Destiny (68 page)

420 • SALLY BEAUMAN

equipment, checking film cans. When Lewis and Helen finally left, he hardly looked up.

"What? Yeah, sure . . . whatever you decide is fine by me. I'll be busy editing. Give me a call. Whenever. Or I'll see you. Fine. . . ."

Lewis took her to dinner at Alfredo's in the Piazza Augusto Imperatore, which was famous for its fettuccine. There, over an excellent meal, and a bottle of Chianti, Lewis felt his spirits revive. In Thad's absence, the scene at the location receded into unreality, and the confusion and alarm Lewis had felt seemed absurd. But it was the first time he had taken Helen out, the first time he had been alone with her for any length of time, and he found that made him a little awkward.

He looked at Helen covertly. If she had flirted a little, the way women usually did, it might have been easier. But she never flirted, he had observed that over the past six weeks, and he had also observed what happened when a man tried to flirt with her. Several of the crew had tried it. Lloyd Baker had tried it. Lewis had seen Helen's chin hft, and her blue eyes flash and then become cold. Lewis did not intend to risk such a reaction now and—in any case—he found that he did not want to flirt, he did not want to pave the way for a pass. His usual technique with women was brash; it seemed to him shoddy, and quite inappropriate now.

That reahzation left him out on a limb, however. Lewis was not used to talking to women. To tease, to suggest, to flatter—he was accomplished at all those things. But just to talk—as if to a person of the same sex—no, that was difficult. Neutral ground, he decided, and asked her about the film.

"Are you pleased with it? Are you glad you did it?"

"Thad wouldn't let me see the rushes, so I don't know. But yes—I'm glad I did it. I felt . . ." She hesitated. "I felt able to do it. That has never happened to me before."

"Oh, don't worry about the rushes. No one's allowed to look at them. That's just Thad's way. He likes to be secretive." Lewis paused, and looked at her more closely. "Is that true—what you just said? After all, a woman like you . . ."He floundered slightly. "I mean, I'd imagine you were pretty confident about most things. ..."

"Would you? Well, you're wrong." She smiled, and looked him directly in the eye. Lewis began to feel astonishingly happy.

"I know what you mean, though," he went on in a rush. "You mean you've started to believe in yourself That's Thad. He has that effect on people—I don't know why. Maybe because his own confidence is so rock-

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like, I'm not sure. He made me believe—well, he made me feel I could do things. You know—you have all sorts of dreams, and you think that's all they are, just dreams, and then someone like Thad comes along, and they aren't dreams anymore. They're reality."

"You felt that?" She looked surprised.

"Yes, I did. I owe Thad a lot." He looked at her, and then away, awkwardly. "This afternoon . . . I'd just like to feel certain. He didn't—Thad didn't hurt you in any way? You're sure?"

"No, he didn't hurt me." A closed look came over her face. "He just— wanted something, and I couldn't give it to him, that's all."

Lewis looked at her carefully. She was choosing her words, and they made him a little uneasy. He sighed.

"Well, Thad's not normal. He wouldn't claim to be. Sometimes I think he's crazy. Crazy like a fox, maybe." He paused, and then burst out with a question he had been wanting to know the answer to for weeks.

"Do you like him? Do you like Thad?"

She took her time answering him; eventually she gave a Uttle shrug. "I don't know. I'm not sure. I just hked working with him, I think. He made me see things."

For some reason, Lewis found this answer pleased him. With a slight sense of guilt he realized that if she had said yes, she liked Thad very much, it would not have been welcome. He began to smile.

"Do you know what Thad's favorite meal is? He has it at least twice every week. Kentucky Fried Chicken, Chinese takeout rice, and Earl Grey tea. Oh, and fortune cookies, if he can get them. Thad loves fortune cookies. . . ."

"He does?"

"Absolutely. I swear it. And he sleeps with his socks on, and never more than four hours a night. . . ."

They both began to laugh. The image of Thad receded; it lost its threat, became a little absurd. This gave Lewis confidence; somehow, it was much easier being with Helen, he decided, when Thad was not there.

"Tell me," he said then, abruptly. "What do you want to do next?" He leaned toward her as he spoke, and for the first time that evening touched her lightly with his hand.

