I sat on the chair on the other side of the desk. “Thanks. And thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure I should at first. I thought you were a journalist, trying to get me to talk about Alicia. But then I called the Grove and checked you worked there.”
“I see. Does that happen a lot? Journalists, I mean?”
“Not recently. It used to. I learned to be on my guard—” He was about to say something else, but a sneeze overtook him. He reached for a box of tissues. “Sorry—I have the family cold.”
He blew his nose. I glanced at him more closely. Unlike his younger brother, Max Berenson was not attractive. Max was imposing, balding, and his face was speckled with deep acne scars. He was wearing an old-fashioned spicy men’s cologne, the kind my father used to wear. His office was similarly traditional and had the reassuring smell of leather furniture, wood, books. It couldn’t be more different from the world inhabited by Gabriel—a world of color and beauty for beauty’s sake. He and Max were obviously nothing alike.
A framed photograph of Gabriel was on the desk. A candid shot—possibly taken by Max? Gabriel was sitting on a fence in a country field, his hair blowing in the breeze, a camera slung around his neck. He looked more like an actor than a photographer. Or an actor playing a photographer.
Max caught me looking at the picture and nodded as if reading my mind. “My brother got the hair and the looks. I got the brains.” Max laughed. “I’m joking. Actually, I was adopted. We weren’t blood related.”
“I didn’t know that. Were you both adopted?”
“No, just me. Our parents thought they couldn’t have children. But after they adopted me, they conceived a child of their own soon after. It’s quite common apparently. Something to do with relieving stress.”
“Were you and Gabriel close?”
“Closer than most. Though he took center stage, of course. I was rather overshadowed by him.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, it was difficult not to be. Gabriel was special, even as a child.” Max had a habit of playing with his wedding ring. He kept turning it around his finger as he talked. “Gabriel used to carry his camera everywhere, you know, taking pictures. My father thought he was mad. Turns out he was a bit of a genius, my brother. Do you know his work?”
I smiled diplomatically. I had no desire to get into a discussion of Gabriel’s merits as a photographer.
Instead I steered the conversation back to Alicia. “You must have known her quite well?”
“Alicia? Must I?” Something in Max changed at the mention of her name. His warmth evaporated. His tone was cold. “I don’t know if I can help you. I didn’t represent Alicia in court. I can put you in touch with my colleague Patrick Doherty if you want details about the trial.”
“That’s not the kind of information I’m after.”
“No?” Max gave me a curious look. “As a psychotherapist, it can’t be common practice to meet your patient’s lawyer?”
“Not if my patient can speak for herself, no.”
Max seemed to mull this over. “I see. Well, as I said, I don’t know how I can help, so—”
“I just have a couple of questions.”
“Very well. Fire away.”
“I remember reading in the press at the time that you saw Gabriel and Alicia the night before the murder?”
“Yes, we had dinner together.”
“How did they seem?”
Max’s eyes glazed over. Presumably he’d been asked this question hundreds of times, and his response was automatic, without thinking. “Normal. Totally normal.”
“And Alicia?”
“Normal.” He shrugged. “Maybe a bit more jumpy than usual, but…”
“But?”
“Nothing.”
I sensed there was more. I waited.
And after a moment, Max went on, “I don’t know how much you know about their relationship.”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
“And what did you read?”
“That they were happy.”
“Happy?” Max smiled coldly. “Oh, they were happy. Gabriel did everything he could to make her happy.”
“I see.” But I didn’t see. I didn’t know where Max was going.
I must have looked puzzled because he shrugged. “I’m not going to elaborate. If it’s gossip you’re after, talk to Jean-Felix, not me.”
“Jean-Felix?”
“Jean-Felix Martin. Alicia’s gallerist. They’d known each other for years. As thick as thieves. Never liked him much, if I’m honest.”
“I’m not interested in gossip.” I made a mental note to talk to Jean-Felix as soon as possible. “I’m more interested in your personal opinion. May I ask you a direct question?”
“I thought you just did.”
“Did you like Alicia?”
Max looked at me expressionlessly as he spoke. “Of course I did.”
I didn’t believe him. “I sense you’re wearing two different hats. The lawyer’s hat, which is understandably discreet. And the brother’s hat. It’s the brother I came to see.”
There was a pause. I wondered if Max was about to ask me to leave. He seemed about to say something but changed his mind. Then he suddenly left the desk and went to the window. He opened it. There was a blast of cold air. Max breathed in deeply, as if the room had been stifling him.
Finally he said in a low voice, “The truth is … I hated her … I loathed her.”
I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to go on.
He kept looking out the window and said slowly, “Gabriel wasn’t just my brother, he was my best friend. He was the kindest man you ever met. Too kind. And all his talent, his goodness, his passion for life—wiped out, because of that bitch. It wasn’t just his life she destroyed—it was mine too. Thank God my parents didn’t live to see it.” Max choked up, suddenly emotional.
It was hard not to sense his pain, and I felt sorry for him. “It must have been extremely difficult for you to organize Alicia’s defense.”
