Rachael's Gift (24 page)

‘We just can’t – she’s about to be accepted into the Beaux-Arts.’

‘Fuck the Beaux-Arts!’

I felt stunned by his aggression. Things were obviously bad. Out of control. I had to placate him. But I was adamant: we weren’t coming home.

‘I’ll do whatever you want . . . but from here.’

‘Fuck,’ he whispered.

‘What if I email Avery? Get her to call off this witch-hunt?’

‘It’s too fucking late for that.’ He hung up.

I was shaken. Maybe things wouldn’t die down? Maybe I was wrong. How could things have got so out of hand?

I spotted a lone figure walking toward the cafe. Lucien. I cupped my hands around my coffee, wanting to forget the phone call and the promise I’d made.

Lucien drew near and I rose to kiss him.

He sat down, swinging his leg carelessly over one knee and bringing a cigarette to his lips, his coat falling languidly open. Lucien never seemed to feel the cold.

Still flustered from Wolfe’s call, I found it hard to focus.

His lips curved as if he found something amusing. ‘Your mother, did she not tell you it’s rude to stare?’

‘Oh,’ I said, shaking myself out of my distraction and managing to smile back. ‘I was badly brought up.’ Thoughts of my mother carved through.

‘So, there is something you find fascinating,
non
?’ He spoke through a mouthful of smoke.

Ha, typical, I thought. ‘You just want everyone to be in love with you, don’t you?’ I said, trying to push Wolfe to the back of my mind, ‘Actually, I was considering helping myself to one of your cigarettes. May I?’

Lucien moved his packet towards me, but as I went to take it he laid his hand on top of mine. He was grinning now. ‘Well, are you?’

‘Am I what?’

‘In love with me?’

I shook my head and gave a laugh which sounded as if it had come out of a tin can. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Isn’t everyone?’ I met his stare. ‘Come back for your hat, have you?’

He withdrew his hand and I removed a cigarette from the packet. I reached for his lighter, but he grabbed it first.

‘Am I going to have to earn that as well?’ I said.

‘Of course.’

‘Well, how?’

He pressed his thumb against the flint and offered me a light. I held my cigarette to it and inhaled. Woody smoke filled my mouth and lungs and I began to cough.

‘Sorry,’ I said, clutching my chest. ‘It’s a newly rekindled habit.’

‘So you like to rekindle old habits, do you?’

I took another drag. ‘I can’t think of any other old habits that would be nearly as enjoyable. What about you? Given up any of your bad habits?’ His penchant for women, perhaps?

‘No, I’m afraid I’m too old to give anything up. Can’t teach an old dog and all that . . .’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re getting on.’

He dropped the butt into the ashtray and let it burn itself out. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘The women don’t seem to mind.’

Perhaps he hadn’t changed. ‘You really do think everyone is in love with you.’

He shrugged his shoulders again as if to say these things could not be helped and ordered a coffee from the waiter.

‘How’s Rachael getting along?’

‘She’s a lot like her mother – stubborn.’ He drew imaginary lines on the table. ‘But perhaps a little tougher around the edges. I think she’s developing a little crush . . .’

I looked at him seriously.

‘What? You are surprised? What was good enough for her mother . . .’

‘You don’t really think that, do you?’

‘Of course.’

‘She’s only fourteen, Lucien. She doesn’t know . . . about things.’

‘She can handle herself. She’s much more mature than you think.’

The waiter placed an espresso and the bill on the table.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ I continued, taking another long drag as Clippo came to mind. She’d been sleeping with him and lying about it long before I’d found out. In the end I’d taken her to the doctor for the pill. ‘Look, she’s not really so grown up – she just looks it.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I just want to make sure . . . I mean . . . No. It’s silly. Of course, you wouldn’t do anything . . .’

‘Do what?’

‘Nothing. Don’t worry. I just hope you’re not . . .’

‘What?’

‘I hope you’re not some dirty old man, that’s all.’ I forced a laugh but he didn’t join in. A tiny sick feeling began to pulsate in my body.

‘Camille . . .’ He shook his head, watching me knowingly.

‘She’s very impressionable, that’s all.’

