"Robert… you may think you do, but you don't. Nobody does — I'm not even sure that I do."
"You're wrong. I know everything. Russia. The gold and the furs. Who he was, what he did. What Hamilton did…"
"Dear God…"
"There's only one secret I don't know — I don't know how much you know, or when you found out."
She turned away and a long moment passed. In the silence, I could hear the waves working at the hull and the rain streaming down on the deck. Then she turned slowly around. "Can't you guess? Don't you remember? After you asked me to marry you, I went up to see him — you remember what I said, that if you wouldn't ask for my hand, I was going to ask for you— and that's when he told me. That's why I couldn't… go through with it."
Silence. The rain. The whole world suspended. Had I seen this much of the truth? If so, it didn't soften the blow. I couldn't move; I couldn't feel. Or not directly. I could only watch my feelings mirrored in May's face — in her anguished expectation of my pain, in the consolation she longed to offen but knew was much too late. It was extraordinary, that m,o-ment. I've always known a secret that most of you never learn — tragedy doesn't happen to other people, it happens to yourself. My father's death had taught me that… but here it was again. Yet, in another sense, this was, quite precisely, tragedy at one remove: it had all been so long ago. And when I began to breathe again I felt a spasm of grief, of sympathy — as if for someone else — and then a terrible regret. What a fate to suffer. To lose love like that. To give up half your life. To withdraw. To hide. To live so emptily… But then it hit me. I was not the understanding friend; I was the victim. And I could have cried, I wanted to — but part of the price I'd paid was the loss of all my tears. So May wept for me; it was her consolation, and final testament to what we'd almost had. I held her against me. She whispered, "What a time to tell you."
I tried to smile. "I always was a little curious. And I never did believe that nonsense… whatever it was you told me."
"But I couldn't tell the truth. When I saw him, he said he couldn't let me marry you without knowing because he was afraid that the police were on to him. Our lives might be ruined — he couldn't help it — but he didn't want to ruin yours." She stepped back and looked at me. "I almost did tell you later on. I thought we might get back together. But it was too late then. And everything had changed with Harry; I couldn't leave him. We'd always been very close — everything I said about the adoption, all that was true — but once I knew… somehow that meant…"
Yes, I knew just what it meant, for I'd already seen that much: our lives, though separate, had been on a curious parallel, both of us living in the shadow of our fathers. But Harry was dead and she was free; that had to be the reason for the transformation she'd undergone. Now, looking at her, phrases began going through my mind. It's never too late. We can get together now. Start again. Pretend it never happened… But that's where those phrases stayed — in my mind. Something held me back, though she stood there, all open, and I think—
But then she tensed against me: a quick, dull knocking sound echoed through the hull.
I held up my hand.
It came again, on the far side — a boat rubbing or…
"Wait here," I whispered.
But she followed me up the steps, and as I entered the wheelhouse, I had to hold her back. "Keep your head down. If something happens, run — get off the barge and run."
In a crouch, so I couldn't be seen through the window, I scuttled over to the door. After listening a moment, I stepped out on deck. The rain drowned every sound in the splash and hiss of falling water. But there didn't seem to be anything alarming, and when I looked around I was almost reassured: on the bank, just beyond the barge, an old man was trudging along the path, a fishing pole over his shoulder. But then I heard another thump against the hull and edged across the deck; when I reached the rail, I leaned out and took a quick look down.
Behind me, May called softly, "What is it?"
I turned around. "It's all right. But look, you have to go— staying here is dangerous. And pointless."
"Come with me, Robert."
I shook my head. "I can't. I told you. I have to stay and search the boat."
"But when you've finished… come then."
I shook my head. "I can't stop yet. I'm not sure how it's happened, but this is my story now as much as yours."
She thought a second — and maybe she was thinking a step ahead of me. "Robert, please — don't go to Russia."
"Don't worry. I'll be all right."
She faced me and I think was going to argue; but then she touched my hand and said, "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
She gave a little smile. "A moment ago, I knew just what you were thinking…"
"What?"
That it's too late. But she only smiled again and so I said, "You should go. You have a car?"
She looked away. "Hamilton told me to leave it on a side road."
"All right. I think you'll be safe enough, but don't go back to Sancerre just yet — drive around, stay in a few hotels. Then, if you want, go back to Canada."
"You'll call?"
"Of course."
"But if I'm not there… you mustn't worry." Again, she tried to smile. "Who knows? This is all over now. I might go traveling."
"Somehow we always find each other."
She nodded, and almost spoke again, but then, quickly, she turned away, stepped across the deck, and jumped down to the bank. Stumbling, she landed on one knee.
"All right?"
A smile. "I'm fine." She pulled herself up; then, knotting her kerchief on her head, she gave a little wave, and turned along the path. I watched her go. She caught up to the old man, the one with the fishing pole, and then turned to give me one last look. The rain came slanting down, a misty window… but behind it her face seemed bright again, as bright as the first moment when I'd seen her on the barge. I waved back, and a moment later she disappeared around a bend.
Turning away, I took three steps across the deck and leaned over the rail. My eyes searched the muddy water. It was still there. A twist of tattered cloth… a lump that bobbed up, then rolled under again.'. bumping its way along the hull, all shrouded in a cloud of greasy red.
Paul Hamilton: wrapped in the flag of his own choosing.
Paul Hamilton: the "decent" man who'd tried to do the "decent" thing.
I stepped back and buttoned up my coat. A thousand thoughts began swirling through my mind, what-ifs, and might-have-beens. But surely she was right — and I was right it was too late. And too late, perhaps, in other ways., Subotin had a good head start, and Russia — as Brightman surely knew — is a long, long way from anywhere.
There was no time to waste. I clambered off the barge, hurried down the path. Behind me — one last look back—La Trompette was glistening in the rain.
PART THREE
ALEKSANDR SUBOTIN
It has been necessary to turn attention to the fact that there are influential circles in the U.S.S.R. which have, as their ideology, chosen an open racism, taken in toto from the propaganda arsenal of Nazi Germany. This ideology is essentially a tactical weapon for these circles in their internal political struggle for power. They wish to unite about themselves broad circles of the ruling apparatus and the population with the aid of racist slogans… Although, evidently, these circles do not yet have a predominant influence on the nation's political course, they have enough influence to achieve…