Helene looked down. Lewis had beautiful hands; she felt the slight pressure on her arm, then, quickly, he drew back. She stared down at the tablecloth. The film was over; she would have to decide; she would

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have to plan—it was becoming more and more urgent to plan. She looked up at Lewis.

"I don't know," she said simply. "All I was thinking about was finishing the film. I couldn't think beyond that somehow."

"We'll make other movies," Lewis said, with a careless confidence. "Thad wants us to work together again. He must have told you, surely?"

"He mentioned it, yes. I wasn't sure if he meant it, though. I hoped he did."

"Of course he meant it." Lewis was very firm. "We're a team now: you, me, Thad. A triumvirate. A triangle. Thad likes triangles, he thinks they have a magical force."

She smiled, but a little wanly. Lewis leaned forward. "Look," he said. "You remember all those things you told me about your family in England? Well, obviously you can't want to go back to them. And you don't need to. Why should you? Forget them. You're with us now. We're your family now."

Helene looked away. She had told Lewis some story, weeks ago now; so many weeks, she could no longer remember the details. Was it the same story she had told Thad, or a different one? She wasn't sure. The lies were so confusing, and sometimes they made her feel terribly tired.

"Why don't we take a vacation? We talked about it once, remember? Just a few weeks, just while Thad edits the film. We could have a great time. There're lots of places we could go to. Friends of mine we could stay with ..." Lewis felt himself begin to blush.

"No strings," he added awkwardly. "I want you to know that." No strings! He heard himself use that awful cliche with amazement. He was even more amazed to realize that he meant it.

Helene looked at him quietly. If he had not blushed then, if he had not suddenly looked much younger and much more uncertain of himself than he usually did, she might have answered differently. But she was beginning to realize that Lewis Sinclair was not the person she had taken him for at first: he was gentler and kinder. Like her, she saw, he put on an act for the world—and that touched her. If she needed help, she thought suddenly— and she might need help—then she would not be afraid to turn to Lewis. She thought with a sudden longing of going to some quiet place, somewhere she could think, somewhere she could try to come to terms with everything that had happened since she left Orangeburg, and with all the things that were going to happen next.

"I'd like that," she said at last. "I'd like to go somewhere quiet, and restful—we've been working so hard here."

"No problem. Noisy or quiet. We can go anyplace you hke." Her sudden

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acquiescence made his spirits soar. "Paris—we could go back to Paris. . . ."

"No. Not there." She turned her face away.

"I know!" Lewis leaped to his feet. "Let's just get a cab to the airport, and look at all the destinations, and then just decide, shall we? I've always wanted to do that."

Helene turned back to him. His face was flushed, his eyes bright; slowly she began to smile.

"Just like that? You really mean it?"

"I mean it," Lewis said.

At the airport, she stood in the concourse like a little girl, holding Lewis's hand, and looking at the flight boards. Milan; Athens; Tenerife; New York; Cairo; Algiers; Madrid; Johannesburg; Toronto; Sydney . . .

Lewis gave a shout of laughter.

"Isn't this great? Why did I never do it before? It makes me feel about fifteen years old. ..."

"Anywhere, Lewis?"

"Absolutely anywhere."

"All right. I'll close my eyes, you read out the flight numbers, and I'll choose one. ..." Lewis's exhilaration was affecting her. She shut her eyes, and thought for one quick bright second of Edouard. It was right to do it this way, she thought defiantly. It was right for it to be so arbitrary. Edouard's absence made the whole world equal, made each destination an irrelevance.

Lewis began to recite the numbers. She picked one. It was the flight to London. Lewis went straight to the Alitalia desk and bought two first-class tickets. He paid for them by American Express.

Back in Rome, at the house in Trastevere, Thad took his time leaving. He was in no hurry to get back to the party; he disliked parties. For a while he just sat in the room, listening to its silence. Then he got up and began to pack up his camera, his own 16mm camera, of which he was very possessive. No one else was allowed to use it. He wiped the grease from the lens, and then carefully polished it. He dismantled it, piece by piece, and put the components carefully and lovingly into the niches hollowed out for them in the metal carrying case. He shut it and locked it.

