Adam's Peak (49 page)

Her thoughts jumped ahead, following this new pattern. She and Rudy Vantwest would stand together in line to board the flight to Colombo (he'd been home visiting his brother and now was returning). They would try to switch seats in order to be next to each other, but
the man checking boarding passes at the gate would smile apologetically and say it couldn't be done. At the airport in Colombo, however, they would arrange to get together. A walk through the city; he'd show her around. They would plan to climb the sacred mountain together. She pictured the ascent, up the steep path, past the shrines—she and Rudy talking briefly, dutifully, about their shared past, the way Isobel and Alec had done, then leaving Morgan Hill Road behind and concentrating on themselves. Their conversation unfolding without awkwardness. But it wouldn't be conversation alone connecting them. She saw Rudy stop near the summit of the peak and step in very close to her, brush her hair from her face, rest his hands on her shoulders. She saw her own hands press against his hips and pull him closer still. She imagined, and even felt, the fluttering arousal, so different from anything Emma's gift had yet delivered, for it would derive from a real touch, a connection with the thrilling mystery of another. And she imagined the powerful conviction she would have of this relationship making sense. For such a relationship could not happen out of the blue. The motorcycle ride with Adam, the visits with Alec and Mary, even her decision to find Patrick Locke—all had a place in this particular design, this fate that was now announcing itself through the presence of Rudy Vantwest at the coffee shop across the concourse.

Of course, this fate meant an unsettling of her new plans. She'd decided to return to Paris. Marielle's cottage had been a disappointment—the rooms were chilly and dark and scantily furnished—so she'd left the place for a three-star hotel in the Marais, a nineteenth-century establishment from which she went on long walks, studying her reflection in windows and cultivating feelings of being at home in the great stone city. Her plan was to return there and study music again, at the Sorbonne, or wherever it was that one studied music in Paris. Her apartment building would be old. The sitting room would have a worn Persian carpet, and the window would look out on Notre Dame, or the Eiffel Tower, or anything at all that would be out of place in a Montreal suburb. There'd be a café and a
boulangerie
in the same block, a second-hand bookstore around the corner. She would get to know the owners of the shops; she would introduce herself to her classmates. So she'd thought. But this encountering of Rudy
Vantwest could not be ignored. It had to be lived out—the walk across the concourse, the greeting. The energies of fate must be permitted to have their way, to change her plans even.

She went to the cashier's desk to pay for the magazine.

It was this shift in her perspective that caused her to notice the plastic duty-free bag on the floor next to Rudy Vantwest's table. It was white with red lettering, and she recognized the design, having seen it on her own ticket envelope, as Air Lanka's. Clare stared as its implications sorted themselves out. She'd assumed that Rudy had been home visiting his brother and would soon be making his fateful way to the gate from which their shared flight would depart. But what of the duty-free bag? Did Air Lanka even have flights from Montreal to London? It didn't seem likely. What was likely, in short, was that Rudy had not just come from Canada after all. In all probability, he'd been on a flight out of Colombo—perhaps the very same plane that Clare would board, in two hours, for its return journey. In an utterly banal way, this explanation made the most sense of all: she and Rudy Vantwest had been brought together by airline timetabling. He wished to leave Colombo; she wished to go there. The possibilities for carrying out those choices were limited.

Clare slipped the magazine into her bag and slid the silver cross back and forth along its chain. There was a voice in her head, quiet and unfamiliar. More of a loose consciousness than a particular arrangement of words. It was telling her it didn't matter. How Rudy had come to be there—coincidence, fate, choice—didn't matter. The presence in her head was gently persuading her that she needed to pick up her belongings and go to him. That it would be foolish not to—he was her neighbour.

Across the concourse, Rudy Vantwest was again squinting into the distance. He seemed bored, in need of companionship. Clare hitched the straps of her bag up her shoulder, ran her fingers through her hair, and started walking. He looked over before she reached him, and their eyes met, just as they had years before on the day of Adam's birth.

Dear Claire,

Thanks for your last letter. Great to hear from you, as always. And is the new version of your name official? (I like it.) I thought you'd like a copy of the enclosed photo. As you can probably guess, it was taken at Adam's graduation, which was on May 21st. I took the train out with Susie and company.

