Faces of Fear (10 page)

“Anybody I know, pardon me for being so intrusive?”

“I don't know whether you'd remember her. It was that girl who kept flirting with me when we were having lunch at the Moulin du Vey.”

“
Her
? How come you got to know her so well?”

“I didn't. I never knew much more than her name. But she was – well, she was very special.”

“Maybe you thought she was dead and she wasn't dead. What was she, ill or something?”

“Road accident. I saw it myself. They took her in an ambulance and they covered her face up. She was dead.”

Carl swallowed more beer. “That couldn't have been her, then, on the bus?”

“No. Logically, I guess it couldn't.”

“And, let's put it this way, if it really
was
her, you wouldn't be tempted to renew your acquaintanceship, would you?”

“I don't know. Do people come back from the dead, if you miss them badly enough?”

Carl slapped him on the back. “Come on, old buddy. We've got hotels to buy.”

That night, back in his apartment in Paris, he dreamed about the thunder clamouring all around the Mont St-Michel. He dreamed of a thin wrist with a cheap gold wrist-watch on it, flailing in the air. A girl in a yellow dress was lying on the road with blood streaming from her. It began to rain, and the rain washed the blood away, but it washed the girl's dress away, too, like sodden tissue, and then her white body began to melt, and run into the ditch.

He could clearly read the brand name on the wristwatch. It was
Pity me.

Close to his ear, he heard a voice whisper the same thing, “Pity me.”

He shouted out loud, and sat up in bed, knocking his glass of water across the carpet.

Carl was right. He was still grieving, and his grief was giving him nightmares and hallucinations.

Marianne was dead; and even if she
had
found a way of coming back to him – well, that was one embrace that he didn't want to think about.

He was crossing the courtyard in front of the Louvre when he saw a girl in a wide-brimmed straw hat pushing a bicycle. It was a hot, bright morning, and the reflection from the dusty white surface of the courtyard was dazzling, so that he could scarcely see her. She disappeared behind the glass pyramid, and for a moment he was tempted to forget about her, and carry on walking; but there had been something about the way she walked and the way she was dressed that gave him an unsettling feeling.

He circled around the pyramid and there she was. Her bicycle was lying on its side on the ground, and she was kneeling down to lace up the thongs of one of her sandals. She wore a yellow blouse and a very short white pleated skirt. Her knees were brown, and the sun shone on the fine blonde hair which flowed out from underneath her hat.

His shadow fell across her foot. She looked up at him, and her eyes were so grey that it looked as if his shadow had fallen into her eyes, too.

“It's you,” he said; and inside he felt as if he were sliding down a wall of melting ice. He had never been so frightened in his life, and it took all of his self-control to prevent himself from urinating.

“
Pardon, monsieur
?” she frowned.

“It's you. I saw you in St Malo. I saw you in Rouen. It's you.”

Slowly, she smiled. “I've never been to St Malo. And I haven't been to Rouen since I was at school.”

“I don't understand this,” he said. “How can it not be you?”

She stood up, still smiling. “Are you disappointed that I'm someone else? Who did you want me to be?”

“You're Marianne. You must be.”

The girl shook her head. “My name is Stephanie. I live in the 6 arrondissement with my father and my mother and a big fat cat.”

Gerry looked at her more closely. He simply couldn't believe that it wasn't Marianne. Yet, seriously, how could it be?

“You know that it's rude to stare,” Stephanie told him. Underneath her yellow blouse she had the same full breasts as Marianne.

“I'm sorry. I made a stupid mistake, that's all.”

“Well, perhaps you could make up for it by buying me an ice-cream. I cycled all the way here and I forgot it was Tuesday, and that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays.”

He actually opened his mouth to form the word “yes”. But then something warned him; something disturbed him. It wasn't just the fact that Stephanie looked so much like Marianne. There seemed to be something wrong the whole day. The light was odd. The shadow of the bicycle didn't seem to fall where he would have expected it to fall. He was attracted to her. He wanted her. He thought of Marianne, lying back in the orchard, with her thighs wide apart. But for some reason he turned around and they were standing not far away, the silver-haired man and his wife in black.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm late. I have to go.”

“Well, you're mean, as well as rude,” she pouted.

“I have to go. I'm sorry.”

He began walking away as fast as he could. Stephanie stayed where she was, beside the pyramid, watching him. The silver-haired man and the woman in black watched him, too.

That night he fell asleep as soon as he went to bed and dreamed of Marianne, and the orchard. He could almost feel his penis sliding in and out of her warm vagina. He woke up, sweating, with a painful erection, and the deepest sense of loss that he had ever experienced.

It was still only eight o'clock in Connecticut, so he phoned Freddie.

“Freddie, what would you do if Larry died, but then you found somebody exactly the same?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“It's just a question. What would you do?”

“When you say exactly the same, how exactly?”

“Exactly exactly. Right down to the last mole.”

“I don't know. I guess I couldn't help finding him attractive. I mean, since Larry is my type, then this guy who was
exactly
the same would have to be my type, too.”

Gerry looked across at his empty, crumpled bed, and said, “Yes, of course.”

They stepped out of the comfortable warmth of the Huitre d'Or and straight into a brisk, face-slapping wind from the Channel. Carl gripped his arm, his hair flying, and said, “How about going back for another marc?”

“No, I'm sorry. I have to get back to Paris this evening. Marketing conference eight thirty sharp.”

“Oh, well, another time. At least you're looking a damned sight better than you did before.”

“You can't grieve for ever. And maybe somebody
else will come along, just when I'm least expecting it.”

They were walking along the promenade at Arromanches, which had once been Gold Beach, where the Allies landed on D-Day. The dark hulking remains of the Mulberry harbour still lay in the shallows, and a Sherman tank still perched on top of a nearby hill. Gerry was here to evaluate the possibilities of TransWestern opening a hotel/restaurant to cater for ‘living history' package tours.