He stroked the case as another man might stroke a woman's skin, or a pet animal. Then he laid it in readiness by the door. He checked and rechecked the final cans of film from that day's shoot, then he packed them in their carrying case and zipped it shut. Fussily, he straightened a few

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lengths of cable, checked a few light fittings. The crew would dismantle the rest of the stuff tomorrow. There was nothing else to do, but he was reluctant to leave. He had come to love this room over the past six weeks. He walked around it. He drew the drapes, then opened them again, and closed the shutters. He prowled around in a circle once more, and finally stopped at the bed. He looked down at it for a long time in silence.

The pillow was crumpled; it still bore the impress of Helen's head. The sheets were creased. The top one, which had covered her, was thrown back in a heap.

After a while, he stepped forward, and climbed onto the bed. He knelt there a moment, facing the pillow, fat thighs apart, his breathing growing more rapid.

Then he bent forward, over the place where her head had lain. He rested like that, squat, crouching, his weight on his elbows and knees. Then, slowly, he lowered his face against the white linen of the pillowcase, and rubbed it back and forth.

He began to pant. He thought of getting out his camera again, and just holding it, even unloaded, but she was not there, so there was no need. With a little jerking movement, he buried his face, hid it in the softness of the pillow, the darkness, and felt the world start to spin. He trembled, then groaned. Some minutes later, he knelt back, and levered his weight off the bed. He had left marks: saliva on the pillowcase, dirt from his shoes on the white sheet.

He brushed at the dirt ineffectively, then straightened the pillow fussily, plumping it out. He drew the sheet back over the bed to hide the shoe marks.

Then he picked up the camera case, the case of film cans, and walked out of the room. He got to the party about the same time that Lewis and Helene arrived at the airport, and he could tell from the noise as soon as he got to the gates that the party was in full swing.

The goons at the gates had a case of wine and were drunk; one of them seemed to be trying to tell him something, but Thad couldn't be bothered to listen to him. He paid off the taxi there, and started walking up the drive to the house, swinging the heavy cases.

It was cold now, but that didn't seem to matter to the couple he passed, who were lying half-in, half-out of the shrubbery. Thad could see the woman's face, distorted as if in pain, by approaching climax. He passed on without a second glance. The main doors to the palazzo were open, light spilled out onto the terrace, and above the music and the sound of voices, he heard a dog howling.

Thad panted up the terrace steps, and paused on the threshold. There seemed to be a lot of people, people he'd never laid eyes on before, people

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who had presumably invited themselves. The place was one helluva mess already. There were empty champagne bottles rolling around the Principessa's marble-floored hall. Food, squashed-up food, trodden underfoot, was everywhere. And cigarette stubs. One was burning merrily on the top of some carved gilded table thing. Thad sniffed the heavy sweet scent of marijuana. He looked at the burning cigarette, then carefully picked it up and ground it under his heel. It had left a big bum mark on the table.

He looked around him, blinking, a Uttle dazzled by the light. One of his crew was out cold at the bottom of the staircase; one of the extras was feeding caviar from a spoon to the Principessa's tricolored papillon. As Thad hesitated, peering through the throng, he was approached by a six-foot apparition, wearing a low-cut gown, a blond wig that cascaded over its shoulders, and diamonds. It rubbed itself against Thad hke an importunate cat, and said a lot of things very fast in husky Itahan. When Thad didn't answer, it grabbed his hand, rubbed it against the swell of its alabaster breasts, and then inserted it between its thighs. The apparition had a hard-on.

"Not just now," Thad said amiably, and the apparition tossed its head.

"Well fuck you, " it said in the accents of pure Brooklyn, and flounced away.

Thad carefully stepped over rolling champagne bottles and advanced a little way into the hall. By the entrance to the crowded drawing room, Fabian greeted him.

"Thad—you're late. Lewis just called from the airport. . . ." Fabian rummaged in his pockets, swaying a little on his feet, and finally drew out a piece of paper on which an address was scrawled. "He and Helen have split. They're going to London. He said to give you this. He'll call you tomorrow. ..."