Chapter Forty-Three
An evening of cribbage had been arranged for the guests’ amusement. Guests were assessed for their skill in the game, and assigned to tables based on their relative expertise; at least one accomplished player for every cluster of casual participants, so that the night should pass amiably and absent the rancour of competition.
Pluck did not play; he disdained such pointless exertions of the mind, when there were real, meaningful mysteries to be solved all about them—not only the murder of Sir Mortimer Snede-Williams, but the imponderables of the universe, on which he made it a habit to meditate for several minutes a day, three times a week, fifty-one weeks of the year. (He’d taken to holidaying at least one week a year—this was that week. Although, as the reader has no doubt understood, it had turned, through no fault of our protagonist, into a working holiday.) Tonight, he strolled into the ballroom, breathed in the cigarette smoke, the laughter and the camaraderie, and peeked over a few shoulders to see how the game was played. He had to crane his neck, more than a little, to view all the players’ cards, while sometimes they were so rude as to face them down at his approach, necessitating his having to rip the cards from their hands and peruse them before handing them back. At one point, he leant in, to gather a good view of a game, pressing down on a man’s shoulder to assist his incline, leaning in a little more, pressing down harder, and so on, until the man groaned in pain and tried to throw off Pluck’s hand; Pluck, offended, slapped the back of the man’s head a couple of times, then carried on pushing down on his shoulder until the man collapsed to the floor, his chair tumbling away, Pluck dropping onto his back, and the tablecloth, with its drinks and snack plates, crashing upon the both of them, and so on. Pluck rolled over, covered in some sort of jam and biscuits, and confronted his foe:
“Eye-Goo! My old, old friend!”
The coronel, shuddering, placed one palm on the floor in an attempt to rise. But Pluck, having missed his comrade, knocked his arm away so he would drop to the floor and remain.
“I haven’t seen you in ages! Try as we might to gain each other’s company, we keep missing each other! Something—is it that old scoundrel Fate?—prevents it. But we won’t kow-tow to a little thing like Fate, will we, old friend, eh?” Pluck slapped his face, and laughed good-naturedly.
“Get away. . .I’ll kill you. . .” Such ramblings did the coronel mumble.
A pair of waiters arrived and offered to help the men up, but Pluck kicked at them until they left, and asked of the coronel: “So tell, mon ami, what you’ve been up to since last we met.”
The coronel’s eyes were wild, like those of a trapped, I don’t know, cougar, or something: he was busy begging God, in Whom he’d never believed, for but an ounce of his youthful strength, so that he might tear this walking plague who called himself an inspector limb from limb, bone from bone, strip of flesh from strip of flesh. But, his prayer passing for the moment ungranted, he had to make do with muttering: “I’ve been holed up in this hotel praying for your death and for that which must necessarily follow: peace.”
Pluck laughed. “Italian nonsense! En anglais, s’il vous plaît, monsieur!”
The old man closed his eyes, and lay, as if in capitulation, amongst the fragments of profiterole on the floor.
“May I sleep with you tonight?” That was Pluck.
“No.”
“Please?”
“Certainly not. Get away from me, or I will kill you.”
“But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I have.”
“You have not. May I sleep with you tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you mean, ‘No, I haven’t answered the question’, or, ‘No, you may not sleep with me tonight’?”
“The second!”
“By ‘The second’, do you mean, ‘The latter’, or, ‘Yes, come to my room this second’?”
“Stay out of my room!”
“By ‘Stay out of my room’, are you speaking with amusing irony, or in earnest?”
“In earnest!”
“By ‘In earnest’, do you mean—”
“Absolutely not!”
“By ‘Absolutely not’, do you mean, ‘Absolutely not, no milk in my tea’, or ‘Absolutely not, Inspector Pluck, I never wish to see you again’?”
“Yes! That is it! I never wish to see you again!”
“By ‘I never wish to see you again,’ do you mean. . .”
As that conversation continued, Enid, who had been half-heartedly losing a game of cribbage across the room, stood up from her seat.
“Is everything all right?” Stoupes asked.
“Yes. Fine.”