Max shut the window and returned to the desk. He had regained control of himself. He was wearing the lawyer’s hat again. Neutral, balanced, emotionless.
He shrugged. “It’s what Gabriel would have wanted. He wanted the best for Alicia, always. He was mad about her. She was just mad.”
“You think she was insane?”
“You tell me—you’re her shrink.”
“What do you think?”
“I know what I observed.”
“And what was that?”
“Mood swings. Rages. Violent fits. She’d break things, smash stuff up. Gabriel told me she threatened to murder him on several occasions. I should have listened, done something—after she tried to kill herself, I should have intervened, insisted she got some help. But I didn’t. Gabriel was determined to protect her, and like an idiot, I let him.”
Max sighed and checked his watch—a cue for me to wrap up the conversation.
But I just stared at him blankly. “Alicia tried to kill herself? What do you mean? When? You mean after the murder?”
Max shook his head. “No, several years before that. You don’t know? I assumed you knew.”
“When was this?”
“After her father died. She took an overdose … pills or something. I can’t remember exactly. She had a kind of breakdown.”
I was about to press him further when the door opened. The receptionist appeared and spoke in a sniffly voice. “Darling, we should go. We’ll be late.”
“Right. Coming, dear.”
The door shut. Max stood up, giving me an apologetic glance. “We have theater tickets.” I must have looked startled, because he laughed. “We—Tanya and I—were married last year.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Gabriel’s death brought us together. I couldn’t have gotten through it without her.”
Max’s phone rang, distracting him.
I nodded at him to take
I slipped out of the office. I took a closer look at Tanya in reception—she was blond, pretty, rather petite. She blew her nose, and I noticed the large diamond on her wedding finger.
To my surprise, she got up and walked toward me, frowning. She spoke urgently in a low voice. “If you want to know about Alicia, talk to her cousin, Paul—he knows her better than anyone.”
“I tried calling her aunt, Lydia Rose. She wasn’t particularly forthcoming.”
“Forget Lydia. Go to Cambridge. Talk to Paul. Ask him about Alicia and the night after the accident, and—”
The office door opened. Tanya immediately fell silent. Max emerged and she hurried over to him, smiling broadly.
“Ready, darling?” she asked.
Tanya was smiling, but she sounded nervous. She’s afraid of Max, I thought. I wondered why.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alicia Berenson’s Diary
JULY 22
I hate the fact there’s a gun in the house.
We had another argument about it last night. At least I thought that’s what we were fighting about—I’m not so sure now.
Gabriel said it was my fault we argued. I suppose it was. I hated seeing him so upset, looking at me with hurt eyes. I hate causing him pain—and yet sometimes I desperately want to hurt him, and I don’t know why.
He said I came home in a horrible mood. That I marched upstairs and started screaming at him. Perhaps I did. I suppose I was upset. I’m not altogether sure what happened. I had just gotten back from the park. I don’t remember much of the walk—I was daydreaming, thinking about work, about the Jesus picture. I remember walking past a house on my way home. Two boys were playing with a hose. They couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. The older boy was spraying the younger with a jet of water, a rainbow of color sparkling in the light. A perfect rainbow. The younger boy stretched out his hands, laughing. I walked past and I realized my cheeks were wet with tears.
I dismissed it then, but thinking about it now, it seems obvious. I don’t want to admit the truth to myself—that a huge part of my life is missing. That I’ve denied I want children, pretending I have no interest in them, that all I care about is my art. And it’s not true. It’s just an excuse—the truth is I’m scared to have kids. I am not to be trusted with them.
Not with my mother’s blood running through my veins.
That’s what was on my mind, consciously or unconsciously, when I got home. Gabriel was right, I was in a bad state.
But I never would have exploded if I hadn’t found him cleaning the gun. It upsets me so much that he has it. And it hurts me he won’t get rid of it, no matter how many times I beg him. He always says the same thing—that it was one of his father’s old rifles from their farm and he gave it him when he was sixteen, that it has sentimental value and blah blah blah. I don’t believe him. I think there’s another reason he’s keeping it. I said so. And Gabriel said there was nothing wrong with wanting to be safe—wanting to protect his house and wife. What if someone broke in?
“Then we call the police,” I said. “We don’t fucking shoot them!”
I had raised my voice, but he raised his louder, and before I knew it, we were yelling at each other. Maybe I was a bit out of control. But I was only reacting to him—there’s an aggressive side to Gabriel, a part of him I only glimpse occasionally, and when I do, it scares me. For those brief moments it’s like living with a stranger. And that’s terrifying.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the evening. We went to bed in silence.
This morning we had sex and made up. We always seem to resolve our problems in bed. It’s easier, somehow—when you’re naked and half-asleep under the covers—to whisper, “I’m sorry,” and mean it. All defenses and bullshit justifications are discarded, lying in a heap on the floor with our clothes.
“Maybe we should make it a rule to always conduct arguments in bed.” He kissed me. “I love you. I’ll get rid of the rifle, I promise.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t matter, forget it. It’s okay. Really.”
