The Truth and Other Lies (16 page)

“I can quite imagine,” Henry replied, and heaven be his witness that he meant it.

The last thing he needed now was any kind of complication. The novel wasn’t finished, and the question of who was to finish writing it was nowhere near being answered. The baby in Betty’s belly was already growing little fingers; there was a demon of conscience living in the roof in the form of a marten, and an unknown snooper was secretly gathering clues to his past in the hope of uncovering his biggest secret. It wouldn’t be easy to find solutions to all these problems and to restore order; now was not the time for amorous experiments. There are phases in life when it’s best to act on principle, not on impulse.

But Sonja was magnetic. Everything about the young woman attracted him. While he was making tea their eyes met in the reflection in the open kitchen window. Afterward they sat in his studio. She talked about her veterinary studies and how much she’d like to open a practice in the country, while he sucked on his cold pipe in silence, wishing it was her clitoris. Nothing would have been easier than to set her up in a practice; his lustful thoughts rose to heights too elevated for words. Every time she leaned forward to spread crème fraîche on the rhubarb cake with her teaspoon, previously inactive glands released hormones into his bloodstream. No doubt about it,
everything
tastes better with crème fraîche, and danger is more erotic than reason.

A quarter of an hour later he would have eaten rhubarb cake with rusty nails if it had amused her. They discussed the pleasant isolation of country life; he talked about inspiration; she told him of her weakness for rural machinery. Just as he was about to confide in her that he’d bought a John Deere tractor to dig out the old well behind the chapel, the telephone rang. The damn telephone. The most insidious invention since the hand grenade.

It was Betty. Sonja understood his silent glance and left the room at once. Her flip-flops were left next to the sofa in the shape of a V—If that isn’t a sign, Henry thought. Her spontaneous response suggested that their brief acquaintanceship was already becoming conspiratorial. An emotionally detached person would simply have remained sitting there. All that was needed now was to overcome small-town conventions, get through the process of grieving, remove any inconvenient people, and, last but not least, wait for Martha’s official death statement. Henry counted to five in his head and picked up the receiver.

Betty’s voice on the phone was tense and deeper than usual. “I’m here for you,” she said. As if scorched by a hot iron, Henry spun round on his axis and looked out the picture window.

“
Where
are you?”

“I’m right here for you, Henry. I’d just like you to know that I love you, I want to be with you, our baby . . .”

Yes, our baby, our baby, tra-la-la, et cetera. Henry was no longer listening. Any residual feeling for Betty had already been atomized by the charisma of the unknown; he could feel himself no longer feeling anything. For Betty, that is. This would have been the time for speaking frankly, coming to a financial understanding, for instance, promising to safeguard the future of their child and to part in truly sympathetic friendship. But men are never more cowardly and their lies never more pathetic than when they’re caught with their pants down. Isn’t that so, gentlemen?

“I have to see you,” he said.

“I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

How right she was. He never wanted to see her again. It was high time to tell her what had really happened on the cliffs.

The longest days of the year came. They met in the Four Seasons Hotel at about eight in the evening. Not under a false name as in the past, their sunglasses on and their cell phones off, but quite openly in the foyer. People recognized Henry, greeted him, offered their condolences; it was like being at a funeral. Henry remained as unassuming and nonchalant as ever and led Betty to the Oyster Bar, where a waiter showed him to the best table and swiftly cleared away the lilies.

Betty felt uneasy. His correctness, his choice of a public rendezvous, and above all the positively gooey gentleness with which he touched her reinforced her suspicions that he was going to confess to his wife’s murder. What do you say when you hear a thing like that? Do you treat it as a proof of love and then call the police? Would she have to testify against the father of her child? Or should she maintain a sympathetic silence and spend the rest of her life with a murderer? A dilemma. She ordered a glass of water.

