Craig had been entirely disarmed by her easy candour. She spoke of herself, of her husband, her lover, his mistress, as if they were marionettes she was manipulating. It was difficult to take this seriously, it had so much the flavour of traditional Gallic sex comedies, and yet, Craig perceived, his confidante had suffered, and was deadly serious out of a desperation now repressed.
‘A flaw?’ he repeated. ‘Yes, possibly one.’
She leaned forward intently. ‘You must tell me.’
‘No one can fight fire with fire,’ he said simply. ‘You are a scientist. You should know that. Fire feeds fire. It doesn’t put it out. You may get your revenge and see destruction-that I won’t deny-but you speak of salvaging your marriage. I can’t believe this is the way. It’s not a plot I would write, because it’s psychologically wrong. You wanted my advice, Dr. Marceau, and I am giving it to you.’
She had not expected this, and she was less assured, less gay. ‘What do you expect me to do? Just sit by, while he gets in deeper and deeper with this prostitute of his? I have tried that.’
‘I would suggest you try it longer. Sit by, go your own way with dignity, and that may make him more ashamed than anything else. But remain above him and make him less. Wait for him to tire of the other woman. The odds are heavily in your favour that he will come back to you, contrite, and with the single necessity to prove himself, hold his youth a day longer, a month longer, entirely out of his system.’
‘And what if he does not come back to me?’
‘That is the chance, of course. But what you are doing now-I think it is a longer shot. Men are more moral than their women. Once he learns of your behaviour, he will never be able to look at you in the same way again. And you won’t be able to look at yourself in the same way. Not only will you have lowered yourself to his level, lost the one superiority you now possess, but you will have soiled yourself. You’ll never feel quite the same, just as he won’t.’
‘You are not a woman, Mr. Craig.’
‘Indeed I am not. At the same time-’
‘Men have an opposite view of it. I feel no differently now, and will feel no different later, than I ever have. It is only true love that changes one, that damages beyond repair, not a frivolous copulation.’
‘Perhaps that is the French attitude. I can only speak to you from my background and moral precepts, American and Calvinistic.’
‘Understand me, Mr. Craig. In all my marriage of so many years, I have never cheated or shown disrespect in this way for my husband. Before my marriage, before I ever knew there was anyone like Claude on earth, I had several earnest young student affairs. These were not mere indulgences of the flesh. For, whatever you have heard of the French, there are many of us brought up moral and constrained, and raised strictly French Catholic. Those student affairs were, you might say, part of the growing process, like menstruation and development of the bust. They were a process of maturing, seeking life’s full potential, and a self-probing to learn if you could feel the way all the poets and novelists said you were supposed to feel. But when I was grown and I met Claude, there was never anyone else, no thought of it. Why should there have been? For me, the marriage was a contract, not to be lightly broken or ever broken. Furthermore, there was no need for infidelity, for I had nothing more to seek or prove. There was Claude, and there was our work, and that was enough for nine lifetimes. But when the work was done, and there was no Claude-what was there left for me, for the dull and serving wife, but a broken contract held in hand?’
She halted, and Craig struck a match and put it to her fresh cigarette.
‘You mentioned your work,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t there be some absorption in finding new work and-’
‘Find new work? Just like that? You should know better. Mr. Craig. Is an author so different from a scientist? One does not find work-the work finds one. Maybe, from now on, the work will never find me. And if that happens, and Claude leaves me, I will know widowhood twice and at the same time. Surely, that would be too much to bear. For this reason, in the only way I can think of, I am fighting to keep Claude.’ She drew steadily on her cigarette and then sat back. ‘So-you still do not like my plot?’
Craig threw up his hands. ‘What can I say? Criticism, without engagement, is not too easy to make accurately. It is just that I have the feeling, Dr. Marceau, that the plot, for better or worse, will resolve nothing. The solution must come by other means.’
‘Let it come by any means,’ she said. ‘Beggars are not choosers. But I cannot wait for happy accidents. I must go ahead.’
‘Then I wish you luck, believe me. If I can help in any way-’
‘You have helped me enough. I will read your books… Here, they have left the menu. Whatever is Friterade sjötungsfileer med remouladesås?’
Craig signalled for the waiter, and then, with his guidance, they studied the luncheon menu. Except for the pickled herring, salad, and mushrooms, they skipped the smorgåsbord and ordered a fillet of sole, to be accompanied by glasses of cold brännvin.
No sooner had the waiter gone than his place was filled by the figure of another man. Both Denise and Craig looked up as one to find Dr. John Garrett before them. His features wore their perpetual anxiety, even the purple bruise under his right eye seemed jump, and he pinched nervously at his grey worsted suit.
‘I thought I’d tell you, Dr. Marceau,’ he said, ‘they’re paging you in the lobby. There’s a phone call.’
‘Oh, thank you, Dr. Garrett.’ She rose and said to Craig. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ and then hurried off behind the pillar and through the tables.
Garrett remained standing, searching the busy room for someone. At last, he brought his attention back to Craig. ‘Do you happen to know Sue Wiley? She’s the-’
‘I know her,’ said Craig, and added, ‘unfortunately.’
‘Have you seen her around?’
‘No, I haven’t, and I don’t want to.’
‘She was supposed to meet me here,’ said Garrett. ‘She has a lunch somewhere else, but she had an interview here in the morning and said she’d see me for a minute. Maybe she got tied up.’
‘I wouldn’t concern myself about her,’ said Craig. ‘If you can help her, she’ll be around.’
Garrett seemed suddenly agitated. ‘What did you mean by that-if I could help her?’
‘Why, nothing at all. Only you’re a laureate, and she’s doing a hatchet job on laureates, all of us and those in the past, and so she won’t pass up a chance to see any one of us. Why don’t you sit down? Keep us company until she comes around.’
‘If you don’t mind?’ Garrett took the chair facing the lobby entrance, peered off expectantly for a moment, and then turned to Craig. ‘You don’t like Sue Wiley, do you?’
‘I think I’ve made that clear.’
‘Would you trust her at all? I mean-I know about her sensationalism, but she has a reputation-a big organization behind her-and the press has some integrity.’
‘I wouldn’t trust her under any circumstances,’ said Craig flatly.
This appeared to fluster Garrett. ‘But I mean-there are often special circumstances. For example, I’m always reading about reporters going to jail for a day or two, rather than divulge sources of their stories. Miss Wiley told me this once happened to her.’
‘I don’t believe it. I don’t think Wiley would go to jail an hour to protect her own mother.’
‘You’re just sore at her.’
‘That’s right,’ said Craig.
‘There’s good and bad in all of us,’ said Dr. Garrett.
‘And some of us believe what we want to believe,’ said Craig. ‘I don’t know what you’re seeing her about, but you had better be prepared to explain that mouse under your eye.’
Garrett touched the bruise. ‘Does it look bad?’