Gabriel kissed me again and pulled me close. I held on to him, laying my naked body on his. I closed my eyes and stretched out on a friendly rock that was molded to my shape. And I felt at peace at last.
JULY 23
I’m writing this in Café de l’Artista. I come here most days now. I keep feeling the need to get out of the house. When I’m around other people, even if it’s only the bored waitress in here, I feel connected to the world somehow, like a human being.
Otherwise I’m in danger of ceasing to exist. Like I might disappear.
Sometimes I wish I could disappear—like tonight. Gabriel has invited his brother over for dinner. He sprung it on me this morning.
“We’ve not seen Max in ages,” he said. “Not since Joel’s housewarming. I’ll do a barbecue.” Gabriel looked at me strangely. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I mind?”
Gabriel laughed. “You’re such a bad liar, you know that? I can read your face like a very short book.”
“And what does it say?”
“That you don’t like Max. You never have.”
“That’s not true.” I could feel myself going red. I shrugged and looked away. “Of course I like Max. It’ll be nice to see him. When are you going to sit for me again? I need to finish the picture.”
Gabriel smiled. “How about this weekend? And about the painting—do me a favor. Don’t show Max, all right? I don’t want him to see me as Jesus—I’ll never live it down.”
“Max won’t see it. It’s not ready yet.”
And even if it were, Max is the last person I want in my studio. I thought that but didn’t say it.
I’m dreading going home now. I want to stay here in this air-conditioned café and hide until Max has left. But the waitress is already making little impatient noises and emphatically checking her watch. I’ll be kicked out soon. And that means short of wandering the streets all night like a mad person, I have no choice but to go home and face the music. And face Max.
JULY 24
I’m back in the café. Someone was sitting at my table, and the waitress gave me a sympathetic look—at least I think that’s what she was communicating, a sense of solidarity, but I could be wrong. I took another table, facing in, not out, by the air-conditioning unit. There’s not much light—it’s cold and dark, which suits my mood.
Last night was awful. Worse than I thought it would be.
I didn’t recognize Max when he arrived—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him out of a suit before. He looked a bit silly in shorts. He was sweating profusely after the walk from the station—his bald head was red and shiny, and dark patches were spreading out from under his armpits. He wouldn’t meet my eye at first. Or was it me, not looking at him?
He made a big thing of the house, saying how different it looked, how long it was since we’d invited him that he was starting to think we’d never ask again. Gabriel kept apologizing, saying how busy we’d been, me with the upcoming exhibition and him with work, and we’d not seen anyone. Gabriel was smiling, but I could tell he felt annoyed that Max had made such a point of it.
I kept up a pretty good front at first. I was waiting for the right moment. And then I found it. Max and Gabriel went into the garden and got the barbecue going. I hung around in the kitchen on the pretext of making a salad. I knew Max would make an excuse to come and find me. And I was right. After about five minutes, I heard his heavy, thudding footsteps. He doesn’t walk at all like Gabriel—Gabriel is so silent, he’s like a cat, I never hear him moving around the house at all.
“Alicia,” Max said.
I realized my hands were shaking as I chopped the tomatoes. I put down the knife. I turned around to face him.
Max held up his empty beer bottle and smiled. He still wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve come for another.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. He opened the fridge and took out another beer. He looked around for the opener. I pointed at it on the counter.
He gave me a funny smile as he opened the beer, like he was going to say something. But I beat him to it:
“I’m going to tell Gabriel what happened. I thought you should know.”
Max stopped smiling. He looked at me for the first time, with snakelike eyes. “What?”
“I’m telling Gabriel. About what happened at Joel’s.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t remember. I was rather drunk, I’m afraid.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
“You don’t remember kissing me? You don’t remember grabbing me?”
“Alicia, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Make a big deal out of it? You assaulted me.”
I could feel myself getting angry. It was an effort to control my voice and not start shouting. I glanced out the window. Gabriel was at the end of the garden, standing over the barbecue. The smoke and the hot air distorted my view of him, and he was all bent out of shape.
“He looks up to you,” I said. “You’re his older brother. He’s going to be so hurt when I tell him.”
“Then don’t. There’s nothing to tell him.”
“He needs to know the truth. He needs know what his brother is really like. You—”
Before I could finish, Max grabbed my arm hard and pulled me toward him. I lost my balance and fell onto him. He raised his fist and I thought he was going to punch me. “I love you,” he said, “I love you, I love you, I love—”
Before I could react, he kissed me. I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let me. I felt his rough lips all over mine, and his tongue pushing its way into my mouth. Instinct took over.
I bit his tongue as hard as I could.
Max cried out and shoved me away. When he looked up, his mouth was full of blood.
“Fucking bitch!” His voice was garbled, his teeth red. He glared at me like a wounded animal.
I can’t believe Max is Gabriel’s brother. He has none of Gabriel’s fine qualities, none of his decency, none of his kindness. Max disgusts me—and I said so.
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