16
The rain streaked down. It splashed against the dark leaves of the lilacs, stirring up a lingering trace of the summer's scent, and washed the image of the canal, the barge, and May — was it May? — in the silvery, monochrome tints of an old silent film. For an instant, in fact, she seemed to hang in the air like an unreal, ghostly projection. Was she there? Could it be true? But then, as a gust of wind parted the rain, I was sure. At once a dizzying rush of feeling swept over me. What I was looking at was surely impossible — May couldn't be here. But she was. And then, as the full implications of her presence sank in — as all my old doubts and suspicions returned — my astonishment leapt far beyond this moment or these particular circumstances. Everything changed; even the past. Peering through the leaves, I watched her unobserved as on that first day in Toronto, but the distance I'd felt from her then was now compounded a thousand times over. What was she doing here? Had she betrayed me? Then, too, I'd wondered who she really was, but on the assumption that I had some special claim on the answer. Now that assumption died in my heart. We were strangers. She wasn't a woman I'd loved or a woman I'd intended to marry, but a woman I still hadn't met. I felt a quick jab of pain, a final twitch from that ancient wound, and the last bonds that had joined us were cut — indeed, the dizziness I felt might even have been a sensation of freedom. And yet… This was so odd: it was precisely now that I felt drawn to her, called to her, more powerfully and urgently than at any time since all this had begun. Shrouded in her kerchief and cape, the hissing rain scratching the air all around her, she seemed so alone and forlorn, so remote. If she was cut off from me, did she have ties with anyone else? I didn't know who she was, but — whoever she was — something in her called out to me, and called out so strongly that I was pulled from my hiding place onto the path.
She turned then and saw me. "Robert!"
I stood transfixed. I didn't know what to say; I scarcely knew how to address her. And now I was astonished again. Taking a step across the deck to the gunwale, she came closer and I could see her more clearly. My last memory of her was that day in Detroit, in the waiting room, when she'd looked so drawn and tired. But now she was completely transformed. All the old, contradictory elements were there, and she still seemed to exist in some earlier time, but now she was beautiful. With her navy blue cape spreading over her shoulders and her hair tied up under her kerchief, she might have been a sturdy French peasant girl walking through a Pissarro, or a young nurse trudging back to her aid station in the days of the Somme: but, either way, she was beautiful. The rain had washed away years, her face shone with life, glowed with it, as if this was indeed an old film and I'd stepped into it with her, going back in time to the first time we'd met — perhaps that was the time where she truly belonged. And her voice was strong; she was again in charge of her life. "Robert, what are you doing here? You have to leave. I told you—"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. Where did you—?"
"Is Hamilton there?"
"No. But I don't — listen to me—"
"In a second, but get back inside."
She hesitated an instant: but now there was an edge to my voice, for I was back to myself, this place, what was happening, and the urgency that had drawn me forward was now dissolved in another — Subotin might be watching. "Hurry," I said.
May disappeared. I looked down the path, into the distance; but there was no sign of anyone. Dashing to the boat, I pulled myself over the railing, then ran across the deck to the wheel-house. May was waiting inside, her face turned up anxiously. "Robert, I don't want you to do this. I told Stewart Cado-gan—"
"I got the message."
My tone made her hesitate and her glance shifted away. "I'm sorry about that."
"Forget it."
"It was the money, wasn't it?"
"Partly—"
"I only meant… I just wanted you to know how grateful I was and I couldn't tell you myself. There just wasn't time."
"All right. It's not very important. You're in danger now— great danger."
"I don't think so. I just have to be careful."
"Subotin — do you know that name?"
"No."
"Travin — Petersen — do you know those?"
"No. But I don't see—"
"Then you don't know the danger you're in. When did you get here?"
"About twenty minutes ago."
"Where was Hamilton?"
"He wasn't here. Nobody was. I called out, but no one came.
At first I couldn't get on the boat, but then a big barge went by on the canal and the waves pushed it in toward the shore. I climbed on. There's nobody here."
But somebody had been; a book and a chart were open on a table, with an empty coffee mug beside them.
"Did you look inside?"
"No, I didn't want to. I just waited here. But I called. There's nobody there. Robert—"
"Wait." I went down into the cabin, May hesitating a second but then following after me. Lights glowed dimly down the length of the barge. In the kitchen, the butter was out, along with a crock of Dundee marmalade. Bread crumbs were scattered on the cutting board… a bit of tomato… I looked all around, and discovered nothing more suspicious than this — certainly no signs of a struggle. But where was Hamilton— and why leave the barge here? Where would you go? And when I found the bright yellow oilskins neatly stowed in their wardrobe, a chill ran up my spine. Given the rain, he wouldn't have gone out without them. Peering into the dark interior of the salon, I listened as waves gently lapped at the hull. And the emptiness I felt had a cold, final quality.
May felt it too. "What is it?" she whispered.
I turned to face her. "I don't know… but he's clearly not here."
Fringed by her long golden lashes, her eyes seemed huge; and now, for an instant, they were touched by fear. She took a step closer; instinctively, seeking protection. Then stopped. Did she also feel the new distance between us? Since I'd joined her on the barge, we'd made no move to touch, let alone embrace. Maybe she was thinking this too, for she now took another step closer and reached out for my arm. "Robert," she whispered, "I wish you hadn't come. I wish I hadn't… My God this is terrible."
"I know."
"I don't want you to feel—"
"It's all right." Now I was whispering too. I squeezed her hand. "But you have to tell me everything, and you have to tell me the truth."
Her face turned up toward me; I could smell the wet wool of her skirt, feel the warmth of her breath. For a moment, her gaze held mine and then she said, "I've tried to, I swear. In the beginning, when I first called you — do you know why I was afraid? It wasn't only my father — I was frightened when I couldn't get through to you, when you weren't at your house. Because I knew you were the only person on earth I could tell the truth to."
"Then why did you want me to stop?"
"I had to. I was afraid for you. I was afraid that…"
Her voice trailed away — because this was a lie that she couldn't bring off? But I wasn't sure — now, here, in her presence, I wasn't sure of anything. Why hadn't she remembered about her father's car? Had she been manipulating me from the very beginning? Had she ever told me the truth? All these questions and doubts flooded into my mind; and yet, somehow, I wanted to believe even more than before. I said, "What are you doing here? How did you learn about Hamilton?"
Her body shifted and her eyes looked away; and I thought she might turn away altogether. But then she looked up at me once again. "I was supposed to meet him here. When I got back from Detroit — the next day — or the day after, I can't remember — a letter came in the mail from my father. He'd sent it from Detroit. He said that if I got this letter it would mean he was dead and he wanted me to do certain things."