His eyes were full of concern. ‘Don’t worry.’ He took my hand. ‘Trust me.’

The time we had snuck into the Midnight Mass at Christmas came flooding back to me. It was in Latin and we didn’t understand a word. My head was warm and fuzzy from the red wine we’d been drinking and we giggled in the second-last pew. We tripped over people’s legs as we tried to make an escape, stumbling out into the freezing night air, our breath visible in white puffs. We ran all the way down to the river, our feet slipping on the icy cobblestones. There was no one around and the river moved like a black python, rippling and gliding, and we saw the shadows of the barges lapping against their buoys and the lights from the Louvre and the Notre-Dame. I was still running and laughing when he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him.
Mon ange
, he whispered, and tucked my hair behind my ear. I was out of breath, but my heart was pounding because he was close.
Me?
I said disbelievingly, blushing.
Of course, you
, he said, and we kissed. That was how I remembered him and Paris and the young me: as charcoal outlines, as if someone had drawn us.

‘Do you remember . . .?’ I smiled at him but he had already stood up and was taking some coins from his pocket.

‘I have to get going.’ He shot his coffee back and then leant in as if to kiss me goodbye, but instead of the usual formal farewell he rested one hand on my thigh and with the other stroked my cheek. He was so close now and smelt of coffee, cigarettes and a hint of morning sleep. He moved the tip of his index finger along the edge of my hairline and then I felt his warm breath against my ear as he whispered, ‘I remember your skin.’

Smoke from my lit cigarette wafted back and forth in the breeze and I closed my eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’ He moved his hand to my shoulder. ‘I’m embarrassing you.’ His fingers pressed through the thickness of my coat and squeezed my collarbone.

I shook my head gently. ‘No. It’s okay. I’m . . . there was some news. Things are a bit odd at the moment.’

The silent question lingered in the air.

He released my shoulder, gave me a quick kiss and I heard his footsteps retreat across the cobblestones.

*

The archivist at the Pompidou Centre had the file ready for me as we had arranged. I carried it to the desk, my skin tingling at the prospect of reading actual letters. The original papers were held in loose grey folders for preservation purposes, and included original handwritten letters between Galerie Charpentier and the artists, museums or owners of the works included in the exhibitions. I searched through the folders, categorised by artist, until I found a section on Courbet and then came to
La Baigneuse
– too easy, I thought.

A black-and-white plate of the painting marked the beginning of the section. The bathing lady turned the pale flesh of her face away from me again. Somehow her colourless contrasts made her stand out even more. The whiteness of her body – she looked afraid. Every time I saw her, I saw something new. I turned the page. The first document was a typed letter addressed to Gustav Rochlitz:

Préparé Juin 1940 par le professeur Anton Delamotte,
Boulevard Raspail

1. Gustave Courbet: La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
Évalué à 700 000 FF

The signature was long and elegant with perfect circular loops, the familiar oversized A and D overlapping the rest of the letters. There was no doubt: it was my grandfather’s signature.

So he had appraised the painting as well as being the expert for the Charpentier exhibition. But this letter was dated June 1940, two years prior to the exhibition, and it was addressed to Gustav Rochlitz: art dealer to the Nazis. Did this mean that Rochlitz had been the owner in June 1940? Did it mean my grandfather had dealings with collaborators? And what was the letter doing in the Charpentier records? A cold feeling settled over me.

I flipped the page over. There was a second letter from Frey-Duval guaranteeing that the painting was an original of the period stated, and that he was authorised to transfer the title of ownership.

I looked around. I could see the archivist busily placing books on a trolley to be put back in their storage shelves. I carefully removed both letters from their paper sheaths and slid them into my bag.

The afternoon light beat down wheat yellow and the heat of it stripped the colour from the beach. The water was flat and serene and the waves lapped at the shore. I went for a dip. If nothing else, it was a relief to get my head under. Breaststroking to the bottom, I dug my hand into the sand until my body began to drift upwards. I pushed my hands against the upswing and my chest began to burn. How long could I stay here? Longer than most; my chest had the capacity to withstand a beast of a dumping. I saw the mottled light glimmering on the surface. Finally, I let myself float to the top.

