"More tea?" Dr. Kreutz asked.
She blinked, waking out of her reverie. She noticed again now, as she had already noticed, that he had hardly looked at her directly since she had arrived. She wondered if he might be jealous, for surely he must have guessed that what she and Leslie had going was more than a business partnership. The thought made her flare up in annoyance. She had enough to do keeping Billy's suspicions at bay. Billy had talked to Leslie only once, when the three of them met by arrangement for a drink in the bar of Wynn's Hotel. It was a Sunday evening and behind them three red-faced priests were drinking whiskey and talking loudly about a hurling match they had been to in the afternoon. Billy had been shy of the Englishman with his hoity-toity accent, as he described it afterwards, and his silver cravat, and had looked at his boots and talked in a mumble-not that he had much to say, anyway-his nearly colorless eyebrows meeting in a frown and the tips of his ears bright pink. When she had looked at him she had felt not so much guilty as… sorrowful; yes, that was the only word for it, she felt sorrow for him, the softhearted poor lummox. And, more strangely, it seemed to her that she had never loved him as much, with such tenderness and compassion and simple concern, as she did in that half hour in that smoky bar with the voices of those priests breaking in on them and Leslie and she trying not to look at each other in case they might burst out laughing.
Leslie had been very good with Billy, had really acted the part of the businessman, going on about overhead and annual turnover and broad profit margins and all the rest of it. She had to admire him-what a bamboozler he was. He pretended to listen to Billy's mumbles, nodding solemnly with his lips pursed, and made sure to remember to call her Mrs. Hunt and not by her first name. To hear him you would think it was a hospital or something the two of them were setting up. When he said that "Mrs. Hunt would make a great contribution to the salon"-he had learned to follow her example and call it a beauty salon instead of a beauty parlor, which she thought sounded common-"because of her long experience as a pharmacist," Billy blinked. She wondered how much of Leslie's palaver he was swallowing. He knew a bit about business himself, and he was no fool when it came to dealing with people. She told herself not to say too much but to keep quiet and let Leslie do the talking. She limited herself to a glass of Babycham and nursed it for the whole time they were there, for drink went straight to her head on occasions like this-although when in her life, she asked herself, had there been another such occasion?-and above all she must not show how excited she was. For the fact was, it was only now, as she stood there in her sensible shoes and the charcoal-gray two-piece costume she had bought to be her business suit, listening to Leslie fast-talking her husband, that the full realization came to her of just what an adventure it was that she had embarked on. The future suddenly was-
"You must, you know," Dr. Kreutz said, "you must be careful-very very careful."
She looked at him blankly. What was he talking about?
"Careful of what?" she asked.
He shrugged uncomfortably. Today he was wearing a blue silk caftan-it was another of the exotic words and names for things that he had taught her-and under it his shoulders looked more than ever like a coat hanger.
"Why, all this," he said, "this business you have started." There was a new, plaintive note in his voice, she noticed, and between phrases he kept making a sort of humming sound under his breath. "Mr. White's previous enterprise failed, you know-hmm hmm-and Mr. White himself maybe is not-hmm-everything that he seems."
Well! she thought. Talk about the kettle calling the pot black. She felt like inquiring where his camera was today, and how many clients he had taken pictures of recently. But she could not be indignant with him for long. In her newfound state of bliss she could not be indignant with anyone, even Billy, or not for long, anyway. Of course Leslie was not all that he seemed, but she knew that if he was anything, he was more of it rather than less. Only that more, of course, was something Dr. Kreutz would not understand. Now she pushed her cup away-it had a peculiar aftertaste, cloying and sickly sweet-and said that she must be going. When she stood up, however, she felt suddenly light in the head, and it seemed for a moment that she might fall over. The doctor was on his feet in a flash and holding her hand, and with his other hand under her elbow he led her to the sofa-that sofa-and lowered her gently onto the cushions and stood back, watching her, his head on one side and his lips set in that down-turned way that he had, which was the nearest he ever came to a smile.
"Rest," he said softly. "Rest now, my dear lady, my dear dear lady."
She thought of all the women who had lain down there, naked and showing themselves off. She wondered what it would feel like to be exposed like that, not in front of a man, exactly, but a camera. And wondering that, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
6
MAISIE HADDON-OR NURSE HADDON, WHICH WAS HOW SHE LIKED TO be known, in private as well as in public-had a soft spot for Quirke, and frequently assured him so, especially after a second or a third rum and black-currant cordial, which was her tipple. They had arranged to meet, as they usually did, in a murky little pub on a side street behind the Gaiety Theatre. They arrived simultaneously, he on foot and she in her open-topped miniature red sports car that always reminded him of a scuffed and slightly battered ladybird. She wore dark glasses with white frames, and was smoking a cigarette in an ebony holder. Despite the warmth of the day she sported a mink jacket and a long yellow chiffon scarf, one end of which was flung back dramatically over her right shoulder. She pulled in to the curb with a shriek of tires and the little car mounted the pavement and stopped and the engine gave a final, rivet-loosening roar before she switched it off.
"Howya, handsome," she said, leaning over the low door and offering him a lace-gloved hand.
He bowed and brushed his lips against a bony knuckle, catching a sharp waft of her perfume. "I tell you, Maisie," he said, "one day you'll end up like Isadora Duncan."
She took up her handbag from the passenger seat and clambered out of the car. "Who's she when she's at home?"
"Dancer. Her scarf got caught in the back axle of a sports car and broke her neck."
"Jesus," she said, "what a way to go."
They entered the pub. It was a Saturday afternoon and the usual rackety crowd was in. When Maisie paused on the threshold to scan the room through her white-framed specs a dozen heads lifted; there were few here who did not know who Nurse Haddon was. She walked to the bar with Quirke in her wake and perched herself on a high stool, smoothing her tight skirt over her knees with a demure little gesture that made Quirke smile. In his way he, too, had a soft spot for her, this preposterous creature. He wondered what age she was, exactly-it was impossible to tell from her looks or figure. Her big, square, countrywoman's face showed hardly a wrinkle, and her hair, if it was dyed, was blond to the roots, so far as he could see-he did not dare look too closely for Maisie was quick to anger and was said to have once knocked out cold a Garda detective who was trying to arrest her. It amused Quirke to think, not for the first time, that he was probably putting his professional reputation at grave risk by being seen with her, and in a public house, at that. For Maisie Haddon was the city's most notorious, most successful, and busiest back-street abortionist.
He ordered drinks, her rum and black, and a tomato juice for himself.
"Are you off the gargle?" she said, incredulous.