A Fine Imitation (34 page)

“Mr. Stanton,” she said. “So good of you to come.”

He nodded. “Mrs. Bellington.”

“Please, sit. I assume you have news for me?”

He took the papers from the table, and her heart began to drum against her ribs. Her head swam, and she sat. Before he spoke, he flipped through them, as if to remind himself of their contents. He looked up and met her gaze.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” she said, her voice small and wispy.

He sighed. “I had my contact comb through records in Paris. He telegraphed and wrote to associates in London. He was very thorough. Birth records, hospitals, police precincts, prisons. He visited the school Mr. Hallan says he attended. All of it pointed to the same answer.”

“And what's that?” Vera's nails dug into her palms in an effort to keep her hands from shaking.

“There is no Emil Hallan.”

For a moment, Vera sat unblinking. That could not be true. She had held Hallan's hand in the ocean. She kissed him. She felt his heartbeat close to hers. He told her about how he chose the colors, how art was supposed to make you feel human. He gave her poetry. She had wondered if he might be a criminal of the worst kind. She could never have imagined that he might not exist at all. One word escaped her, more a whimper than a word. “What?”

“There were no records of any man by that name in London or Paris. No one by that name at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Well, who is he then?”

“That I don't know. I'm still working to match his description, but that could take a very long time.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Long enough for him to leave before I find it, I'm afraid. Do you understand?”

Vera nodded. She drew in a few labored breaths. He was not Emil Hallan. Or, if he was, he had not gone to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Nor had he been born in London. Her stomach twisted.

Who was he?

“I do know one thing for certain,” Stanton said, with a slight hesitation.

“O-oh?”

He rubbed his chin. “You paid for his passage from Paris, correct? On the
Leviathan
?”

“We did.”

“I spoke with several attendants on the
Leviathan
. Mr. Hallan's stateroom was never occupied.”

“What do you mean, never occupied?”

“Just that. The room never needed cleaning, he never came for his meals…no one was in his room.”

She closed her eyes tightly. “That's impossible. We picked him up from the docks. He had his trunk.”

“He found some other way to get to the States, then. But my sources all agree. His room was empty.”

She could not listen to any more. Her knees wobbled as she rushed to stand. “Thank you, Mr. Stanton, you've been very helpful. Will you go to Clarence Bloomer right away?”

“No, I thought I would try to find more information before I concluded my report. I doubt this will be enough to satisfy him. He'll want to know who this man is. When I find out more, would you like me to contact you first again?”

“No, thank you. This is quite enough.” She stuck out a hand, and he stood and shook it.

“If you're certain,” he said.

“I am. Thank you again.”

The detective closed the door, and Vera covered her face with her hands. Her heart had frozen, as if it had stopped beating entirely. When she could feel it pulsing again, it gulped and stuttered. Hallan was not Hallan. All the fears she had about him lying surged forward again. She stood and headed out the door, unable to bear her own silence a moment longer.

Vera raced down the stairs to Hallan's apartment as soon as the front door closed behind Stanton, the beads on her dress shimmying and shushing as she ran. She stood outside the door to 2A to catch her breath, then knocked. Hallan's valet answered.

“Is Mr. Hallan in?” she asked. “I need to speak to him.”

“I'm sorry, madam, he's not.”

“Then I'll wait.”

He frowned. “I'm sorry, it may be quite some time. He usually doesn't come upstairs from working until very late at night. Shall I go down and tell him you're here?”

“Yes, please, will you?”

The valet stepped aside so Vera could enter. “Let me show you to the drawing room.”

“No need. I know where it is. Thank you for fetching him.”

The valet left, and Vera went into the drawing room. Too anxious to sit, she paced in front of the mantel. As she waited, she mentally prepared what she wanted to say. The maid came in to offer a drink, and Vera gratefully requested a gin and tonic. She had just hit the bottom of the glass when she heard the front door open.

Hallan strode into the room. His face, shirt, and arms were flecked with pale blue paint. Even his hair had dots of paint here and there.

“What's the matter?” he asked, a little out of breath.

She swallowed hard. “I found out something today that I want you to explain to me.”

His face went slack. He sat and took a deep breath. “All right. If I can.”

“I spoke to the private investigator. He said he's searched all over London and Paris. The art school included. He says there is no record of anyone named Emil Hallan.”

He rubbed his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. “I said he wouldn't find anything, didn't I?”

“Then that isn't your name? I don't even know your real name?”

“No.”

The word shattered her last hope. Her knees buckled, and she sat in a chair. “Oh God.”

“What does it matter? It's only a name.”

“It's not ‘only a name,' ” she cried. “I let you into my home, into my bed, and I don't even know who you are. None of it's true, you didn't study at that school—”

“I admit it.” His voice was firm. “I didn't study at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.”

She lifted her head. Finally, some truth from his own mouth. “Did you study art at all?”

“I did.”

