Rare Objects (43 page)

The voices behind the wall were urgent and hushed, a man and a woman. I wasn't alone after all. The wind and the sound of the surf made it difficult to make out everything they were saying but they struck me as familiar. I sat very still, straining to hear more.

“You promised you wouldn't bring her!”

“What am I meant to do? Leave her at home?”

“Did you tell her?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?” the woman hissed.

“I'll do it after the party. Tonight.”

“You always say that!”

“I mean it.” There was silence; the sound of a match being struck. “I promise, I'll tell her tonight.”

“I'm not going to wait forever, you know. I've already waited too long!”

“You won't have to, darling.”

“But why?” the woman whispered, her voice catching. “Why do you treat me this way?”

A while later, two figures emerged from behind the wall. The ends of their cigarettes glowed orange in the twilight as they walked back up toward the house.

Almost against my will, I followed them. Halfway up the lawn, they separated; the woman drifted off to the left, into a throng of people, and the man carried on. I hung back a little, keeping to the shadows as he climbed up the terrace steps.

Standing near the open French doors was a young blond woman in an exquisite pale silk creation and I recognized the distinctive bias cut of a real Vionnet gown. She seemed ill at ease, as if she were looking for someone, and as the man approached, she suddenly smiled, eagerly holding out her hand. He took it, lightly kissing her fingers.

It was James.

“Ha! Finally, I found you!” Nicky Howerd was walking toward me. “I've been looking for you everywhere! Thought you'd got lost or given me the slip!”

But I wasn't listening. “Who's that girl with James?” I asked.

Nicky turned, followed my gaze. “Oh, that's Heleen, of course. His wife.”

In the end it was Richard Cranley Saunders, Soft Spot, who agreed to drive me back to Boston on short notice. Sitting numbly in the passenger seat of his roadster, I stared out the window into the uneven darkness. After a few brave stabs at conversation, he gave up and hummed quietly to himself for the rest of the drive.

When he pulled up in front of Contadino's grocery, he looked around in confusion. “Gosh, I don't think I've ever been here before.”

“No, I don't expect you have,” I said, climbing out.

“Oh. Well, good luck,” he said, rather forlornly, as he pulled away.

In the east a rosy softness had begun to warm the very edge of the night sky, and the sweet smell of overripe fruit and the aroma of bread baking in Russo's ovens mingled in the dewy dampness of the early morning fog.

Lifting the skirt of my dress so that it wouldn't drag on the ground, I crossed over.

Yes, good luck.

I stood behind the counter, staring into empty space, at the dust particles dancing slowly in a beam of late-afternoon sunlight.

The summer that had been at first such a relief was now a sentence to be endured. The fan was on, rotating uselessly, and the door was open, but nothing moved. The air in the shop was heavy and still, smelling of centuries. Outside, people pushed through invisible membranes of humidity and lethargy. It was a morbid, narcotic heat, the kind that presses against the skin and weighs down thought, making children teary and adults bad-tempered.

I watched the tiny fragments, suspended, weightless. They were falling, very slowly; it might take them years to hit the ground, but they would end up there eventually.

“You're not yourself today, Fanning.”

Mr. Winshaw lit another cigarette. He was immune to heat; years in boarding school and exotic climates had annihilated any
expectations of physical comfort he'd once had. Sleeves rolled up, he sauntered out of his office, where he'd been confirming the details of his next expedition. He'd already booked his passage on a steamer to Athens, and was finalizing train connections. I'd noticed that as soon as he came back from the travel agent, he was a changed man; focused, considerate, even professional.

His excitement felt like a snub. Nothing could hold him here, not Mr. Kessler or the triumph with the museum or the business; not even the seductive Selena. And now he strolled from his office brimming with the kind of gracious concern that was only possible when one knew one was on the way out the door.

“What's troubling you?”

“It's hot.”

“This is nothing compared to Crete in August. Or Baghdad.”

