Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (82 page)

Tung T'an
lowered his head. "Even so—"

Ben interrupted
him. "You need say nothing, Tung T'an. Not even that I was here.
For my own part I will act as if this place did not and does not
exist. You understand me?" He moved closer to the Han, forcing
him by the strength of his will to look up and meet his eyes. "I
was never here, Tung T'an. And this conversation ... it never
happened."

Tung T'an
swallowed, aware suddenly of the charismatic power of the young man
standing before him, then nodded.

"Good. Then
go and see to my sister. She's like me. She doesn't like to be kept
waiting. Ah, but you know that, don't you, Tung T'an? You, of all
people, should know how alike we Shepherds are."

* *
*

MEG SAT across
from Ben in the sedan, watching him. He had been quiet since they had
come from the clinic. Too quiet. He had been up to something. She had
seen how flustered Tung T'an had been when he'd returned to her and
knew it had to do with something Ben had said or done. When she'd
asked, Ben had denied that anything had passed between him and Tung
T'an, but she could tell he was lying. The two had clashed over
something. Something important enough for Ben to be worrying about it
still.

She tried again.
"Was it something to do with me?"
;

He looked up at
her and laughed. "You don't give up, do you?"

She smiled. "Not
when it concerns you."

He leaned
forward, taking her hands. "It's nothing. Really, sis. If it
were important, I'd tell you. Honest."

She laughed.
"That doesn't make sense, Ben. If it's not important, then
there's no reason for you not to tell me. And if it is, well, you say
you'd tell me. So why not just tell me and keep me quiet."

He shrugged.
"All right. I'll tell you what I was thinking about. I was
thinking about a girl I'd met here. A girl called Catherine. I should
have met her, two hours back, but she's probably given up on me now."

Meg looked down,
suddenly very still. "A girl?"

He squeezed her
hands gently. "A friend of mine. She's been helping me with my
work."

Meg looked up at
him. He was watching her, a faint, almost teasing smile on his lips.
"You're jealous, aren't you?"

"No—"
she began, looking down, a slight color coming to her cheeks, then
she laughed. "Oh, you're impossible, Ben. You really are. I'm
curious, that's all. I didn't think. . ."

"That I had
any friends here?" He nodded. "No. I didn't think I had,
either. Not until a week ago. That's when I met her. It was strange.
You see, I'd used her as a model for something I was working on. Used
her without her knowing it. She was always there, you see, in a cafe
I used to frequent. And then, one day, she came to my table and
introduced herself."

A smile returned
to her lips. "So when are you going to introduce her to me?"
He looked down at her hands, then lifted them to his lips, kissing
their backs. "How about tonight? That is, if she's still
speaking to me after this morning."

* *
*

BEN was sitting
with Meg in the booth at the end of the bar when Catherine came in.
He had deliberately chosen a place where neither of them had been
before—neutral ground—and had told Meg as much, not
wanting his sister to feel too out of place. Ben saw her first and
leaned across to touch Meg's hand. Meg turned, seeing how Catherine
came down the aisle toward them, awkward at first, then when she knew
they had seen her, with more confidence. She had put up her flame-red
hair so that the sharp lines of her face were prominent.

Looking at her
in the half-light Meg thought her quite beautiful.

Ben stood,
offering his hand, but Catherine gave him only the most fleeting of
glances. "You must be Meg," she said, moving around the
table and taking the seat beside her, looking into her face. "I've
been looking forward to meeting you." She laughed softly, then
reached out to gently touch Meg's nose, tracing its shape, the
outline of her mouth.

"Yes,"
she said, after a moment. "You're like him, aren't you?"

She turned,
looking at Ben. "And how are
you
⁷
."

"I'm well,"
he said, noncommittally, taking his seat, then turning to summon a
waiter.

Meg studied her
in profile. Ben had said nothing, but she understood. The girl was in
love with him.

She looked, as
Ben had taught her, seeing several things: the fine and clever hands,
the sharpness of the eyes that missed little in the visual field. An
artist's eyes. And she saw how the girl looked at Ben: casual on the
surface, but beneath it all uncertain, vulnerable.

