“Hey, Mac!”
“Hello?” Malory wasn’t certain where the sound came from. He turned to the pond, but the gray surface was level and quiet.
“Hey!” An American voice, followed by the squawk of something electronic. “What’re you doing here?”
Finally Malory saw it, saw the man. He was sitting in a car parked on the driveway just to the side, between the trees that screened the view down to the Blue House. It was a car painted black and white, with a light on the roof. And although the light was unilluminated, Malory was fairly certain that the man at the wheel of the car was a policeman.
“I’m sorry,” Malory said. “I just came back to look.”
The man opened the door to the car slowly and swung his legs and his belly and then the rest of his body out into the open. There was also a mustache and a hat and a badge and a uniform.
“C’mon down from there,” the policeman said, drawing his fingers into his palm as if he wanted Malory to throw him something. Malory looked back at the table with the wineglass and the spectacles, and up at the ceiling. He walked down the steps of the terrace empty-handed and over to the policeman by the patrol car. “Now,” the policeman said, “what were you doing up there?” And although Malory’s answer could have been what he told Louiza in the loft of St. George’s, Whistler Abbey, or what he told Tibor in the loft of Santa Maria, he decided against a frontal response and instead followed the advice of Settimio. Discretion. He was no Roland. TiborTina would not be his Roncesvalles.
“I’m sorry, officer,” Malory replied. “I came back. Yesterday, I was here as a guest. But then there was an accident and I had to leave.”
“Didn’t you see the tape?” the policeman asked.
“Sorry. I’m not from around here,” Malory said. “I don’t know the customs.”
The policeman spoke into his walkie-talkie and passed these bits of information, along with Malory’s name and vitals which he gleaned from items in Malory’s wallet, to someone far away, Malory imagined, someone perhaps with Cristina, perhaps not. Malory looked around in the silence between crackles. He saw that the driveway beyond the patrol car bore the impression of a caravan of tire prints. He tried to imagine what had gone on after the Driver had taken him from the scene of the accident. The ambulance, the police. Cristina in her Yukon, Ottavia he hoped with her. And how had Louiza gone? In another vehicle. How many other vehicles had come and gone in search, in delivery? When had this patrol car arrived to keep watch? To keep watch over what?
“Mr. Malory,” the policeman said to him after the last squawk, “would you mind coming with me? They’ve got a few questions for you.”
“Excuse me?” Malory said. “Who is they? Where do you want me to go?”
“Just get in the front. Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest, just a few questions.”
“But where?”
“Don’t worry,” the policeman said again, “I’ll bring you back for your car.”
“I don’t have a car,” Malory said. “I came by taxi.”
“Well then,” the policeman said, “that’ll make life a whole lot easier. Now if you don’t mind …” And the policeman lifted Malory’s arms and methodically searched him for weapons.
They drove through the Farmers’ Market intersection and turned off River Road into the woods above the Hudson. Malory thought about asking to call Settimio — he wasn’t entirely certain how to contact the Driver. But he was more curious than nervous — he wasn’t under arrest, after all, and that must mean something. He had run from his own Driver in order to find out what had happened to Louiza and Ottavia, and he was still not entirely clear what had happened to Tibor and Cristina, despite the passacaglia of the flies. The policeman claimed ignorance and disinterest. But the drive beneath the screen of American leaves was pleasant. The dappled light of noon wrapped him in a camouflage that felt — despite the discomfort of ignorance — coddled and warm.
The police car pulled up to an iron gate. Through the windshield, Malory saw a pair of men talking into more walkie-talkies. Behind them, a yellow house. Clapboard — that was the word that came to Malory’s mind as the gate opened and the policeman drove through. Clapboard, like the White House at TiborTina. This is America, Malory thought. Clapboard. I like it.
“Wait a minute here, Mac,” the policeman said.
“Of course,” Malory said, thinking, what a wonderful clapboard house.
The policeman closed his door and locked Malory in. Malory watched him walk up the steps to the veranda that led to a sheltered front door flanked by a window checkerboarded into wooden sashes. A cluster of dried flowers and variegated corn hung off one column. The front door opened and the policeman disappeared. Malory looked up: above, a second story window nestled beneath a peaked gable, a gentle wooden drapery imitating the lace curtain that sat patiently just behind the glass. Malory looked up to that window. He wanted to be there. He hoped, although he didn’t know why, that the policeman would reward his own patience and invite him inside and he could explore that room.
The front door opened again.
“Okay, Mac,” the policeman came around and unlocked Malory’s door. “C’mon in. You’re just in time for lunch.” With a hand on Malory’s elbow, persuasive but not in menace, he helped Malory up the steps of the veranda and served him through the front door.
“Thank you,” Malory said.
“Don’t thank me, Mac,” the policeman said, “I wasn’t invited,” and closed the door.
Malory found himself in a narrow corridor. At the far end stood what looked like a kitchen. There were a few hooks on the wall, jackets and scarves — a woman’s, he thought — hanging even though the day was warm. The corridor smelled of beeswax and sunshine. Malory didn’t know where to go, but for the moment he didn’t mind.
“You can come in here,” a voice called out. It was a male voice, not dissimilar from the policeman’s but with a tone that compromised Malory’s sense of contentment. “First on the left.”
A sofa with faded yellow cushions. A fireplace, unlit, and above it the portrait of a man who might have been a contemporary of Isaac Newton, perhaps another young scientist who had sat for the portraitist, Keller or Kneller — Malory had lived in the land of Bernini long enough to squeeze these Germanic names out of his memory.
“Over here.”
Malory turned away from the portrait. A man was sitting at a round dining table. Behind the man, the midday light set a lacy screen that made it difficult to separate the man’s features from his outline. Malory walked to the table. The man didn’t stand up to greet him, but there was a chair at Malory’s side of the table and a cup of tea and a plate. With a scone.
“Sit down, Mr. Malory.” At this distance, Malory guessed the man was no larger than him, perhaps his age, although with more nose and less hair, and what there was of it was as pale and flat as the midday light. The man had a folder open in front of him in place of tea and scone. Some type of pocket recording device sat at the center of the table. Malory wondered what local police force kept such detailed files that a brief call on a walkie-talkie could identify him as a tea-and-scones man. But he knew it was in Settimio’s nature to anticipate his needs. And he knew that the reach of Septimania was longer than he had interest or ability to understand. “Please,” the man said. “Sit.”