She looked me straight in the eye and smiled ‘Goodbye, Dr Bliss. Goodbye, Mr Tregarth. Good luck – to both of you.’
Funny, how everybody kept wishing me luck.
I began to believe we might get away with it after all. In fact there were rumours about ceremonies of honour and assorted medals. Feisal was going to be the new director of
the institute and I didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d be standing on his own two feet when he assumed the position. He was recuperating much faster than the doctors had expected; when
I leaned over to kiss him goodbye the last time we visited him, he pulled me down onto the bed and into his arms, and John had to detach me by force.
‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ Feisal asked. ‘And let me show you Egypt without distractions?’
‘I hope so,’ I said. And to my surprise I found I meant it.
All in all, things were looking up. I wasn’t even dreaming. But John was.
He always quietened as soon as I touched him. But the night before we were to leave I forced myself to wait and watch while he thrashed around and groaned, and finally a few words became
audible. He might have said more, but I couldn’t stand it any longer, and when I took hold of him he woke.
He lay quiet in my arms until his breathing was back to normal. Then he said, ‘There is one misapprehension you may harbour that I would like to correct. I am not one of those sensitive
overeducated aristocrats who writhe around in a frenzy of guilt because they have been responsible for bringing a sociopath to his or her well-deserved end.’
‘I suspect they occur only in fiction,’ I said, trying to match his precise, detached tone.
‘Oh, quite. There’s no one so bloody-minded and selfish as your overeducated aristocrat. No doubt you’ve noticed that.’
‘John – ’
‘I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again.’
Before long he drifted off to sleep. I didn’t.
We said goodbye at the airport next morning. Schmidt and I were leaving first; John’s plane took off an hour later. He was wearing a sling, for the effect, he claimed; but that unimportant
overlooked bullet hole wasn’t healing the way it should and I thought that morning he had a touch of fever. I told myself not to worry. Jen would nag him till he saw a doctor.
The sling matched the black armband on his left sleeve. The suit hung a little loosely, but it was beautifully tailored and he was the picture of an English gent manfully suppressing personal
sorrow. For the benefit of the photographers he bowed over my hand and allowed Schmidt to slap him on the back. ‘Three friends, brought together by chance and bonded in tragedy.’ I read
some of the newspaper stories later. They were very mushy, especially the tabloid versions.
I had sworn I wouldn’t look back, but of course I did. He raised his hand and smiled, and then turned away.
‘Do not weep, mein Kind,’ Schmidt said. ‘You will see him soon again.’
‘I’m not weeping.’ I wasn’t. Two tears do not constitute weeping. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t see him again.
II
A couple of weeks later Schmidt and I were walking along the Isar. In the rain. It was Schmidt’s idea. He thinks walking in the rain is romantic. I did not share his
opinion, and I remembered those bright hot days in Egypt with a nostalgia I had never expected to feel. The river was grey as steel under a steely sky. Fallen leaves formed soggy masses that
squelched under our feet. My hair hung in lank dank locks that dripped onto my nose and down my neck. I had meant to have it cut. Why hadn’t I? I knew why.
‘This was a stupid idea,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m cold and wet and I want to go back to work.’
‘You have not done five minutes’ work in the past week,’ Schmidt said. ‘You sit in your office, all alone in the tower, staring at your papers and accomplishing nothing.
You are the stupid one. Why don’t you telephone him? He is in the book.’
‘Schmidt, you devil!’ My foot slipped and I had to grab at Schmidt to keep from falling. He grinned and grabbed back. ‘You didn’t call him, did you?’
‘No, what do you take me for?’
‘An interfering, nosy – ’
‘I called the information in England to get the number,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘It would be only courteous of you to inquire after his health.’
‘He’s all right.’ I kicked at a wad of sodden leaves. ‘You know that Jen called you too.’
‘Oh, yes, very touching,’ Schmidt said with a sniff. ‘The dear old Mutti thanking us for our kindness to her little boy. Herr Gott, when she began to talk about his tragic loss
and the virtues of that terrible young woman I was hard-pressed to hold my tongue.’
It hadn’t been pleasant. Jen hadn’t been awfully pleasant either. She’d said all the right things but I had had a feeling she wasn’t too happy about some of the newspaper
stories. None of the reporters had had the bad taste to come right out with their prurient suspicions but there had been references to my youthful blond beauty (every female in stories like those
is beautiful) and John’s tender concern.