It had taken me hours to clean the eggs off the house. Egg had a way of hardening in the sun and I had slept in, my head a fog of booze. I felt bad for Rach; these girls really had it in for her. I spoke to Harvey and told him about the Facebook messages.

He cleared his throat. ‘We’re aware of Rachael’s messages to Ashley Everett. She has also been sending him pictures on an application called Snapchat. Its messages conveniently disappear once you have sent them and the other person has opened them. But Mr Everett did not open them and thus was able to show us. They’re highly provocative.’ I remembered interrupting Rach taking a selfie in a towel – was that what she had sent him? I hoped not.

I heard some paper flicking.

‘All of the social media was one-sided. Mr Everett gave us full access to his accounts. Unfortunately, if you see it from our point of view – and I know this must be hard to hear – but it makes us question Rachael.’

‘But . . .’ I stammered, clutching for something else to add, ‘Okay. I found some pretty explicit photography in Rachael’s room.’ I told him about the images.

‘Do you know if Mr Everett encouraged her? Is there anything connecting him to these photos?’

I didn’t reply.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Bring them in and I’ll look at them – but she could have done them herself, couldn’t she? They might have had nothing to do with him. Unfortunately, we need other witnesses or victims for us to re-open the investigation.’

Afterwards, I parked the Ford by the north end cliffs. Solitary fishermen stood casting their rods from the rocks. I wound the windows down, took out a tinnie and tore open a packet of chips and watched the Pacific stretch out before me. The sun dried tiny flakes of salt on my skin.

I wished for a big electrical storm, some pounding rain and enough thunder to make your knees quake and your teeth chatter – something to take the edge off and fill the gaps. There were too many gaps. How much had Camille been holding out on me?

The ocean – a far easier creature than my own kid. I knew what I was getting with the ocean. Which way the wave broke – was it a right-hander or a left-hander? Did it break on the shore and close out or was it a shifty peak that changed direction in the wind? What was underneath? A reef, a sandbar, deep ripping water or grey suits? You made sure you knew your game and then you went in, but you were always ready and you always had your wits about you. Things changed constantly. The hardest of all was dealing with a shapeshifter.

I stared out to sea. The blankness vast, seeming never-ending. The ocean reminded you how small you were – a piece of grit in nature’s eye.

*

The shadow of a man lingered outside our front door. He wore a poker face and a lightweight anorak and you could tell he’d been around the block more than a few times. There was a big old scar beneath his right eye and down the side of his cheek. If I were to guess I’d have said he was an electrician but I hadn’t called for a sparky and I didn’t like his attitude, crafty and confident, as if he owned the place.

‘Mr Wolfgang Larkin?’

‘That’s right.’

Mr Brown ran up to him and sniffed his thighs, and the bloke reached down and patted him.

‘Pete Archer, journalist.’ He stood up, gripped my hand and flicked me his card. Mr Brown sniffed between the man’s legs.

‘Brownie, stop that. Come here.’ I took hold of his collar and pushed his backside down to sit. I glanced at the card, which had only Archer’s name and contact details.

‘Do you have a minute?’

‘Um . . .’

‘I just want to have a quick chat about the recent sexual misconduct case at Rutherford. Is your wife in?’

Terror whipped through me.

‘I’m not sure what use we’d be for you,’ I said.

The man squinted at me. ‘You have a daughter at the school, right?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, mate, she’s not here.’

‘You know about the protest – the one Parents for Safe Kids have organised for Thursday?’

I felt the vein in my temple pulse. Rach had thrown a snowball, got the hell out and left behind an avalanche of hysteria.

Archer reached into his back pocket and took out a small notebook. ‘The group is saying Rutherford is involved in a major cover-up.’

My throat dried up.

Shit. ‘Yeah . . .’ Don’t say any more.

He consulted his notebook like some kind of private dick. ‘You wanna go inside for a quick chat?’ He licked his thumb and flicked back some pages.

‘Oh, look, it’s not a great time.’

‘Are you worried your child is at risk?’

The air changed, ramped up a gear. Mr Brown stood up on all fours, his ears folding flat. ‘Look, I’d rather not make a comment, thanks.’

‘Do you feel the school has tried to sweep it all under the carpet?’