A Tangled Web (54 page)

“You'll make others. We'll make them together.”

“I don't want others.”

“You may not have that choice.”

Stephanie pulled her hand from his. “I do have a choice.” They reached their gate and Max turned in. “Can't we stay outside? Why are we going in?”

He took her arm. “I'm more comfortable inside.”

“I'm not.” Stephanie thought of Léon: of making love beneath the trees of Saint-Saturnin, eating lunch beside the sunlit waves of the Sorgue, bicycling past gnarled vines bowed down with grapes. Léon was fresh air, sunlight, the silver sheen of the moon, the warm, moist earth, and when they were together they were part of the earth, taking their strength from it and from each other. She could never say that about Max. Max was enclosures, interiors, secrets, manipulations, artificiality. Max was not part of the earth because he was determined to twist it to his purposes.

In the living room he sat on one of the couches, making room for Stephanie, but she perched on the arm of a nearby chair. “I won't leave Cavaillon, Max.”

“You will.” He held her gaze as if he could bend her to his will. “You have nothing but me. Do you think that that woman in the shop will carry you indefinitely while you learn a trade? Do you think anyone in town gives a damn whether you live or die?”

“Robert cares.”

“Robert may not be here.”

She looked up at him sharply. “
Robert
is leaving Cavaillon?”

“Not right away. But he may have to.”

“Why?”

“For his own reasons.”

“And what are yours?”

Max went to the bar and poured a drink. Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “You don't drink in the morning.”

“This morning I do.”

“You're only doing it to keep from talking to me. Max, tell me whatever you have to say; you can't put it off forever. I want to hear all of it. Including,” she added abruptly, suddenly seeing everything as part of a pattern, “how you make your money.”

She had taken him by surprise; he shot her a look. “You didn't believe what I told you?”

“No. Well, partly. But I never believed that you told me everything. And now I want you to.”

He paused, then shrugged. “Well, then.” He returned to his chair and contemplated his drink. “There is a man who works for me in Marseilles, an artist, a brilliant engraver who—”

“What is his name?”

Max paused again. “Andrew Frick. I protect him; that name must not be repeated.”

“Protect him from what? The police?”

“Among others. Andrew engraves money. Superbly. And I sell it, in large quantities, to people all over the world. Some of them use it for personal needs; some use it to bring down a government by undermining their country's currency; some use it to get prisoners out of jail, to arm private armies, sometimes to build schools.”

“You make and sell counterfeit money.” She remembered his locked desk, his secretiveness, the times she had wondered whether he was involved in something criminal. She felt sick. And then something else occurred to her. “How do you get it to them?” He did not answer, and after a moment she said, “You ship it to them. In construction equipment.”

“Yes.”

“You smuggle it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the amounts are too bulky to carry, and in luggage they could be found by customs—”

“No, I mean, why do you do it?” She forced herself to look at him, trying to see what he was thinking. She had lived with him for more than eight months, enjoying his companionship, depending on him, but she did not know what he was thinking. His gray eyes were as flat and unrevealing as they always were, even when they were making love. “Why, Max? You don't really need to, do you? Couldn't you make as much money—or, anyway, enough to live on—doing something that isn't criminal?”

He went to her and took her hands, kissing the palms. “I love you, Sabrina; you've made these months the best I've ever known. You've made a home for me. You gave me a place to belong. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known, and the most intriguing, and I want you with me, wherever I am, whatever I'm doing.”

“Why do you do it?” she asked again, her voice cool.

He hesitated, then smiled faintly, a little sadly. “Because, my dear, smuggling is all I've ever known. It's the way I live; it's what I do best.”

“But that's ridiculous; you know so many things, you could do almost anything.”

“Well, then, it's what I like best.”

“But it's the reason you're in trouble, is that right? Because the police found out? Or someone else did, someone who could expose you. That's why you want to leave Cavaillon.”

“Partly.”

“Well, what else is it? What else have you done? You haven't”—she caught her breath—“you haven't killed anyone.”

“No.” The irony of it made Max furious. He could not tell the truth, even now, when he was ready to because he loved her. He could not tell her about Denton, or that they were both in danger because Denton had tried to kill them once, because to do so would be to tell her about Sabrina Longworth, about the past he had kept from her. “I haven't
killed anyone; I'm not at all sure that I could. We'll leave Cavaillon because we have to, because my business requires it.”

“That's not true. You're running away. But you'll always be running, won't you, and hiding inside houses instead of being free? Something will always come along that will make you run and hide. I won't be part of that. Even if I wanted to leave Cavaillon, I wouldn't run away with you.”

“We won't be running. We'll buy another house; we'll discover a new place. We'll be together. My God, Sabrina, as long as we're together . . .” He looked at her and knew, with a heavy sinking inside him, that their being together was not an argument that would move her. But he went on, pushing the words at her, trying to make her feel what he felt, if only by the force of his voice. “I thought of California, perhaps Los Angeles. You'd have mountains there, and the desert and the ocean as well. Far more than you have here. Or Rio de Janeiro. I know some people there; they'd help you find another antique shop, or you could start your own. We'll make a new home. And we'll be together.”

Stephanie shook her head. She tried to stand up, but Max still held her hands and pinned her in place. “Am I a prisoner?” she asked angrily.

“You can't walk out on me when I'm talking to you.”

“I can walk out any time! Good God, Max, I've just begun to make a life and you're trying to force me to run away from it. I won't do it! I want to stay here. This is my home and I love it, and
it's familiar to me
and that's the most important thing in the world right now, to be surrounded by things that are familiar. Just because I went to China once and decided to try a new life for a while doesn't mean I want to do it forever! It was just—Max!”

She was staring wildly at him. There was a ringing in her ears . . .
To try a new life for a while.
What does that mean?
What does that mean?
“Max, did I go to China some time before the explosion?”

