Lovers and Liars Trilogy (133 page)

But they were already running by then. Around corners, into shops, out again, through a whole maze of narrow streets. When they finally stopped, Mina could scarcely breathe, and Star was white to the lips.

“You saw him?” He caught hold of her arm. “Christ, they’re everywhere. Police, plainclothes police. In cars. On the street. He saw your hair—I saw him look at your hair. We have to get back. We have to change the way you look.”

He put his arms around her and hugged her tight. “Mina. If they catch us here, you know what they’ll do to me? They’ll put me in prison. They’ll lock me up.”

Mina tried to tell him that she wouldn’t let them do that; she’d explain that she’d chosen to come with him. But Star wasn’t listening. He raced her back to their attic room and then he made her dye her hair. He sat there in the corner of the room while she did it, he wouldn’t even let her use the bathroom, in case the dye left traces, and one of the other lodgers saw it and suspected. So she had to apply the dye with a basin while Star sat surrounded by all the red curls and tresses he’d cut off. They were on the table, on the floor, but he didn’t seem to see them. He was reading the tarot, slapping down the cards: the tower, the lovers, the hanged man, the queen of diamonds, the king of cups. His beautiful face darkened. Mina could tell he didn’t like what the cards told him, and the next thing she knew, he’d swept them all on the floor, then picked up the chair and thrown it across the room. It hit the wall, and smashed.

“Hurry up.” He threw himself down on the bed and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. His fists clenched and unclenched. “Dry your hair, Mina. Come here. Talk to me. Stroke my forehead.”

Mina did as she was bid. She crept up close to him and stroked his hair, then his face.

“Can’t you tell me what’s wrong, Star?” she said timidly.

“The cards were bad.” He reached up and grasped her hand. “I didn’t like the cards. Go on, Mina. You make me feel better. You’re the only one who can. You have the soothing gift. Stroke me very gently. Like that.”

Mina continued to do so. She felt proud, but also a little afraid of what Star might do next. She felt cold, with her still-damp hair, and she could see little rivulets of black dye dripping down onto her arms and her shirt.

After a while, a long while, she felt him tense, and she knew what was coming next. He gripped her wrist and opened his eyes, and stared at her, one long, unblinking stare. He looked into her and through her, his beautiful face set like a mask, not one muscle moving. Then he pulled her hand down, away from his forehead. He rested it on his chest, then moved it lower and pressed it against his crotch.

Mina knew what he wanted her to do now, because he’d shown her the previous day. She had to stroke his thighs and his groin while she murmured his name over and over. When he closed his eyes, that was the signal: then she had to unzip his jeans and free his penis, which Star called his cock. The word embarrassed her and made her blush, because apart from Star and Cassandra, no one else she knew ever used that word. Fortunately, she did not have to use it herself; she just had to stroke him, holding his penis in her hand. She was to continue saying his name while she did so; she had to breathe quietly, and lie very still; he would tell her when to stop.

When he first asked, pleaded with her to do this, Mina had thought that perhaps this was how sex could begin sometimes. She had always expected it to begin with kisses, but perhaps this was a prelude to making love which some men liked. She told herself that she knew what would happen next. It would be the way Cassandra whispered, the way it had so clearly been explained in biology class. Star would become aroused, then blood would engorge his penis, then he would have what her teacher called an erection and Cassandra called a hard-on—and then he would certainly kiss her, and then they would make love.

Behind all this mist of confusion and words, Mina thought she was prepared for this. She did not want to go on being a virgin, but she wanted the loss of her virginity to be special—not some rushed fumbling of the kind Cassandra had described, but a glorious occurrence she would never forget: she wanted it to be her gift to a man she loved—and she loved Star. As soon as he first began talking to her, she had known that at once.

No diagrams or descriptions, however, had prepared her for this. She knew she was flurried and nervous, and was perhaps making some technical mistake, but when she unzipped his jeans and took Star in her hand, even when she began to stroke him, nothing happened at all. Star’s eyes remained closed, but he did not protest, or correct her, so gradually she lost her fear. She stroked his beautiful, taut flat stomach, then laced her fingers in his dark pubic hair. Timidly, she ran her index finger along the length of his penis: its large size surprised her, and so did the extreme tenderness of this skin. She traced a vein, then held this lovely thing in her hand. She might have liked to bend forward and kiss it, because she felt overwhelmed with love for Star, and with these secrets of his body, but she did not quite dare. She continued to stroke, and once she felt a tiny quiver of life pass through this soft flesh, but then it lay inert once more, cupped in her hand, and she began to feel desperate.