He had told me once his mother wouldn’t like me.
‘He must be getting very tired of being fussed over,’ said Schmidt.
‘He’ll put up with it only as long as he chooses. Schmidt, can we go back now?’ I sneezed.
‘No. We have not yet said what must be said. But I do not want that you should catch cold. We will go to a café and have coffee. Mit Schlag,’ Schmidt added happily.
He had whipped cream on his coffee and on his double serving of chocolate torte and, by the time he finished, on his moustache. It was a warm, cosy little café with low ceilings and
windows covered with steam that blurred the gloomy weather outside. Schmidt wiped his moustache and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
‘Now, Vicky. What is wrong? It is good to talk when one is in distress, and who better to listen than Papa Schmidt, eh?’
He’d missed a speck of whipped cream. It might have been that homely touch or his worried frown, or the comfortable intimate ambience, but all of a sudden I knew I was going to talk till I
was hoarse.
‘I love you, Schmidt,’ I said.
‘Well, I have known that for a long time,’ Schmidt said complacently. ‘But it is good to hear you say it. Have you found the courage now to say it to him?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘With more enthusiasm than that, I hope. And he loves you too. So of what are you afraid?’
‘Funny,’ I said hollowly ‘He asked me the same thing.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Something stupid, I guess. It’s a stupid question, Schmidt! Loving someone condemns you to a lifetime of fear. You become painfully conscious of how fragile people are –
bundles of brittle bones and vulnerable flesh, breeding grounds for billions of deadly germs and horrible diseases. And loving a man like John is tantamount to playing Russian roulette. He
can’t help being the way he is, he’ll never change, and that life-style doesn’t offer much hope for a long-term relationship, does it? I’ve been fighting my feelings for a
long time, longer than I wanted to admit, because I knew that once I gave way it would be all the way, no holding back, no reservations. That’s the way I am. And he . . . It’s not just
physical attraction . . . Are you laughing, Schmidt? So help me God, if you laugh at me – ’
‘But who could not laugh? You, of all people, so prim and proper with the poor old gentleman. I was not always old, Vicky, and I have not forgotten what it is like to feel as you do. But I
still do not understand what is holding you back.’
‘It’s not me, damn it! It’s John. He’s gone all sentimental and noble and self-sacrificing on me. I hoped I was wrong, but I couldn’t think of anything that would
change his mind, he’s so arrogant and stubborn, and he’d have called me by now if he meant to, it’s been almost two weeks, and having her call instead was a deliberate sign
– ’
Schmidt whipped out his handkerchief. ‘Weep, my dear Vicky. Break yourself down. It will relieve you.’
‘Thanks, I think I will.’
He moved his chair closer to mine and put his arm around me. He felt as comforting and soft as a huge pillow, and warm besides. When I finished blubbering I saw there was another cup of coffee
in front of me, with a double order of Schlag on it. Schmidt’s ideas of consolation are based on whipped cream and chocolate.
‘So,’ said Schmidt in a businesslike voice. ‘That is better. We can seriously discuss the problem. I will accept your assumption that this is how he feels, for you are in a
better position to know than I. Can you explain why he should feel so? For surely now your position is safer than it has ever been. He is not under suspicion by the police and you have an excuse
for enjoying an acquaintance that began openly and legitimately.’
‘John Tregarth isn’t wanted, no. But Sir John Smythe and a couple of dozen other aliases are, and not only by the police. Max assured us he held no grudge, but John obviously
didn’t believe him, and how many others like Max are there crawling around in the woodwork? That’s what has him worried, Schmidt. Not just worried – terrified. I thought he was
feeling guilty about
her
until the night before we left Egypt, and then . . . It was me he was having nightmares about. He was reliving that awful hour with Max and the others, and dreading
what would happen – not to him, to me – if he didn’t pull it off. He kept repeating, “It was too close,” and he didn’t mean coming too close to murder, he meant
. . . Oh, hell. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Schmidt said, frowning. ‘It is very – ’
‘If you say romantic I’ll slug you.’
‘“Touching” was the word I had in mind. More than touching. Beautiful! Yes, yes, it is what I would expect from such a man. He fears to endanger you, and so he will stay away.