The maître d’ recommended the Belon oysters from the mudflats of Brittany. Betty had no appetite. Henry went for steak and fries as always. He never looked at the menu. If there was no steak, well, then schnitzel. Betty was poring over the menu, but Henry could see that she wasn’t going to order anything—good God, how it got on his nerves when women made a big thing about a plate of pasta. Betty clapped the menu shut at last and shook her head. The waiter slunk off, offended.

“Now tell me.”

Henry cleared his throat as if about to read out a school essay. He’d never been good at this kind of thing. “I don’t think Martha would have ever wanted you to go to prison for her death—for fifteen years, if not more. No, she definitely would not have wanted that.”

This was not a confession. This sounded somehow worse. Betty wasn’t ready to rule out the possibility that it was a bad joke, and she kept her cool. “Me—in prison? Ah-ha. For what?”

“Now just imagine,” Henry continued in a worried tone, “that the police find my wife dead in your car. You did report it stolen?”

She nodded.

“What are they going to think? There’s no farewell note, nothing that points to suicide. The only thing they
can
think is that you did it.”

“Me?” Her voice rose an octave. “
You
were the one who was last with her on the cliffs.”

Henry sadly shook his head. “No, darling. It wasn’t like that.”

She leaned forward. Henry spotted an alluring vein on her forehead that he’d never seen before.

“You
didn’t
go?”

“Nope, I didn’t.”

“Then where were you?”

“I went to the movies. Korean film. Completely fascinating.”

The steak arrived. Betty waited, controlling herself with difficulty. Her nails quietly scraped the damask tablecloth. The smell of the deep-fried potatoes on his plate made her want to throw up. She fiddled with the cloth, the vein on her forehead throbbing. If it burst, then my problem would be taken care of, Henry mused as he spun the steak around on his plate. She leaned back and looked out the window onto the street, still drawing fine lines on the tablecloth with her fingernails. Henry could tell that she was replaying the events of that evening. He let her take her time, spearing fries with his fork, rubbing them over the steak and putting them in his mouth.

Betty finally got to the point.

“You ran upstairs to her room to look for her. Did you think your wife was at home? Or was that all playacting?”

“I thought she was at home, my love. I was absolutely certain she was in her room. She’s always in bed at that time.”

Betty’s eyes narrowed. “If you thought that, then why did you stage her death on the beach?”

“I didn’t. Her bike really was there. Martha had left it there. God knows why. Do you remember how I took you home that evening?”

Of course she remembered. “After that I went straight to the cliffs. Your car wasn’t there anymore. The tire tracks led straight into the sea. And there were butts on the ground. She smoked
your
cigarettes and then . . .”

Betty covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh my God, how awful!”

She had understood. Henry put down his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Don’t worry. It rained all night. You can’t see anything anymore.”

“Don’t worry? Why didn’t you call the police straightaway?”

“I wanted to. Then I thought about it. I don’t know whether it was right, but I decided that you . . . that the two of you are all I have. You and the baby.”

He stretched his open hand across the table. Betty took it in hers. Her fingers were clammy.

“You did it for me?”

“And the baby. Our baby.”

Baby. He saw her tears. Why is it that women always cry over that word? How can one word do that?

“We must go to the police, Henry. Straightaway.”

“No need. They’ve already been to me. After you left with Moreany. How is he, by the way?”

Betty didn’t want to talk about Moreany and his silly proposal just now. She clutched Henry’s hand like a prayer book.

“Henry, we’re going to the police now and we’re going to tell them what happened.”

Henry played a quick round of pick-up-sticks with his fries. “What did happen, darling?” he asked softly but insistently. “What really happened?”

Unsurprisingly, she let go of his hand.

“What do you mean by ‘really’?”

“Are you going to drink that?”

Without waiting for a reply, he downed her glass of water. Now he lowered his voice even further. “Did Martha drive to the cliffs alone or did you take her there?”

Betty half rose from her chair in indignation. “You don’t really think
I
killed your wife?”

“Did you?”

Betty looked around desperately for justice, but there was none. She was visibly fighting back the urge to get up and walk away. She didn’t. She sat there; she didn’t have the strength. Henry felt sympathy for her, but unfortunately he was going to have to strangle her now like the dying deer in the field.

