Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “Edouard…” He gave his friend a teasing reproachful smile. “You’re slipping. This is three years out of date. Lewis Sinclair left Harvard in 1956. What’s he been doing since?” Edouard allowed himself a small tight smile.

  “I’ll tell you later this afternoon.”

  “It’s a good Bostonian background…”

  “A predictable Bostonian background,” Edouard said curtly. “Four generations of irreproachable, high-minded business dealings on his father’s side. A mother who is a New York heiress in her own right, and can trace her family back to the early Dutch settlers and beyond. A record of civic service and charitable good works. And a not too intelligent son—the fifth child, you note, after four girls—who grows up, or perhaps does not grow up, both rich and spoiled…”

  “You can’t know that, Edouard, not from this.”

  “I’ve also spoken to a close friend in New York. A Wall Street man who knows the Sinclairs well. Lewis Sinclair is, I hear, something of a playboy…” Edouard’s lip curled with distaste, and Christian suppressed a smile. “He has a taste for what my friend calls ‘partying.’ I gather that’s mostly what he’s been doing for the last three years. As I say, I shall know more this afternoon.”

  Christian looked at Edouard apprehensively. For years he had heard much gossip about the ruthlessness of Edouard de Chavigny. Since he had never encountered it, he had discounted the stories, and attributed them to envy. Obviously, Edouard was not a saint in his business dealings—what man as successful as he could be? But Machiavellian, devious, with a killer instinct for the jugular of his opponents and rivals? No, Christian had always thought such claims exaggerated. Suddenly he was not so sure, and his new doubts made him fearful.

  “Edouard—I’ve heard of your vendettas,” he began lightly. “I hope you’re not going to allow this to become one. Lewis Sinclair has done nothing wrong…”

  “A vendetta?” Edouard looked at him coldly. “A vendetta implies passionate emotion, surely? I feel nothing for Lewis Sinclair. Sinclair is purely and simply a means to an end.”

  Christian looked at him doubtfully. He felt sure Edouard thought he was speaking the truth, but he wondered if that was entirely the case. If Edouard were jealous—and Christian could imagine his being intensely and frighteningly so—then his attitude to Lewis Sinclair could hardly be as coldly logical as he claimed. Edouard, of course, would never admit to himself that he was jealous: he despised all petty emotions, and Christian felt sure that Edouard would classify jealousy as petty. Christian, who knew very well what it was to be eaten alive by that emotion, to feel, day by day, its corrosive effect on the mind and soul, did not share that valuation.

  “It is possible, Edouard”—he leaned forward—“it is possible that Lewis Sinclair might be trying to help Helen—isn’t it worth remembering that? If there is a connection between them now, she may be grateful to him…” It was the wrong thing to have said: he realized that the moment the words were out. Edouard’s eyes became even more stony in their regard. He looked at Christian, and then away.

  “Yes, well, as you say. That could be the case. I will bear it in mind.” He paused, and Christian saw some struggle take place within him. When he looked back, the mask of cold efficiency had slipped just a little, and the emotion beneath it showed through.

  “I have to do this, Christian. I have nothing else to go on. The reports from London are complete, and…”

  “No Helen Hartland?” Christian said gently.

  “No birth record for anyone of that name who is conceivably of the correct age.” He paused. “No record of any books by an author called Violet Hartland in the British Library. No pilot by the name of Hartland flew with the RAF during the war.” He aligned the pen on his desk with the folder in front of him.

  Christian looked away. Edouard had admitted before that Hélène might have lied—but not about anything important, he had felt. Christian sighed: was a name not important, or her parentage?

  Edouard cleared his throat. “You remember—she said she had been brought up in Devon. In a village also called Hartland. She continued to live there, after her mother died, with an aunt…”

  “I remember, yes. She mentioned it to me, too, at dinner.”

  “There is a village called Hartland in Devon. A small place, quite remote, on the north coast. My aides…” He paused. “I’m having checks made now. I expect it will come to nothing, but—if I did decide to go there myself, I wondered, Christian, would you come with me?”

