the lambing, her father had taken her to a nearby country graveyard. There they had walked together hand-in-hand and looked at the tombstones of Basques who had died many centuries before. Most of the odd disc-shaped markers wore the patina of very great age, and they had seemed as timeless and enduring as the quiet mountains that guarded them. It was a place where peace seeped into the soul, and with her small hand in her father's the repose of that graveyard had held no fears for Domini.