I knew he would say that. Pushing my sweaty, damp hair away from my face, I shifted my weight from one dead foot to the other. Outside, a street sweeper worked his way down the pavement with his broom, drops of sweat dripping steadily from his brow.

Mr. Winshaw leaned against the counter. “Why, I've known nights in Caracas in South America—”

“I'm going to get a glass of water,” I interrupted. It was abrupt, a verbal shove.

I came out of the back with a mug of water and gave it to the street sweeper, who drank it gratefully. When I returned, Mr. Winshaw was sitting in one of the uncomfortable English chairs.

“Not yourself today, Fanning,” he said again, exhaling.

“What do you care?”

I sounded childish, and he grinned, which was galling.

“Why, you're all I think about! Day and night. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” I looked at the wall of clocks; I'd been staring at them all day. Now it was 5:17. “I don't suppose I could go early.”

“Leave any time you like.”

I'd expected more resistance.

He took another drag.

“You know . . .” I began, then stopped myself.

“What? What do I know?”

There was no need to say anything. No need to fight.

I did anyway.

“You know, it's really disconcerting.” I eyed him darkly. “The way you come in and out of people's lives. I mean, for them.”

“For y
ou
?”

“No! Not
me
!” His arrogance was appalling
.
“But Mr. Kessler, for example.”

He waved my concern away. “Kessler doesn't mind. He's used to it. Besides, someone's got to go on these buying trips. He gets seasick. And sunstroke. And traveler's tummy,” he added with a smile.

Everything about him was infuriating today. The way he slumped back in the chair, pretending it was comfortable when I knew damn well it wasn't; his self-satisfied smirk; his habit of inhaling his cigarette as if it were some rare, exotic delight; and especially the way he pretended that traveling around the world was as easy and commonplace as taking the bus across town.

“What about Selena? Doesn't she count? Don't you ever think about her feelings?”

Again, he laughed. “Oh, she's not waiting for me, of that you can be sure!”

“But what if she wants to? What if she
wants
to wait for you? What if you're breaking her heart?”

“I'm not breaking anyone's heart, Fanning!”

“Yes, you are! You break people's hearts all the time! You come in, trample all over everybody, and then leave! Just go!”

He stopped smiling; his eyes narrowed, and he gave me the same look animal trainers in the circus get when a tiger shows its teeth.

Cramming his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he got up and took me by the arm. “I can't tell if you need a drink or a slap or both.” He gave me a shove. “Go get your handbag.”

“Why?”

“I said, get your handbag. We're going out.”

I've been frog-marched many times in my life, more than most girls my age—normally out of bars and nightclubs, occasionally into a cab. But now Mr. Winshaw held me securely by the elbow and steered me around the corner to a dingy Chinese restaurant called the Green Dragon. Tucked into the basement of a laundry, it had bright red walls and low-glowing paper lanterns. A group of old Chinese men sat in a corner, smoking out of a strange container with a long mouthpiece, and a woman in a fitted silk dress with a high collar sat near the door, working the
Herald
crossword puzzle in ink.

She nodded to Mr. Winshaw as we came in. He led me to what must be his regular table, in the corner by the window.

“What are we doing here?” I demanded.

“Sit down.”

The woman brought a pot of tea and two small china cups with no handles. The tea came out of the pot an almost colorless pale green, smelling faintly like dried grass.

“This is jasmine tea.” He pushed a cup across to me and ordered something I didn't understand. I'd never had Chinese food before. The smell of unfamiliar spices wafted from the kitchen—fresh ginger, coriander, rice vinegar, sliced garlic—along with the rich, earthy aroma of fried noodles and roasting duck. Whatever the
old men were smoking filled the air with a dense, sweet perfume. They moved like puppets with slow, careful motions, passing the long mouthpiece from one to the other, their faces unreadable, neither smiling nor frowning.

The woman bent in, voice low. “We also have plum wine. My husband makes it.”