That's Sue standing next to Adam. The guy on her other side is Lawrence. They're still going strong. I fear I'm going to get the boot any day now (I've actually been scouting out condos around the Annex), but I told Sue and Mark I'm holding out for collective custody. I think they'll be willing to indulge me. But to return to the photo, the beautiful young lady next to me is Zoë. People have started mistaking her for my girlfriend when we go out together, which makes me feel really creepy. She's only thirteen! Fortunately she's got brains to go with her mature looks. I think she's absolutely brilliant (not that I'm biased or anything), and hilarious too, often at my
expense. Everything's fair game: my clothes, my receding hair-line, my cooking, my clumsy signing. (My latest faux pas was to sign “orgasm” when I meant “mouse.” What I want to know is how the hell my thirteen-year-old niece learned the word orgasm!) But anyway I guess I'm just a big schmuck, 'cause I let her get away with it.

As you can see, Dad's getting on. He doesn't usually look quite this wrecked though. The ceremony was very emotional for him. When Adam walked across the stage, he (Dad that is) had tears streaming down his face. I'd never seen my father cry before, even when Mum died. It was strange and kind of freaky. Sue and I each took his hand, and the three of us just sat there watching. Anyway, he continues to ask about you whenever we see each other, and he wanted me to pass on his good wishes. So here you go: Alec sends his best.

And of course that's your mum standing next to him. It was really nice of her to come to the ceremony. Apparently she did Dad's taxes for him this year, and he was so chuffed with the refund she got him that he's been recommending her to all his old work cronies. She and I chatted for a while after the ceremony. She was telling me about her real estate fiasco and passing on some helpful advice. Sounds like she's happy in the city, though, and the apartment is a classic (I saw some pics).

I can't remember when I last updated you on Adam. He's still kind of irritable and more unpredictable than he was before the accident (I imagine those things might be permanent), but he managed to finish his thesis, which he dedicated to Mum. He got the defence waived (that whole scene would have been too much for him), and I gave him quite a bit of help with the writing. The ideas are pretty insightful, though, which makes me think the essential Adam is still there. Oh, and the thing he's holding in the photo isn't his diploma; it's a plane ticket to Colombo (a grad present from all of us). Finally he's going to go, next month, with Dad. I told him this is a lousy time of year to climb the peak (as you know!), but he's psyched. And of course my aunt can't wait.

Speaking of Sri Lanka, these peace talks with the Norwegians sound promising. The ceasefire seems to be holding in any case, and the government and the LTTE look to be on reasonably civil terms with each other (though my aunt is still skeptical). You probably get much better coverage of this stuff in the UK than I'm getting over here. Or am I just being apathetic and lazy??

Anyway, speaking of laziness, I should get to the pile of marking I've been avoiding for the past week. Argh. It's the home stretch, though. Hey, did I tell you I joined a cricket league? An out-of-shape and overweight lot we are, but it's a blast. Good luck with the big recital! Let me know how it goes. As ever,

Rudy

P.S. Adam says don't worry about the jacket. He'd forgotten all about it. But if I happened to be passing through your neighbourhood this summer, could I pick it up?

Adam's Peak
is a work of fiction, and its characters are, with the exception of public figures mentioned in passing, my own creations. With regard to its geographical settings, the novel makes use of both real and fictional places and takes certain liberties with the former. The violent incident that occurs in
Chapter 11
is loosely based on the 1996 bombing of Colombo's Central Bank; however, the date and specific details of that event have been altered. The quotation in the novel's opening section comes from James Emerson Tennent's
Ceylon: an Account of the Island / Physical, Historical, and Topographical / with Notices of its Natural History, Antiquities and Productions
(London: Longman, 1859).

I am indebted to the many people who shared their knowledge, expertise, and time with me as I wrote this book. In particular I would like to thank Malinda Abeykoon, Ann Burt, David Burt, Andrew Buultjens, Monica Büültjens, Afton Cayford, Katherine Headrick, Sally Headrick, Amitha Kothalawala, John Morris, Zoe Pagnamenta, Asela Pilapitiya, Sharon Salloum, Mervyn Shedden, Primrose Shedden, and Rikardo Shedden. All of these kind people have assisted me enormously; any errors, however, are my own.

I'm very grateful for the enthusiasm and intelligent guidance of Hilary McMahon and Alison Hardacre at Westwood Creative Artists and Barry Jowett and Andrea Waters of Dundurn. Many thanks as well to my parents, Andrew and Glenna Burt, for their long-standing support and encouragement. Finally, I am especially grateful to Paul Headrick, whose contributions to this project are immeasurable.