“I hope you aren’t upset with me. I’ve tried my best, you know, but this is hardly my game.”
She raised her hand to shield her eyes, as if from a glare.
He rose. “You look unwell. Are you feeling faint?”
She smiled, removed her hand, and nodded. “I’m just not in the mood for games tonight. Don’t bother about me. I’d rather go someplace and think.”
“I don’t wish to presume, but—might I join you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d just like some quiet. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, watching her face curiously. “Very well. I wish you a pleasant night.”
She nodded, then took a handful of her dress and turned and walked away, through the tables, past Pluck, who was still on the floor, laughing as he crushed the coronel in a savage bear hug, and out of the ballroom.
After wandering through the dim, empty corridors, she found herself in the glass patio, alone. No lamp was lit, so the sole light was that of the moon, as diffused through the twinkling crystals of snow suctioned to the outside of the windows. It lent her dress a monochromatic sheen, and a long, deep shadow trickling like a slick of oil behind her.
Despite the cold, she was sweating. She bent her brow against the glass and sighed. She had taught her students the English poems of mind-warping romance, she had watched her sister bloom and marry, and had even shared a kiss with a boy when she was sixteen—but she had never felt this. Not for real. Since it had begun, only a few days before, everything she looked at was as if refracted through thick, cloudy glass; every sound was a gargled echo of something else; every smell dilated into something intoxicating. She was afraid to close her eyes, at night, knowing she would picture him. She was afraid of her own breathing, lying in bed in the dark, thinking it would mutate into his breath at her neck.
There was a sound, approaching the patio. Was it Glen? Coming to say good night, once more? But Genevra Bergamaschi, in dirty, baggy white trousers and dark jacket, walked in. She looked surprised when her eyes rested on Enid.
“Forgive me, Miss Trojczakowski. I did not think anyone would be here.”
“It’s quite all right. I was just going to bed.”
“No—please, stay a moment.” She took a sip of her cocktail. “I usually find this room deserted. I come here to think, sometimes.”
“I too.”
Genevra held the glass toward her.
“No thank you.”
“Hm. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you take a drink,” Genevra realised.
“I never do.”
“Why?”
Enid shrugged, and turned to the dark void outside. “I just never have. My father taught me not to, I guess.”
“Was he a teetotaller?”
“Just the opposite.”
“Really? Mine too.” Genevra moved next to her, and looked out as well. “I left home when I was fifteen. Never saw him again.” She took a drink. “I hope he’s well.”
“He must have inspired you, one way or another,” Enid guessed.
Genevra nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I suppose everything has.”
“It must be fascinating to be an artist,” Enid mused.
Genevra shrugged. “If you’re so predisposed, there’s nothing else to be. Come penury or riches, mockery or acclaim, you’re got no choice.”
“Is that how you met Rosella?”
“It is. I was in Paris, and she’d left her husband, and hadn’t a franc. I found her getting fired from a bar. She was one step away from the street. She hadn’t even thought of modelling, but I convinced her. Sure, she was bashful, at first. She’s a fragile creature, you know. But. . .it’s different when it’s a woman, painting you. A woman sees things in you that a man never could. Through your clothes, and through your skin.” Genevra’s gaze was unyielding, and painful; although it was not at all threatening, Enid felt herself backing away, until she came up against a chair. She felt the artist’s eyes trace up her legs, her abdomen, her neck, then back to her eyes. “For instance, I can see that you’re in love, Miss Trojczakowski. Are you aware of this yourself?”
Enid nodded, quickly, like a frightened little girl to her headmistress.
“But you don’t want to be.”
She shook her head, quickly. She didn’t want to hold Genevra’s gaze, but she didn’t dare look away.
“Don’t fret. It happens to the best of us. It will pass, if you give in. Or, if you don’t give in, it will haunt you till you die. I’m sure there are a few more scattered possibilities, too. But don’t fret—this is the sort of material that makes life interesting.”
Enid nodded.
“Will you pose for me, sometime, Miss Trojczakowski? With or without the paints.”
Enid felt her hand on her waist. The fingers squeezed her flesh as if assessing the quality of a length of cloth. She coughed, excused herself, and ran off to her room.