The Channel was the colour of pale gum. The wind was thick with salt and grit, and they had to shield their faces with their hands.

“I'll say goodbye,” Carl told him, and clasped his hand. “Take more care of yourself, will you? And if that right person comes along – well, grab her with both hands.”

He watched Carl drive away, and then he walked a little further along the front, and down to the beach. He was crying, but only because of the wind. Two spaniels were scampering around and around on the sand, and a small boy was huddled against the promenade wall with his trousers round his ankles, trying unsuccessfully to pee against the wind.

Gerry walked out to the water's edge, even though he was wearing Oxfords. A little way away, a young woman was standing on her own, a woman with a yellow headscarf and a long cream coat. He wondered what she was doing out here, all by herself, staring at the rusting remains of a war that must have been over twenty years before she was born.

He walked up to her. She didn't turn around, but stood with one hand clasping the knot of her scarf, quite still, oblivious to the single strand of blonde hair which waved in front of her face.

“Kind of spooky, isn't it?” he asked her.

At first he thought she wasn't going to answer, but then she said, “I don't think so. I think it's sad. So many lives lost. So many lovers, husbands and sons. So much grief.”

“Do you know how they built the Mulberry harbour? They towed the damn thing all the way from England.”

She turned and faced him. “I'm not very interested in old things. I like only new things.”

He stared at her and he felt as if centipedes were crawling down his back. She was so much like Marianne that it could have been her. The same complexion, the same cheekbones, the same faint overbite. Most of all, she had the same colour eyes; like a reflection on a winter lake.

He knew that it couldn't be Marianne, any more than the girl on the bus in Rouen had been Marianne, or Stephanie, outside the Louvre. But she was so much alike that he couldn't speak. He just stood looking at her, his arms by his sides, while the wind flapped his collar against his cheek.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him.

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You remind me of somebody, that's all.”

“I hope it was somebody you were fond of.”

He gave her a tight smile. He didn't know that he could answer that question without a catch in his throat.

“Well,” she said, “I have to be going now. My parents are expecting me.”

“I was just going for a cup of coffee. Why don't you join me? We could have it the Norman way – you know, with a dash of calvados in it. Just the thing to warm you up.”

She hesitated, and then she said, “All right. But not for too long. My father gets impatient.”

They walked back across the beach.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked her.

“I live in St Martin de Fontenay. It's a little town near Caen. I keep telling myself that I must get out and see the world, but I don't know. Something always conspires to stop me.”

They went into a small café with a tiled floor and tables covered with red checkered cloths. The ceiling was hung with fishing nets and plaster lobsters. They sat by the window and ordered two cups of black coffee and two small glasses of calvados. It was too cold to take off their coats.

“You're American, aren't you?” the woman said. “Do you come from a big city in America?”

“I was born in a place called New Milford. That wasn't exactly your throbbing metropolis. But since then I've spent a lot of time in New York, and London, England.”

“I'd love to live in a big city.”

“Believe me, it's no great shakes.”

“I don't care. I'd love to be famous all over the world, and live in a big city.”

He tipped his calvados into his coffee and stirred it. “What do you want to be famous for? Or do you just want to be famous?”

“I play the cello. Well, I'm learning to play the cello. It's very demanding for a woman.”

Gerry lowered his cup and stared at her intently. The woman stared back, quite unabashed. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.

“You're her,” he whispered.

Her eyes flickered for the first time. “I don't know what you mean. My name isn't Marianne. It's Chloe.”

“And your father isn't a magistrate?”

“Of course not. He's retired. He used to be the head-teacher at the lycee.”

Gerry cleared his throat. “I know this is really a stupid thing to ask you, and I won't be offended if you don't want to answer, but do you know me at all? Have you ever met me before, anywhere?”

Chloe shook her head. “I would have remembered, don't you think?”

Gerry said, “It's incredible. The resemblance is incredible. You're just like her.”

There was another long pause, during which they simply sat and looked at each other. Even though Chloe wasn't Marianne, there seemed to be the same affinity between them, the same erotic magnetism. When they started talking, they talked as if they were continuing a conversation which they had broken off only yesterday, and as the afternoon began to darken they leaned closer and closer together across the table, until Gerry's hand was resting on hers, and they could smell the coffee and the cider spirit on each other's breath.

At 4:30, Chloe looked at her watch and said, “Oh, no! It's so late! Father will be furious!”

“Can I see you tonight?” asked Gerry.

“I thought you were supposed to be going back to Paris.”

“I've changed my mind.”

“Not just because of me?”

“What other reason could there be to stay in Arromanches?”

He walked her back along the windy, twilit promenade until they reached her hotel, Le Due Guillaume. They pushed their way through the revolving doors into the empty, overheated lobby, which smelled of polish and French cigarettes. Unexpectedly, Chloe took hold of both of Gerry's hands and kissed him.

“Meet me at eight,” she smiled.

“I'll bring some champagne.”

“No, no. Just bring money.”

“Money?”

“You want to make love to me, don't you?”

“For money?”

“Why not? All women are prostitutes, in one way or another. If I can't be the greatest cellist of all time, perhaps I could be the greatest prostitute of all time.”

He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression. “This is a game, isn't it?”

“A game? Only if you want it to be.”

They ate in the hotel restaurant. It was off-season, of course, and they were the only diners, apart from a very old couple who scarcely spoke, and a single bald man who read a book while he ate and kept clearing his throat. The waiter's shoes squeaked monotonously as he brought them moules marinieres, demoiselle lobsters and stuffed Seine shad. Their eyes glittered in the lamplight.