Ben ordered,
then turned back, facing them. "This, by the way, is Catherine.
She paints."

Meg nodded,
pleased that she had read it so well. "What do you paint?
Abstracts? Portraits?" She almost said landscapes, but it was
hard to believe that anyone from here would pick such a subject.

The girl smiled
and glanced quickly at Ben before answering. "I paint whatever
takes my interest. I've even painted your brother."

Ben leaned
across the table. "You should see it, Meg. Some of her work's
quite good."

Meg smiled. If
Ben said she was good you could take it that the girl was excellent.
She looked at Catherine anew, seeing qualities she had missed the
first time: the taut, animal-like quality of her musculature and the
way she grew very still whenever she was watching. Like a cat. So
very like a cat.

The waiter
brought their drinks. When he had gone, Ben leaned forward, toasting
them both.

"To the two
most beautiful women in the City.
Kan Pei
!"

Meg looked
sideways at the girl, noting the color that had come to her cheeks.
Catherine wasn't sure what Ben was up to. She didn't know him well
enough yet. But there was a slightly teasing tone in his voice that
was unmistakable, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. His mood had
changed. Or, rather, he had changed his mood.

"This
painting..." Meg asked, "is it good?"

Catherine looked
down, smiling. There was no affectation in the gesture, only a
genuine humility. "I think it is." She looked up, careful
not to look at Ben, her cheeks burning. "It's the best thing
I've done. My first real painting."

Meg nodded
slowly. "I'd like to see it, if you'd let me. I don't think
anyone has painted Ben in years. If at all."

The girl bowed
her head slightly. There was silence for a moment, then Ben cleared
his throat, leaning toward Meg. "She's far too modest. I've
heard they plan to put on an exhibition of her work, here in the
College."

Meg saw how the
girl looked up at that, her eyes flying open, and knew it was not
something she had told Ben, but that he had discovered it for
himself.

She looked back
at Catherine. "When is it being held?"

"In the
spring."

"The spring
. . ." Meg thought of that a moment, then laughed.

"Why did
you laugh?" Catherine was staring back at her, puzzled, while
from across the table Ben looked on, his eyes almost distant in their
intensity.

"Because
it's odd, that's all. You say spring and you mean one thing, while
for me . . ." She stared down at her drink, aware of how
strangely the girl was looking at her. "It's just that spring is
a season of the year, and here ..." she looked up, meeting the
girl's deeply green eyes, "here there are no seasons at all."

For a moment
longer Catherine stared back at her, seeking but not finding what she
wanted in her face. Then she looked away, giving a little shrug.

"You speak
like him, too. In riddles."

"It's just
that words mean different things to us," Ben said, leaning back,
his head pressing against the wall of the partition. It was a comment
that seemed to exclude Catherine, and Meg saw how she took one quick
look at him, visibly hurt.

Hurt and
something else. Meg looked away, a sudden coldness in the pit of her
stomach. It was more than love. More than simple desire. The girl was
obsessed with Ben. As she looked back at Ben, one word formed clear
in her head. Difficult. It was what he had said earlier. Now she was
beginning to understand.

"Words are
only words," she said, turning back and smiling at the girl,
reaching out to touch and hold her hand. "Let's not make too
much of them."

* *
*

six hours LATER,
Catherine finished wrapping the present, then stood the canvas by the
door. That done, she showered, then dressed and made herself up.
Tonight she would take him out. Alone, if possible; but with his
sister, if necessary.

For a moment she
stood there, studying herself in the wall-length mirror. She was
wearing a dark-green, loose-fitting wrap tied with a cord at the
waist. She smiled, pleased by what she saw, knowing Ben would like
it; then she looked down, touching her tongue to her top teeth,
remembering.

A card had come
that afternoon. From Sergey. A terse, bitter little note full of
recriminations and the accusation of betrayal. It had hurt, bringing
back all she had suffered these last few weeks. But it had also
brought relief. Her relationship with Sergey could not have lasted.
He had tried to own her, to close her off from herself.