  The appeal in his eyes was naked. Christian felt a rush of affection for him.

  “Of course I will,” he answered quietly. “You know that. And meanwhile?”

  “Meanwhile, I shall trace Lewis Sinclair. I shall find out where he’s gone.”

  Christian looked at him in bewilderment. Edouard sounded so very certain.

  “Can you do that, Edouard? I’d have thought that if a person wanted to disappear for a while, it would be quite easy. After all, Sinclair could be practically anywhere in Europe by now. For all we know he could have gone straight to the airport, and taken a plane to New York, or Boston, or…”

  “He didn’t do that. My aides have checks on all the transatlantic flights out of Paris. The minute Lewis Sinclair gets his passport stamped, or makes a plane reservation, I shall know about it.”

  “And if he doesn’t? If he takes a train? Or a car? If he hitchhikes? If he just holes up in Paris? Edouard—it’s impossible. How do you trace him then?”

  Edouard stood up. “It’s very simple.” He shrugged. “In the modern world there is one almost infallible way of tracing anyone…”

  “And that is?”

  “My dear Christian. Money.”

  When Christian had left him, Edouard picked up his private-line telephone and put a call through the operator to a number in New York. His friend on Wall Street, a man of power and influence whose investment bank was a household name, came directly on the line. Edouard went straight to the point.

  “You’ve spoken to your contact in the Internal Revenue Service?”

  “Yes, I have. And he’s come through. Well, he owes me a favor. He can start monitoring the details of all Lewis Sinclair’s accounts by tomorrow. Possibly later today. But you have to realize, Edouard, this is against just about every state and federal regulation there is. It’s highly irregular. I had to lean on him hard, and I didn’t like doing it…”

  “I appreciate that. Thank you. However, we both know that this can be done, and is done—whatever the laws…”

  “Yes, but Jesus, Edouard. I just hope there’s a really good reason for this. I mean, Robert Sinclair is an old friend of mine. We were at college together. God, when I go up to Boston, I stay at his place. We play golf together. Emily Sinclair and my wife are like that. They’ve been friends since Chapin…”

  “There is a good reason. I can’t say more than that. I give you my absolute assurance, my word, that any information I receive will not fall into the wrong hands, or be used to the detriment of Lewis Sinclair or his family in any way…”

  The banker sighed. “All right. Consider it done. Now, tell me what you’ll want to know.”

  “Everything. I am interested in his checking accounts, you understand. I want every withdrawal monitored. I want all details of moneys taken out: when, how much, and where. I am particularly interested in any moneys transferred abroad, to Europe for instance, no matter how small the amount. Transfers to foreign banks. Checks drawn at shops or hotels. Do you have the details of any credit cards?”

  “I have the numbers in front of me now.”

  “Excellent. Then I should like those accounts monitored also. Plus any addresses with which the card companies or his bank correspond. If Lewis Sinclair writes a check to a drugstore for a bottle of aspirin, I want to know about it.” He paused. “Is that enough for you to go with?” There was a chuckle at the other end of the line; the grudging admiration of one ruthlessly thorough man for another.

&nbs
p; “I guess it gets us started. And you want this information when?”

  Edouard smiled. “We know each other,” he said. “By yesterday.” And he hung up.

  In the silence that followed, Edouard felt, as he always felt at moments of great stress, very calm. He looked around his office, at the cool understated room, the austere furnishings, the paintings. He looked at the turmoil of paint in the Pollock, and quite suddenly, as the pain came back, the pain and confusion of her leaving, he bent his head and buried it in his hands.

  Why? A voice cried in his mind as the images flashed across the dark retina of his closed eyes: his father, Grégoire, Jean-Paul, Isobel, their baby, Hélène: the people he had loved, the people he had lost, one after another. Why, why, why?

  In 1959 the district of Trastevere in Rome had yet to become fashionable. Trastevere was then much as it had been for centuries—a poor area of the city, its narrow streets and beautiful piazzas, its ancient churches and its palaces penetrated by very few tourists. Located on the left bank of the Tiber, well away from the expensive shops, smart hotels, and most visited sites, Trastevere was raucous, crowded, cheap, and very beautiful.