“I suppose it would be pointless to ask your real name.”

“My first name is Emil, that's true. It's only my last name you don't know.” He stared out the window. “Last names only matter to people like you.”

She let out a harsh laugh. “People like me? Honest people? People with nothing to hide?”

“People at the top. It's your calling card, your invitation. The way to show you belong and keep other people out. Believe me, my last name is of no use to you.” He pointed at her. “And you hide plenty, by the way.”

“Don't you dare act as though what I've done is the same as what you've done. You lied about everything. He said you weren't on the boat. How did you even get here?”

Hallan did not answer, though she half hoped he would. He had told her a little something. Maybe she could make him open the gates if she found the right question. She stared at him for a moment before continuing. “You could be anyone. What is it, do you have a wife you're running from?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Some horrible crime? You could be a murderer for all I know.”

He pressed a fist to his mouth. When he spoke it was so low she could barely hear, as if each word pained him. “I am not a murderer.”

“How would I know that? Why should I believe you?”

He moved to the couch beside her. “Because you know me. You do. I know you care for me. And you've waited this long…let me finish the painting, and then I'll tell you everything.”

She cursed herself. Despite everything, all her fears and concerns, she still felt drawn to him, more each day. She wanted to believe him. To hear his story, see his painting. And she wanted him to be safe. He lied, yes, but he could never be dangerous. She laid a hand on his knee. “The investigator is still looking for more information about you, and he'll find it. Why don't you go now? While you still can?”

“I'm going to finish the painting first.”

“Forget the painting! What does that matter?”

He stared ahead, his eyes fixed and resolute. “I have to finish the painting before I leave. It's nearly done. Then I'll go. And I want you to come with me.”

Vera stood. When he had made the offer before, she had enjoyed hearing him say the words. Now the idea turned her stomach to lead. “I can't leave with you. I don't know you.”

He rose and took a tentative step toward her. “Yes, you do. Please, Vera. Think about it. What do you have here?”

“A home, a husband, my family—”

“And it's suffocating you. They're going to drain you until there's nothing left but a shell. If you leave, you have a chance to be that woman you said you ought to have been. You'll have a chance at a real life. Why does this have to be tied up in the past? Why can't it be about the future?”

She shook her head. “There is no future. Not with you. This is absurd.”

“I'm only asking you to think about it. And I'll show you the painting and tell you everything. Then you can decide. But I want to be with you. I want to take you out of this place.”

The floor spun beneath her. “I—I have to go. I can't…I've got to go.”

He nodded. “Go. But think about it.”

Ridiculous. Hallan's proposal was ridiculous. She could not run away, least of all with a man about whom she knew nothing, someone who lied to her right from the start. And they had nothing. She had no money of her own, and who knew if Hallan could get a job? Where would they go? The whole idea was lunacy.

Then why did she keep picturing them on a train? Why could she clearly see them, side by side on a rattling train car, speeding toward a new life? Why could she not stop herself from thinking which of her belongings she would take with her, and what she would leave behind? Something inside her begged her to take the elevator down one final time and never come back.

As pervasive as thoughts of Hallan were, Vera could not help but think of Bea, too. Did she have to invent elaborate lies to hide her disgrace, as Hallan did? Vera's confession ten years before might have set Bea off on the path that led to forgery. Vera could choose the train, choose the new life. Bea had been forced. In the moments when Vera was most honest, she had to acknowledge that the speed with which she had forgiven herself for the way she had treated Bea years ago diminished her. Thinking of it made her feel small, almost pathetic.

With Hallan, at least, Vera could console herself that she could say good-bye to him before he left. And she would. If they parted for good, it would not be in the confused silence that had separated her and Bea, her and Cliff. Vera had heard shortly after returning from Vassar that Bea was expelled. Vera had tried to find out more, but soon the stream of gossip dried up. She could not inquire too insistently, lest her mother get word. Vera assumed Bea's family had taken her home to Atlanta, until she first spotted Bea on the street in the city years later. They had been robbed of a chance to say even the simplest good-bye. Their encounter on the street was hardly an ideal final conversation. Vera would not allow that to happen between her and Hallan.

The thoughts and questions muddied her mind as she moved in a daze through her daily life. She assumed Hallan continued to paint, but for the next few days she was at last able to stay away from his apartment, and he left her alone. The loss of him in her day was palpable. A gnawing hunger opened up inside her and never let her forget him. She hoped he would finish soon and go, and she could attempt to return to her life as it had been.

Arthur still seemed to know nothing about the affair. If anything, he became more pleasant than he had been in a long while. He dined at home more often, struck up lively conversations with her instead of keeping his nose in the financial news, and went out of his way to compliment her. Once he even planned a full evening out, complete with dinner and a play, perhaps finally making good on his promise after he failed to meet her at the Ritz. His behavior, while friendlier, was still not exactly loving, but Vera had more hope than ever they could get there if she just tried a little harder.