Is that what you want?’
I had resigned myself to a long poetic tirade. The direct question startled me into the truth. ‘No.’
‘But he may be in the right,’ Schmidt said. ‘He knows more than you of the possible dangers.’
‘He has no right to make that decision for me. God damn it, Schmidt, it’s the same old macho crap you guys always try to pull and it’s not based on chivalry but on pure
selfishness – tuck the little woman away in some safe place so you won’t have to worry about
her.
What about
us
worrying about
you?
If you follow me.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Schmidt. ‘I follow you very well.’
My eyes fell. ‘Touché, Schmidt. I know; I’ve done the same thing to you. But in this case – in both cases – the damage is already done. Once you care about someone
you’re wide open, and the worst part of it is not knowing. Something awful could happen to him anytime, it could be happening at this very moment, and I might not even know about it for days
or weeks or . . . You know what I did yesterday? I bought a goddamn London newspaper and read the goddamn obituaries! I can’t live that way, Schmidt, and he has no right to expect me to, and
no, I’m not going to call him because this is his problem and he’s got to come to grips with it and if he can’t admit the obvious, basic fact – ’
I broke off. I had run out of breath. Schmidt was nodding and smiling, and there was a calculating look in those beady little eyes of his.
‘Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I already owe you more than I can ever repay and I am deeply grateful to you for inducing this emotional orgy, even if you did enjoy every maudlin moment of
it. But if you call him and repeat this conversation – ’
‘Now, Vicky, would I do such a thing?’ He took out his wallet. ‘Come, we must return to the museum. To work, to work, eh? I trust you will be more efficient in the
future.’
It went on raining. Day after day. Three days, to be precise. I didn’t mind. At that point I’d have considered sunlight a personal insult. And the bad weather kept me occupied.
Cleaning up after Caesar was a full-time activity
He and Clara had been glad to see me. Not that Clara admitted it. In fact, she spent a full day displaying her displeasure at my absence. She’d walk into the room and then sit down with
her back to me, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure I was aware of how she was ignoring me. And she talked. There is nothing noisier than an irritated Siamese. Finally she
condescended to get on my lap and after that I couldn’t get rid of her. I fell over her every time I climbed the stairs and she slept on my head instead of at my feet. With her tail in my
mouth.
Caesar’s delight at my return was more openly expressed. Thanks to the incessant rain he was able to coat himself with mud whenever he went out and he was determined to share this pleasure
with the one he loved best. If it hadn’t been for them and for Schmidt . . .
But I was feeling more suicidal than ever that gloomy Thursday evening. The drive home, through misty rain and fog, had been a nightmare of traffic and fender benders. Caesar had found something
dead in the garden when I let him out, and he had rolled in it. Clara had decided she didn’t care for the brand of cat food I had been feeding her for a week. I had just bought a whole case
of it.
I had been too depressed to change my wet clothes or my muddy shoes. I was sitting on the couch, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, dank hair dripping down my face, when the doorbell
rang.
Schmidt looked like Father Christmas with an armful of parcels and a red scarf wound around his double chins. The bottle sticking out of one of the bags appeared to be champagne.
‘Coming to cheer me up, are you?’ I inquired sourly.
‘Do not be rude, you know you are glad to see me.’
‘Yes, I am. Hi, Schmidt.’
‘Gröss Gott,’ Schmidt said formally. ‘Help me unpack these things. We are having a party.’
‘I hope “we” means you and me.’ I followed him to the kitchen. So did Caesar and Clara. They knew Schmidt. When he began unloading his parcels I realized he’d been
shopping at Dallmayr’s, Munich’s legendary gourmet deli. ‘I don’t want anybody else.’
‘I have invited another guest,’ Schmidt said. He was trying not to grin but he couldn’t hold it back, and I knew before he went on what he was going to say. ‘I think you
will be glad to see him, though.’
Slowly I followed Schmidt back into the living room, and there I stayed – rooted to the spot is the phrase, I believe – while he went into the hall. Was I thinking, in that supreme
and critical moment, of how god-awful I looked? Of course I was. I had allowed myself to imagine such a meeting. In that fantasy I was attired in robes of filmy white, and my (freshly washed and
carefully brushed) hair fell over my shoulders. Trust Schmidt to pick a moment when I resembled a charwoman on her way home from work.