“They spring up,” Cassandra had said. “They spring up and stick out—like a shelf. I like it when that happens. It makes you feel so powerful, Mina. It’s great.”

What was she doing wrong? Mina tried to blink back the tears. She knew what was wrong. Star did not love her; he was not even attracted to her; she was stupid and plain and clumsy; she did not inspire want.

“Star,” she whispered when she could bear it no longer. “Star, is something wrong? Isn’t this what you want?”

He rose up in the bed in one fast, fluid movement. He drew back his arm and hit her hard across the face. He hit her with the flat of his hand and his full strength. The blow was so powerful, it knocked her back against the wall and off the bed.

She crouched on the floor, too afraid to cry, and then Star caught hold of her and dragged her up. He was shaking with rage and his eyes had that glittery look she was coming to dread.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, shaking her. “Nothing—you’ve got that? You think I want sex?” He shook her again. “You think I want to fuck? Well, I don’t. I don’t want any of that—that’s what ordinary men want.”

Mina began crying then. The tears choked her, and her head hurt, and she was desperate to make him understand.

“But I love you, Star,” she whispered. “I love you so much. I thought you might want to make love to me. If you wanted to, I would…”

“Have you? Ever?” He shook her a third time, and when she said no, he suddenly embraced her very tight, locked her in his arms and rocked her back and forth.

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s good, Mina. You have to understand—we’re special. This is special. We’re not like everyone else. We
commune,
Mina. We fuck with our eyes, with our minds, with our
souls,
Mina. That’s what we do. That’s what I want.”

Mina stopped crying and stared at him. She looked at his face, which was extraordinary, burning with conviction, and she thought what he said was extraordinary, the most strange and wonderful thing any man could say—and then a horrible little doubt crept in at the back of her mind: had he ever said that before, to anyone else?

Almost at once, though, that doubt slipped away. Star was so kind and so tender to her after that. He took her in his arms and kissed her face, and told her she was the best and the sweetest thing that had ever happened to him in his life; he told her she was his salvation, and Mina believed the blaze in his eyes and his voice. Since then there had been no outbursts of rage, just the occasional hints, like the rumblings of a volcano, the suggestion that even when controlled, some terrible fury she did not understand seethed beneath.

He has been
hurt,
she thought now, edging back into the darkness of the church doorway, so badly hurt that nothing could soothe him for long, not the strokings and whisperings of his name, not even the game he liked to play with that gun catalogue, though his expertise there could always restore his humor for an hour at least.

She lifted her watch to her face and stared at the hands. Star had been gone almost twenty minutes. She felt suddenly afraid that he wouldn’t come back, that he’d tired of her, decided just to abandon her there. She looked up at the lighted window opposite but could see no one. A taxi was just pulling in at the end of the street. She shrank back into the shadows, imprisoned there by fear and love, by an anguish of uncertainty—by the most potent combination of weapons any man can use against a woman, of course, but Mina did not understand that. Less than a minute later she gave a low cry of relief: the door opposite had opened, and Star was across the narrow street in an instant.

Mina began to move forward, into the light spilling from the restaurants, and then she stopped. Two people had climbed out of the taxi, a man and a woman. They were now moving along the street. They were checking the numbers of doors, and they were speaking English: Mina caught the man’s deeper tones, then the woman’s low voice.

Star, usually so cautious, seemed unaware of this. He had come to a halt just in front of her, and was staring at her as if she were invisible, as if he looked at a wall. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Star, quickly. These people are English,” she whispered, catching hold of him. “Come out of the light.”

He still did not move; he seemed not to hear her. The man and the woman were closer now, about thirty feet away. Frightened, Mina backed into the shadows of the church doorway, pulling Star after her. He had begun to make a noise, a terrible noise, a low, moaning noise. Mina fumbled with the handle of the door behind her and opened it.

