It takes him forty minutes to reach the tram-stop. He’s sweating. The pain in his knee has made him nauseous. On the tram he wonders if the other passengers, seeing him, his age, assume that his limp is a war wound. He gets down at the stop before the cathedral, walks under its immense shadow, then enters Feneon’s garden by the gate behind the rose bush. The moonlight that lit his view from the platform last night now lies in a tangle of bones below the bare branches of the magnolia. From the house he can see no sign of life at all. He presses his face against a window — the only one unshuttered — and sees over the salon floor a thin stain of electric yellow that comes, must surely come, from beneath the study door. He taps on the glass, taps again more loudly, keeps tapping until the light suddenly swells and a figure appears, pauses, then comes cautiously forwards. Yuji lifts off his hat, shows himself, but it is not until the Frenchman’s face is almost touching the glass on the other side that he recognises him, frowns, and points towards the kitchen door.
The moment Yuji is inside, Feneon slides home the bolts. The kitchen is several blocks of minimally variegated black. There is a smell of the food cooked earlier that evening. Grilled meat? Grilled chicken, perhaps.
They go to the study. The lamp with its green shade is the only source of light. On the big desk there are scattered sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen laid at the side of a half-written-over sheet.
‘You’ve had an accident?’ asks Feneon, leaning against a corner of the desk and looking at Yuji, at the black stick, the dressing on his ear.
‘A fall,’ says Yuji. ‘My knee. It’s not serious.’
‘Sit,’ says Feneon. He points to the armchair at the side of the desk. Yuji sits. He is not quite sure where to put the stick. In the end he holds it across the top of his thighs, gripping the wood in his fists. ‘So,’ says Feneon, ‘what’s this all about? I assume it must be important.’
Yuji nods. He has, in the few hours he has been at liberty to do so, forbidden himself to imagine the details of this moment. But now it has come he is seized by doubts. Is it possible he misunderstood what Junzo was saying? That Feneon will think he has gone mad? That the study door will open and there will be Alissa, unaltered? He plants the end of his stick on the floor, levers himself up. He has not misunderstood. The door will not open.
‘I saw Junzo last night,’ he says, addressing a cedilla of faded blue tapestry in the rug between them. ‘He informed me of . . a certain fact. It concerns your daughter.’ He lifts his gaze. There is a not quite convincing expression of gentle bemusement on Feneon’s face. ‘Her situation,’ says Yuji.
‘Her situation?’
‘Her difficult situation.’
‘I see,’ says Feneon. ‘Yes. I see.’ He rubs his knuckles softly over the burnished wood of the desk. ‘Heaven knows how Junzo learnt about it. This city is even worse than Saigon for keeping secrets. I should have known it was pointless . .’ He shrugs. ‘Though with half the world on fire and the other half about to catch, it begins to seem almost unimportant. What people think. What they know. I pity the poor child, arriving at such a moment.’
‘The child?’
‘Isn’t that what you’re talking about?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are enquiring as a friend, I suppose. Yes. It’s quite proper . . Well, let me assure you she is being well looked after. There is no need for any concern. As for her plans, what she intends to do afterwards . .’ He wafts the air. ‘She is, as I’m sure you have noticed, a rather independent young woman.’
‘I am glad she is well.’
‘Oh, yes. Physically quite well.’
‘And . . the child’s father?’
‘What about him?’
‘She has told you his name?’
For a moment it looks as if Feneon will refuse to answer his question. Then he moves his head, a sort of bridling. He shrugs again. ‘She has not,’ he says.
‘Nothing?’
‘Why? Are you thinking of challenging him? I doubt he’s the sort of man who fights duels. That would require a certain sense of honour on his part.’
‘But if he didn’t know?’
‘Know?’
‘About the child.’
‘You think that’s likely? Anyway, it’s the not-caring that matters. The not-caring one way or the other. I think we know the type of man who does that. There are names, are there not?’
‘Names,’ whispers Yuji. ‘Yes . .’
‘You better sit down,’ says Feneon, ‘before you fall down. You don’t look well at all. Shall I fetch you some water?’
‘I just wanted to say,’ says Yuji, switching now to the refuge, the audacity, of his own tongue, ‘I just wanted to say that I am the child’s father.’
‘What?’
‘The child’s father.’
‘Who? Who are you talking about?’
‘I . . Alissa . . I am the father.’
There is a long pause, then a bark of laughter. ‘You?’
They stare at each other. On Feneon’s face there is a look of utter blankness. Then the blankness is replaced by a mask of astonishment. Not for an instant, not for a single instant, has Feneon imagined anything as impossible as Yuji being what he now claims to be. That much is clear. What is also clear, what has flashed from those grey eyes so plainly, so unguardedly, is the reason for such incredulity. Yuji is Japanese. He is a yellow man. A native. The daughter of a European gentleman might have such a person as a friend — it would almost be a mark of her breeding — but more than that?
‘It was me,’ repeats Yuji, tonelessly. Then, his face in a spasm, he shouts it in French. ‘C’était moi! C’était moi! Je suis le coupable!’
On the little finger of Feneon’s right hand he wears a ring with a stone in it, a bevelled garnet of some sort, a semi-precious. It is this that opens Yuji’s lip. He falls backwards, is caught by the chair, and sits there, dazed, watching spots of blood fall in dark irregular splashes onto his coat. After a moment he focuses on Feneon’s hand holding out a handkerchief. He takes the handkerchief, presses it to his mouth. In the quiet between them the house moves through its repertory of small sounds, the fizzing of the lamp, the settling of boards.
‘It’s true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not some idiotic fancy of yours?’
‘Fancy?’