  Thaddeus Angelini, whose ancestors came from this part of Rome, looked at the narrow shaded passageways, at the balconies hung with cages of songbirds, and at the wash strung across the streets like flags, and thought it was the perfect place in which to film. Lewis Sinclair looked at the crowded street markets, the inexpensive cafés and restaurants which hummed with life day and night, and thought it was a perfect place in which to disappear. Hélène’s opinion was unheard: it occurred neither to Thad nor to Lewis to consult her.

  They had arrived there the previous night, after a long and circuitous train journey. Now, it was mid-afternoon, the sun was warm, and Lewis Sinclair had left in search, he explained to the others, of a headquarters for them. A luxurious headquarters, he had added with a smile. Trastevere was picturesque, but he did not intend to spend the next two months sleeping in that flea pit of a pensione.

  Hélène sat alone with Thad at a café in the Piazza di Santa Maria, opposite the church that was said to be the oldest in Rome. In front of her was a small cup of espresso, untouched. Thad was talking, a low monologue which had already continued for some half an hour, and Hélène, hardly hearing him, was looking at the beautiful mosaic that ornamented the façade of Santa Maria, and which depicted, on either side of the Madonna, five wise virgins, and five foolish ones.

  Thad was describing, in detail, a dolly shot used by Hitchcock in Vertigo. Hélène’s head ached; she still felt sick, and the procession of virgins on the church façade seemed to mist, and then to clarify alarmingly, partly because she was finding it difficult to blink back the tears.

  What she had done was irrevocable: so she told herself again and again. She had decided to do it, and she had done it—and there could be no going back.

  It had been hard to leave. She had planned it all so very carefully and precisely, sure that it was the best way, because any other way would have involved explanations. She had packed her suitcase, and folded the Hermès gloves, and laid the ring on top of them, and then—when it was time to leave and to run away—she had stopped; it seemed so terrible to leave without saying anything. She wanted to leave him a note, a letter—something. But if she began writing, she might never find the strength to go.

  So she slipped out of the huge house, feeling like a thief, and after that it was simple: one lift, all the way to Paris. In Paris, she’d gone back to Lewis and Thad, and slept in Sharon’s old room, because she couldn’t think, once she got there, where else to go, or what to do next. Lewis had wanted to ask her questions, but Thad had made him be quiet. He shoved Lewis out of the room, and looked at her for a long time, chewing on his beard thoughtfully. Then he said, “I knew you’d come back. You had to. We’ve got the money. We’re going to make the movie. You can be in it, if you like. You know, the way I told you.”

  And it was true, he had talked about making a film, when she stayed there before. Then, Hélène had believed him; you did, somehow, when Thad talked. Later, when she was in the Loire, everything Thad had said had seemed unreal—boasting, maybe. Things like that didn’t happen, not in real life. And anyway, Thad wasn’t real to her anymore, and neither was Lewis. Only Edouard was real.

  Now, when he talked about the film, and explained that Lewis was helping to back it, Hélène listened, and felt she did not care very much. Thad and Lewis, however, were both very excited about the project, and they talked about it a lot.

  “It’s a small part,” Lewis said.

  “It was a small part.” Thad corrected him. “It’s getting bigger.”

  “And it’s low budget. Experimental,” Lewis added.

  Thad sucked his teeth. He said. “Oh, Jesus. Just shut up, will you, Lewis?”

  Hélène sat and listened to them. Her head felt tight and hot, and all she could think about was whether Edouard would come after her, whether he would look for her.

  She thought he must, and the second day, she slipped out of the house and sat near the Café Strasbourg. Every time a black car passed, her heart seemed to stop beating. But none of them was Edouard’s car, and by the end of the afternoon, she realized he was not going to come. That was what she had intended, but the realization hurt her very much.

  She went back to the roominghouse and tried to make plans. They were going to make the film in Rome; Thad was vague as to how long it would take. They would pay her some money, of course. Not very much, but as much as they could, and her expenses while she was in Rome.