She shivered.
Well, it was done with now. His clash with Ben had been inevitable
and, in a sense, necessary. It had forced her to a choice. Sergey was
someone in her past. Her destiny now lay with Ben.

The bolt took
her north, through the early evening bustle. It was after seven when
she reached the terminal at the City's edge. From there she took a
tram six stacks east, then two north. There she hesitated, wondering
if she should call and tell him she was coming; instead, she pressed
on. It would give him less opportunity to make excuses. She had her
own key now—she would surprise him.

She took the
elevator up to his level, the package under her arm. It was heavy and
she was longing to put it down. Inside, she placed it against the
wall in the cloakroom while she took off her cape. The smell of
percolating coffee filled the apartment. Smiling, she went through to
the kitchen, hoping to find him there.

The kitchen was
empty. She stood there a moment, listening for noises in the
apartment, then went through to the living room. No one was there.
Two empty glasses rested on the table. For a moment she looked about
her, frowning, thinking she had made a mistake and they were out.
Then she remembered the coffee.

She crossed the
room and stood there, one hand placed lightly against the door,
listening. Nothing. Or almost nothing. If she strained she thought
she could hear the faintest sound of breathing.

She tried the
door. It was unlocked. She moved the panel, sliding it back slowly,
her heart pounding now, her hands beginning to tremble.

It was pitch
black within the room. As she eased the panel back, light from the
living room spilled into the darkness, breaching it. She saw at once
that the frame had been moved from the center of the room; pushed
back to one side, leaving only an open space of carpet and the edge
of the bed.

She stepped
inside, hearing it clearly now—a regular pattern of breathing.
At first it seemed single, but then she discerned its doubleness.
Frowning, she moved closer, peering into the darkness.

Her voice was a
whisper. "Ben? Ben? It's me. Catherine."

She knelt,
reaching out to touch him, then pulled her hand back sharply. The
hair. . .

The girl rolled
over and looked up at her, her eyes dark, unfocused from sleep.

Beside her Ben
grunted softly and nuzzled closer, his right arm stretched out across
her stomach, his hand cradling her breast.

Her breath
caught in her throat.
Kuan Yin! His sister!

Meg sighed, then
turned her face toward the other girl. "Ben?" she asked
drowsily, not properly awake, one hand scratching lazily at the dark
bush of her sex.

Catherine stood,
the strength suddenly gone from her legs, a tiny moan of pain
escaping her lips. She could see now how their limbs were entwined,
how their bodies glistened with the sweat of lovemaking.

"I. . ."
she began, but the words were swallowed back. There was nothing more
to say. Nothing now but to get out and try to live with what she'd
seen. Slowly she began to back away.

Meg lifted her
head slightly, trying to make out who it was. "Ben?"

Catherine's head
jerked back, as if she had no control of it, and banged against the
panel behind her. Then she turned and, fumbling with the door,
stumbled out—out into the harsh light of the living room—and
fell against the table. She went down, scattering the empty glasses,
and lay there a moment, her forehead pressed against the table's leg.

She heard the
panel slide back and turned quickly, getting up, wiping her hand
across her face. It was Ben. He put his hand out to her, but she
knocked it away, her teeth bared like a cornered animal.

"You
bastard . . ." she whimpered. "You . . ."

But she could
only shake her head, her face a mask of grief and bitter
disappointment.

He lowered his
hand and let his head fall. It was an awkward, painful little
gesture, one which Meg, watching from the other room, saw and
understood. He hadn't told her. Catherine hadn't known how things
were between Ben and herself.

Meg looked
beyond her brother. Catherine had backed against the door. She stood
there a moment, trembling, her pale, beautiful face wet with tears,
racked with grief and anger. Then she turned and was gone.

And Ben? She
looked at him, saw how he stood there, his head fallen forward, all
life, all of that glorious intensity of his, suddenly gone from him.
She shivered. He was hurt. She could see how hurt he was. But he
would be all right. Once he'd got used to things. And maybe it was
best. Yes, maybe it was, in the circumstances.