Mr. Winshaw looked across at me.

“I'm fine,” I mumbled, and the woman left.

Alone now, he eased back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. Light caught the corner of his eyes, a flickering golden green. He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, Fanning, you now have my complete attention.” And he waited.

I wanted to fight; to sulk and shout and toss words like grenades around the room. Mr. Winshaw could take it; he could handle anything anyone threw at him. Except now he'd disarmed me with strange tea and his full attention. It was a low move, a dirty trick.

I glared at him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He just sat there.

“Honestly!” I fumed. “Are you so arrogant that you think that all you have to do is grace me with a few moments of your time, and magically everything will be fine?”

Again, nothing.

“You don't know anything about me! Not one single thing!”

“Then tell me.”

A tidal wave of anger broke. “Don't you see? I
can't
tell you anything about me! There is nothing to tell that isn't . . . isn't . . .” My voice caught.

“Isn't what?”

“Bad!”

The navy window of his pupil widened, and the flickering light stilled.

I looked away. The very surface of my skin seemed to burn with embarrassment, and I couldn't bear to have him see me.

I stood up. “I have to go.”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

He got up and took me by the shoulders, held me firm. “Sit down, Fanning.”

The woman came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of food.

“You need to eat,” he said quietly. “Have you ever had Peking duck?”

I shook my head.

“You'll like it. I promise. The world is full of things, Mae Fanning, that you will like. Things you just don't know about yet.”

We sat down. Mr. Winshaw showed me how to make duck pancakes with plum sauce, shaved cucumbers, and spring onions, and I began to talk, about James and Diana; about the apartment; even about the hospital and Mr. Baylor; about everything that had been pressing in, crushing me. It came out sloppily and unchecked, like a handbag tossed on the ground, private contents spilling out in all directions.

And he listened. Pouring out more tea, rolling more pancakes, asking the occasional question when he didn't understand. It was odd how easy it was to tell him almost anything; how nothing seemed to shock or disappoint him. He even smiled a little at times, as if he recognized my folly from his own.

The little restaurant filled and drained again. We had lychees and mandarin orange pieces on shaved ice for dessert. And when we finally left, it was dark out, the night air cooler. The shops were
closed now, the streets empty. And the burden that had weighed on me eased like a breath held tight, suddenly released in a sigh.

Mr. Winshaw kicked a stone off the pavement.

“Why did you leave England?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“There was no reason to stay. My parents are dead. My brothers are gone.” He took a final drag from his cigarette, tossed it in the gutter. “They died in France, while I was drinking mint tea and playing backgammon by the sea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was aide to General Townshend at the Siege of Kut, outside Baghdad. A monumental military disaster from start to finish.” He sighed, shaking his head. “When we surrendered to the Ottomans after a hundred and forty-seven days, the general was exiled to an island off Turkey for the rest of the war. He took me with him, along with a few of the other officers.”

I remembered the map, a pin stuck in the tiny island of Halki off the Turkish coast.

“Over half our men died in captivity, starved to death or beaten by the Ottoman guards.”

“I'm sorry.”

He frowned. “I shouldn't have been there in the first place. My brothers and I, we were meant to fight together, that's why we joined. But Harry and Ralph died in the rain and the mud of the Somme . . . in horror . . . and I, I shouldn't . . .” His voice trailed off, but the furrow in his brow deepened.

He was drawing a conclusion, forming some unspoken belief about himself. I could feel his dedication to it. I also knew that, unchallenged, it had been allowed to grow inside his imagination and take root.

I stopped.

He looked back at me. “Are you all right?”

“And what?” I prompted.

“What are you talking about?”

He was playing dumb. But I knew him too well.

I rephrased the question. “And you shouldn't have what?”

“Nothing.”

He tried to carry on walking, but I stayed put, folded my arms across my chest. “Do you imagine you're a mystery? Too difficult and complicated to comprehend?”