Snowstorms in a Hot Climate (10 page)

His eyes shone, blue-gray diamonds, the very stuff of romantic fiction. I blinked to cut out the glare. Elly had been a long time in the washroom. Obviously she wanted us to get acquainted. I considered his proposition. Should I believe him? What was there to disbelieve? Either it was the truth or it wasn’t. There was even, I had to admit, a kind of perverse logic to it. Maybe Elly was homesick. Certainly she was afraid to go home. She had left England on impulse; maybe that was also the way she would return. I had come to help her. Indeed I had come to take her home. Only he didn’t know that.

Over his shoulder, the door to the powder room swung open, and a small dark figure emerged. He registered my glance but didn’t take his eyes off me. I had to hand it to him. He had strong nerves.

“All right,” I said, when she was almost upon us. “You have my silence.”

“Terrific.” He made his voice public with a laugh, turning to greet her with impeccable timing.

“What’s terrific?” She was looking at me rather than him.

“Oh, we’ve just been discovering areas of common interest,” he said, glancing up at her. “You got to remember, I don’t get to meet too many professional historians these days.”

“Oh no, you’re not going to talk shop.” She groaned, but you could tell she was pleased.

“Uh-uh. We’ve finished our revision of the past, haven’t we, Marla? Now I suggest we get on with the present. Champagne I think. To celebrate the reunion.”

And so mine host took charge, and under the grow lamp of his attention, small shoots of conversation began to appear. The champagne was accompanied by questions: my impressions of New York, the changes I found, my work, the trials and tribulations of teaching. Unspectacular subject matter but impressively handled. He appeared to find my replies riveting. He certainly listened, tossing back thoughts, playing with possibilities, picking up on my dust-dry humor, giving as good as he got. It was a game, of course, albeit consummately played. I remembered Elly’s description of that first night in Bogotá, and I knew I was being charmed and coaxed into complicity. But then, what option did I have? After all, wasn’t this just a social occasion? The meeting of Elly’s friends. No, I had wanted to see Lenny in action. Now was my chance. And all the time Elly sat and watched us spar until, gradually, as the illusion of relaxation grew, her apprehension faded and she too began to join in.

Three minds with but a single thought—to avoid confrontation and observe the protocol of pleasure. And thus, against all odds, the evening began to blossom. After the second bottle of champagne—the credit should be shared—we floated on to the streets and hailed a taxi, cruising our way through the crimson New York twilight to an expensive, exclusive Japanese restaurant,
where everything was opaque and cool, and where we sat on tatami and played at being Oriental, bowing our heads at silken, smiling waitresses and eating our way through an endless art exhibit of tastes, while gently but surely crippling ourselves on a warm stream of sake.

And here it was that Lenny really came into his own, telling witty tales of his travels in Japan, mixing fact with fiction, the sacred with the profane. And because I am susceptible to intelligence, I allowed myself, temporarily at least, to be seduced by him. He, in turn, did not become complacent. Indeed, he never once forgot the complex energies of the evening. Thus he kept me in close contact while always being alert to Elly’s needs: a hand on the back of her chair, the odd touch, a way of recalling incidents shared which gave them an intimacy without excluding me. And she accepted his ministrations gracefully, unable to resist the temptation of pleasure from having us both—her lover and her best friend—so close. And as for him? Well, it was a virtuoso performance, and obscured for those few hours all shadows of the other Lennys, the cold, the cruel, the distant ones. And so I learned a lesson for times to come. That my battle was not so much with a dragon breathing fire as with Proteus changing shapes, and that whatever magic was woven around me, I should always be on my guard.

Finally we picked up our pampered bodies and carried them home to the apartment in the sky, where all that remained to do was to sit out in the night air and sip bourbon. And it was there, on the balcony, that the spell wore off, and the ghosts of last night’s conversation came back to haunt our newfound bonhomie. And so I got up, excused myself, and retired to bed.

After a while they too made their way to the bedroom. I heard footsteps and whispered voices. Then I felt my door open and caught sight of Elly’s white figure hovering like some Victorian angel over my bed.

“I came to say good night,” she whispered. “And to tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”

And I looked up at her, her face all snub and cubist in the night shadows, and said, “I think we should go to California.”