“To be frank,” he continued, “I did think that for a while, yes. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I thought you’d killed her.”

“Why?”

“Out of love for me. What was I supposed to think, for God’s sake? Martha drives to your apartment in her car. Then she drives to the cliffs in your car and disappears. And where were you?”

Betty closed her eyes briefly. “I was at home. You know that.”

“
I
know, but do you have an alibi?”

She began to blink. “That’s a stupid word, Henry. I was at home, that’s all. I was waiting for you to call.”

“I did have my doubts,” Henry admitted.

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No. None.”

“What do you think now?”

“I think Martha drowned. And the police think so too. You’re not implicated at all. That’s what I think.”

“But she was sitting in my car.”

“Yes, that was a mistake. It must be the last one we make.”

Betty pressed herself up against the chair back, her arms folded in front of her chest. “What mistakes can we make now?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Henry pushed his plate aside and made an unsuccessful attempt to take her hand.

“
Everyone
will think I’m your lover if you have a baby with me.”

“So what? Aren’t you my lover?”

“Of course I am. But the timing. It would be fatal if it came out shortly after the death of my wife that
you’r
e
pregnant by me.”

“What are we to do?” Betty asked, hardly audible. Henry lip-read the words.

“No one needs to know that the baby is mine.”

Betty got up from the table and raised her hand. “You scare me, Henry. You’ve always scared me. But you can depend on one thing: your baby is going to be born. It’s going to be born and you’re its father whether you like it or not. Make up your mind where you stand in all this—I’m not going to make any difficulties for you. I’ll even keep it a secret if that’s what you want.”

“Now you’re being unfair, Betty. I want it. I
already
love our baby.”

She opened her handbag. Henry ducked to avoid being shrouded in pepper spray. But she only looked into the bag, rifled through it, and then closed it again.

“What are you up to?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to go and puke.”

“The police don’t know anything. There’s absolutely no problem as long as we don’t do anything. Not a thing, do you understand?”

“Henry . . .”

“Yes?”

“Your wife knew everything. Not from you; you didn’t tell her about us. Of course you didn’t. You never tell anyone anything.”

Betty pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. She looked ravishing in her anger and disappointment. Why is it that I always want her the most when she’s about to leave? Henry wondered.

“Do you know what, Henry? As she was leaving, your wife said to me: We have to love Henry without knowing him.
I
don’t know how that’s possible and I don’t believe I can do it.”

Betty turned and left. He watched her go without regret, but not without respect, because she did have class. He wasn’t interested in where she was going or whether she’d come back. Was it really possible that Martha could have known about his affair with Betty all along without letting on or making any changes in her life? Who could endure such a thing? Right up to the last moment, their love had remained warm, their daily routine unchanged. And then suddenly she visits her rival for afternoon tea?
Can you guess how it ends?
was Martha’s last message to him, written in pencil under the chapter she had just completed. Was it a warning, a threat, a prophecy? Henry didn’t know the answer. It exhausted him, endlessly thinking about this kind of thing. The bullet was out of the barrel, and pondering got you nowhere. Aggrieved, he flicked a half-eaten french fry onto the carpet and looked around for the waiter.

Sitting in her armchair next to a stout column, Honor Eisendraht saw Betty hurry through the foyer and head for the marble stairs that led to the women’s restroom. She had an impossibly garish handbag under her arm. Her face was decidedly pale. Gone was the usual provocative swing of her hips; she almost staggered down the stairs. Something must have happened, no doubt something unpleasant.

Honor had just left the stuffy, overfilled seminar room on the second floor of the hotel to have a cup of liqueur coffee. The so-called numerology seminar had been a complete farce, a rip-off. For that kind of money you deserve more than a porky woman with a pointer blathering on about trivial mathematical patterns, cosmically connected phone numbers, and hidden traits of character. Who believes in such nonsense?