“Don’t, Star, don’t,” she whispered, and tried to cover his mouth with her hand. Shaking, she half pushed, half pulled him into the church and swung the door shut. It was dimly lit and empty. Candles flickered in some distant recess. Star slumped back against the closed door, then slumped to the ground. He crouched there, silent now, then buried his face in his arms. Mina stood absolutely still, listening, torn between Star and the footsteps outside, which had been coming closer but had now stopped.

“It’s the house over there,” the man said. Mina could hear him clearly. “The one with the lace curtains. Someone’s in—there’s lights, there’s a television on…”

Mina froze, pressing her ear to the door panels.

“Shall we both try?” It was the woman’s voice. “It’s late. We don’t want to alarm them.”

“You try first. A woman is less intimidating. Be careful what you say. If she’s there, I’ll come over—let’s play it like that. I’ll wait here in the doorway, out of sight.”

The woman seemed to hesitate. “Is something wrong, Rowland?”

“No. Nothing. Go on…”

Mina heard the woman’s footsteps cross the street. Her male companion moved back so he was just on the other side of the church door. Mina held her breath. Then, to her astonishment, she heard the man give way to some unexplained emotion. He made some quick violent movement; Mina thought he struck the wall beside the door with his fist; she heard him say
Christ
once, in a low voice, then again, even more quietly, then she heard the sound of knocking from across the street. Then silence. Then voices, the woman’s and a girl’s, speaking rapidly in French.

The conversation was brief; a door slammed. The woman’s footsteps approached.

“No Chantal?”

“She claims not. Hasn’t lived there in months. Doesn’t know where she does live now. And doesn’t take kindly to a stranger turning up on her doorstep at this time of night.”

“Was she lying?”

“Maybe. I couldn’t tell. She slammed the door in my face.”

“Damn. Now what do we do? Maybe we should go back to the hotel. I need to think.”

“You need to
sleep.
You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.” He cut the woman off in a curt way. “Come on. This is hopeless. We can’t force our way in there. We’ll have to give this information to the police. You realize Chantal could be there despite what she said. So could Star. So could Mina Landis, come to that.”

“Rowland, I know. Damn, we’ve done the wrong thing. We shouldn’t have come here like this. If they were there, or if that woman knows them, we’ve just alerted them. That was stupid.
Stupid.
We’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m aware of that. Let’s get back to the St. Vincent…”

The footsteps moved off. Slowly Mina began to breathe again, began to move again. She looked down at Star. She thought he had heard none of this. He was still crouching at her feet, his hands still covered his face.

Mina knelt down beside him and put her arms around him. His face was wet. Gently she began to coax him and whisper to him; she tried to persuade him to lift his head.

“Star,” she said, “please don’t. What’s happened? What’s wrong? Don’t cry—I can’t bear to see you cry. Look at me, Star. We can’t stay here. Someone’s looking for me. They mentioned the police. We have to leave.”

“She’s dead.” He raised his face. “Maria Cazarès is dead. She died this afternoon. This evening. I just saw it on the television. She died hours ago, and I didn’t know. I didn’t sense.” He made a horrible choking sound in his throat. “The cards
lied.
They should have warned me. I wanted her to die. I think I did. But not like this. Not like
this
!”

His sudden violent gesture knocked Mina aside. He stood up.

“This is
your
fault. Your fault. That stupid fucking old bitch’s fault. If you hadn’t been sick, I’d have stayed, I’d have waited. I
knew
it was the right day. I knew she was coming—and she did. One hour, two hours after we left. After
you
made us leave, with your fucking dumb whinings and complainings, you’re too fucking hot, you feel sick…”

He pulled Mina up to her feet and shook her, then grasped her so her face was just inches from his own, and his blue-black eyes glared at her with that awful glittery look.

“I’d have seen her die—you realize that? I could have stood there, just the way I planned, and watched her die at my feet. With that dumb fucking Mathilde weeping and screaming and calling for a priest. Trying to find her rosary, trying to find some little sacred picture, as if a picture would save her—I could have seen all that. And I would have rejoiced.
Rejoiced.
Twenty-five years I’ve waited for this—and you, you—”