To which she smiled. “Of course. Is tomorrow soon enough? All it takes is a phone call. What happened, Marla? Did you get sunburned already?”

And if I answered, I have no recollection of what I said. Indeed I remember nothing more of that night, for which I am grateful, for the walls of the apartment were thin and I had no wish to hear their lovemaking.

T
he black guy who sold us the Greyhound tickets at San Francisco Airport looked like a baseball pro with the day off. I kept thinking he must be wearing roller skates, the way he darted around the booth checking timetables and punching tickets. His efficiency was designed to be admired. As he took our money, he flashed a smile which cracked his face from ear to ear. The teeth revealed were a monument to private dental care.

“Ladies, the bus to Santa Cruz leaves in exactly eight minutes from the stop at the end of the Arrivals concourse. Take care, have a good journey, and thank you for going Greyhound.”

We all grinned, none of us believing a word of it, but all colluding
in the myth. Then Elly and I picked up our suitcases and headed for the sign of the dog.

We had taken an afternoon flight from the East, sipping tea and watching the epic performance of prairies, mountains, and deserts unfold beneath us. It had not, to date, been the best of days. Morning had broken to unauthorized drilling in the back of my skull, a warning too late of the comparative strengths of English and American cocktails. Next to my bed was a scrawled note from Elly:

Clearly not. At that point it seemed inconceivable I should travel as far as the bathroom, let alone the West Coast. Think big, start small. I crept out of bed. The door to their bedroom was closed. Thank God, Lenny was still unconscious. After a few gallons of water, my vision improved, but my head still hurt. In the kitchen the orange juice was sweet and thick with pulp, but I could manage only a few gulps. I filled a mug with black coffee and made my way out onto the balcony. I was practicing focusing when I heard the front door open. Elly doesn’t waste time, I thought, just before Lenny’s voice tapped me on the shoulder.

“Good morning, Marla.”

It was the casual look this morning. T-shirt, designer jeans, and sneakers. Casual with a capital
C
. Funny how Lenny’s clothes always drew attention to themselves—“Look at us. Look at us. We belong to Lenny.” I think I muttered something in reply.

“You interested in contemporary history?” he said, pulling out
The New York Times
and burdening me with a couple of volumes of it. “More coffee?”

I shook my head. Slowly.

“You sure? You look like you need it. Got a hangover?”

“Nothing a brain transplant wouldn’t cure.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I have the perfect remedy.”

At least it got rid of him for a moment. I sat staring down at the front page of the paper. From the kitchen I registered the sounds of the fridge, then the blender. I was grateful the noise wasn’t any closer.
REAGAN URGES STRONGER PENALTIES FOR DRUG ABUSE
. I read the headline twice. Lenny appeared with a tall glass of yellowish liquid.

“What is it?”

“I wouldn’t ask.”

I cradled it in my hands, then took a sip. It tasted rancid. He waited for me to show my disgust. I took a breath and finished it in one long, foul gulp. As I put it down, I began to feel a fizzing in my stomach. Then I most definitely felt sick. Lenny had poisoned me. Of course. I had fallen straight into the trap.

“You feel sick, right?” he said, leaning against the railing, watching, amused. I decided not to risk opening my mouth. “Good. That means it’s working. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel like a new woman.”

To my relief the old one returned, feeling more herself than ever. For a while we sat in silence. Then he said, “So, you’re a historian, Marla. That gives us something in common. I’ve just finished that Günter Grass novel on the Thirty Years’ War,
Meeting at Telgte
. Have you read it?”

I shook my head.

“Pity. I would have been interested in your professional opinion. I think it’s pretty good. Brings it alive. But then, of course, he’s a novelist rather than a historian—more interested in atmosphere than in facts. You probably despise that kind of thing.”

There was no doubt about it: Lenny wanted to talk.

“I’m not averse to imagination in history, if that’s what you mean. Facts are just facts without interpretation.”

“And history is interpretation?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“What about when interpretation becomes distorted?”

“Then it ceases to be history.” I shrugged. “Maybe that’s when it becomes fiction.”

“So what about Bergman’s
Seventh Seal
?”