  “Don’t worry,” Lewis said. “You’ll be with us. We’ll look after you.”

  Hélène wondered if she could do it; she wondered if there was time. Her body was still unchanged now, but what if the baby suddenly started to grow? What if she began to swell up like a melon when they were halfway through? What would she do then?

  But no, she was almost sure that you could hide it, until the fourth month anyway, and by then they should be finished.

  She said “yes” in the end, and Lewis was thrilled. Thad just shrugged; the possibility of her saying “no” had apparently never occurred to him. Hélène shut herself in Sharon’s room and told herself this was the best thing that could have happened. She would be earning some money; she would have somewhere to stay; she would be beginning her career. She began to cry.

  That was the third day. Late that night, or rather, very early the next morning, Lewis came into her room and woke her up.

  “We have to go,” he said a little evasively. “Split. You know.”

  Hélène struggled up in bed, and stared at him uncertainly.

  “Go? Go where? Why? What time is it?”

  “Nearly five.” Lewis smiled. “We’re going to Rome. Thad’s decided to get started—and we have to go anyway. Problems.”

  “Problems? What kind of problems?”

  “Money. Rent. The usual kind. It’s better if we leave now—can you get dressed quickly?”

  Somehow, she hadn’t quite believed him. Lewis, with money problems? It didn’t make sense. But she couldn’t stay here without Lewis and Thad; all her money was used up. She got out of bed tiredly, waited for the waves of nausea to recede, and then packed her suitcase.

  The long circuitous and exhausting train journey, and now they were here. It was so very hot, and Thad was still talking, talking. She had been sick twice on the train, and felt as if she might be sick again, any minute.

  She shut her eyes, closed them against the heat and that maddening procession of mosaic virgins. Her mother felt very close now; she had been coming closer and closer, ever since she had left the Loire, and now her voice was all mixed up with Thad’s in the craziest way. Thad was telling her about a camera angle, and her mother was telling her that men didn’t mean to lie, they probably thought their lies were true when they said them, which was why it was so easy to believe them.

  Had Edouard lied to her, then? Had he not loved
her? Was that why he had not tried to find her?

  Or was he looking for her now? Was he perhaps at the Café Strasbourg at this exact minute, making inquiries, asking the owner, asking the waiters if they knew a woman called Helen Hartland?

  Well, if he was, he would discover she had lied. And when he discovered that, he would stop looking. She felt quite certain of that. He would feel angry and betrayed, and that would be the end of it.

  She opened her eyes again. It was better that way, in the end. She stared at the procession of virgins on the church façade. They advanced; they receded: five of them foolish, five of them wise.

  What made them wise, exactly? She became aware of the fact that Thad had stopped speaking, and that he had been silent for some time.

  Finally, he reached across and patted her hand awkwardly, like someone patting a dog. He always wore tinted glasses, which made it difficult to see his eyes, or read his expression. Now he appeared to be looking at her with a kind of doglike concern.

  “You all right, Helen? You feel sick again?”

  “No. I’m all right.” She swallowed. “I was just—I don’t know—thinking about the past, I suppose.”

  “Tell me about the past,” Thad said. It was something he had said to her before. He seemed very anxious, Hélène thought, to hear her life story.

  She turned to look at him. Thad was very very ugly. She suspected, she was not sure, that he was also very clever. Thad made her a little afraid. She felt sometimes as if he could look into her mind and see all the pictures there.

  She was determined not to let him do that. She had let Edouard come close to her, and she intended never to do that again. It was simpler when people were distant. When they were distant, she felt safe.

  She drew in her breath and began to tell Thad a lie. It was very like the time on the train, with the woman who was knitting. At first she expected him to interrupt every moment, and say, “Come on now, that’s not true.” But he never interrupted once.

  Hélène invented. She made up an English family. All sorts of details and twists came to her as she spoke. The family’s name was Craig—Thad and Lewis had seen her passport, so it had to be. This family usually called her “Helen,” though she was christened “Hélène.”