“I have no idea. If you did, you never told me about it.”

“Why would I go? Max, help me! Didn't I tell you anything that might be a reason for me to go there?”

“No. And I don't believe you went there. Perhaps a friend . . . or perhaps you were thinking about it.”

“I went there,” she said flatly. “And I was running away.” But that was all she knew; the fog had closed in and nothing was left. She had pulled her hands from Max's, and now, caught in the fog and the frustration of trying to cut through it, she went to the door.

Max stopped her. “You're not walking out on me. We're still talking about this.”

She saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes: fear, she thought, or perhaps only worry. The lines in his face seemed to deepen as she gazed at him; behind the mask of his beard he looked almost drawn. He's sixty, she thought; it can't be easy to think about moving to a new country and changing life at sixty. Especially alone.

And so, once again, she knew she could not tell him about Léon. Not then, not ever. He would leave alone, knowing the partial truth that she could not bear the uncertainties of a new place or of a life on the run. He could live with that far more easily than with knowing she had fallen in love with another man.

She shook her head again. “I won't leave Cavaillon. Everything I want is here.”

“You don't even know what you want. You don't know anything yet.”

“I've learned enough to know what I want.”

“Nothing lasts; don't you understand? What you think you have is only what you see today. It won't be the same tomorrow or next week or next year.”

“Yes, that's how you live. I understand that. But I believe things do last. This town, my friends, this house, this—”

“You won't have this house.”

“You'll take it away from me?”

“You can't afford it.”

“Oh. Well, then, I'll find something small. Robert or . . . or Jacqueline will help me. And I'll get another job if she can't use me full time. And Madame Besset can always find a new position; she knows everyone.”

“You belong with me.” He heard the plea in his voice and silently cursed himself. Max Stuyvesant did not plead with anyone. Once again he turned away from her, and as he did he saw on the terrace the man in the leather vest and slouch-brimmed hat who had been in the churchyard. He was leaning against a tree, lighting a cigarette. As he flicked away the match, he looked up and met Max's eyes.

“Christ, she told someone. That damned girl, Robert's fucking do-gooder . . .” He strode to the terrace door.
Confront them; they can't think I'm afraid.
“What the hell are you doing here? Get out! Marcel!” he shouted, and the gardener appeared around the corner of the house. “Get him out of here; he's lost or drunk. And after this, God damn it, keep the gate locked.”

He turned back, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I'm sorry.”

“What did you mean? What girl?” Stephanie was frightened by the fury in his voice and by the fear, naked now, that lay beneath it.

“Sabrina, listen to me. We don't have much time. I've made my plans; I'm ready to leave, and you're coming with me. You're my wife; you belong with me. There's nothing keeping us here. You've built up a fantasy about Cavaillon because it's all you know, but that's the way an infant thinks of its crib. Any place in the world can be home; there's nothing, anywhere, that can't be duplicated. Come.” Without moving from his place by the door, he held out his hand. “Come with me. I love you; I'll take care of you. You're my wife, Sabrina; you belong with me. I'll give you everything you want; I'll make you happy. Sabrina, I promise you I'll make you happy; we'll have a good life.”

“No.” She stood near the door at the far side of the
room. She pitied him for pleading when she knew he thought of himself as a man who never asked for anything, and she feared for him because of his sudden desperation. But another part of her felt detached, already cut off from him, wanting to have nothing to do with him. “You talk as if I belong to you. But I don't. And I don't belong with you. I don't like the kind of life you make for yourself, Max.”

“You don't have to like it; you don't even have to know about it.”

“If I stayed with you, I'd be as involved as you are because I'd be living on what you make. I can't be part of that, Max; I won't be part of it. And I can't be on the run all the time, hiding, looking over my shoulder—”

“God damn it, I'm leaving, do you understand that?” He was furious with her for fighting him, for refusing his pleas, his logic, his love. “This isn't a game, Sabrina, it's real, and I'm leaving. Do you know what that means? Do you know what it will mean to you to be alone? You have no idea what that's like.”

“I won't be alone.”

“You're depending on Robert—”

“I'm depending on myself.”

“You can't.”

“I can! Stop telling me I can't! You've tried to keep me dependent on you, Max; I know that. You haven't wanted me to recover my memory; you've wanted me to be a little girl, needing you for everything. But I'm not a little girl and I won't be your little girl ever again, and that's not a game, either; that is real.”

He waited another minute, his eyes locked fiercely on hers; then he wheeled and left the room. Stephanie stayed where she was, trembling from his intensity and her own. But with him gone, the room was silent, as hushed as the land after a storm, and gradually her trembling stopped. It was over.
I'm depending on myself.
Soon she and Max would part, probably never to meet again. She was touched by sadness. He had been good to her; they had made a home. But everything she had heard and felt that morning
wiped out the sadness, and let her think with equanimity of the moment of his departure, when she would touch his hand and kiss him goodbye for the last time.

But she did not touch him or kiss him goodbye. He stayed in his locked office for the rest of that day, and when she awoke the next morning he was gone. It was five o'clock; she had set her alarm because she had planned a bicycle trip up Mont Ventoux and had to start before the day became too hot.

Madame Besset was already in the kitchen, kneading bread dough. “Monsieur must have left very early, madame; he was gone when I arrived a little while ago. Will he be away long this time?”

“I don't know.” Stephanie stood in the kitchen, holding her cup of espresso, feeling as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet. He was gone. Not just a short business trip this time; he would go thousands of miles, and he would stay there. She was alone. No, not alone, she thought, but she felt the emptiness of the house, its high-ceilinged rooms, the furnishings that she had bought and arranged over the past months, the gardens heavy with fall blooms, the well-stocked kitchen with Madame Besset its focal point.