“What about it?”

“Fact or fiction?”

I was becoming aware that I was feeling distinctly less accommodating than the night before. Of course, it might just have been the ragged end of the hangover. But something told me that the feeling was mutual.

“Neither. Swedish art doesn’t count.”

He smiled. “How about your own period? Anglo-Saxon Britain, isn’t it? Have you ever seen a movie which captured that for you?”

“Absolutely. Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas in
The Vikings,
” I said with a perfectly straight face. “A breathtaking re-creation of an early medieval soap.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like talking about your job, is that it?”

“People don’t usually ask. It’s not exactly an immediately arresting period.”

“Is that why you chose it?”

Ten out of ten, Lenny. “I don’t know. Certainly I like the fact that it’s underpopulated. By historians at least. Not like the Tudors or the Borgias. Researching them is like shopping in a supermarket on Christmas Eve: too many people squabbling over the same dead flesh. In Anglo-Saxon history you can go for years without meeting another living soul.”

“And you like that?”

“Yes, I like that.”

Blood out of a stone. I was weary of his concentration. There was too much of the inquisition about it.

“Elly tells me you’re leaving today,” he said, changing the subject as if he had read my thoughts. “It doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other. I’d been looking forward to that.”

“You could always come out and join us.” I felt forced into being charitable. “Later.”

“I’m not sure I should disturb your reunion. You two have a lot of catching up to do. Although I gather you’ve done some of it already.”

“Yes,” I said softly. So was this what it was all about? “Some of it.”

“Elly assures me you’re a very discreet person.” He smiled. “But then I guess I had proof of that last night.” Still I said nothing. “I do hope you can help her, Marla. She worries me. She doesn’t seem to be able to relax anymore. There’s a kind of perpetual tension about her. Maybe you’ve noticed?”

This time he waited, as if he seriously expected a reply. What kind of treaty did he think we’d signed last night?
Détente
does not mean disarmament. “No, I can’t say I have. But then it’s been a long time.”

He nodded. “Anyway, I want you to know how happy I am that you’re here. I know you’ll do her a lot of good.”

How is it that you know when someone’s lying? Is it really in the eyes? Or maybe it’s the voice. Or the body. Because something has to set off the alarm bells, and just at that moment I had developed a severe case of tinnitus. I decided it was my turn to change the subject. There was something I was curious about.

“I have a question.”

“Be my guest.”

“It’s about the flight. Last night. I wondered if perhaps you’d spotted us meeting at the airport—Elly and I?”

There was just the hint of a frown.

“It was just that you didn’t get home until so much later. I thought perhaps you’d seen us in the arrivals hall and decided to give us some time together.”

He laughed as if the theory brought him genuine pleasure. “God, no. Nothing so ingenious. You had disappeared long before I cleared Customs. I had a slight problem. You see, I had no luggage to clear. It wasn’t on the plane. I spent the best part of three hours waiting for them to track it down. They finally located it revolving around an empty conveyor belt in Miami. They flew it back first thing this morning. That’s why I was up so early. I tell you, it’s the first and last time I ever fly British Airways. Speaking of which, you’re booked on American Airlines this afternoon. I hope that doesn’t offend your patriotism. So, you know California?”

“A little,” I said, admiring what Elly would have called the stage management.

“But not J.T.? I’ll be interested to see what you make of him. I don’t know what Elly has told you, but he’s quite a character.”

“You’re good friends.”

“Like you and Elly.” He smiled. We go back a long way.”

No time to reflect on this or anything else. The front door rattled Elly’s arrival, and she entered like a small whirlwind, all heat and hurry. I stashed the conversation away to be regurgitated later. We were almost late for the plane.

The Greyhound, on the other hand, was punctual to the minute. We settled ourselves in the back seats, a small ocean of space between us and the nearest passengers. Outside, California appeared like a movie set, sharp acrylic light on Technicolor landscape. Santa Cruz and our host were just an hour away over the hills and the redwood forest. Over the rainbow to blue skies
and paradise living. And another man of mystery, this one so enigmatic that he didn’t even have a proper name. It was time to open a file on this latest character. Beginning with his initials. What exactly did J.T. stand for?