Hold Back the Night

by Abra Taylor

  'I am coming, Berenice, as soon as I can. I only learned today. Where is he? In the hospital?'

  'He refuses to go to the hospital. He wants to die at home.'

  'Then it's true,' whispered Domini.

  'Where are you? If you're in Europe, I'll send a car...'

  Domini controlled her voice. 'I'm in America, Berenice. New York. I'll be catching a flight as soon as I can. It's a little hard to get a seat because this is the tourist season, but I'm doing my best. Actually I'm planning to go to the airport on standby and take the first seat I can get. I'll call you from there as soon as I know when I'm coming.'

  Berenice paused for only a fraction of a minute. 'No, no, leave it to me. Perhaps I can arrange something. Give me a phone number where I can reach you.'

  Domini did. 'It's a business number,' she added. 'A little later I have to go out for half an hour, to . . .,' But this was no time to explain about Tasey, who would soon have to be picked up from day care, '. . . to do something. But I have an answering service, so if someone picks up and says Displays Unlimited, don't be surprised. Leave a message.'

  'I'll be back to you soon,' Berenice promised.

  'And please, tell Papa I love him, and that I would be there right now if I could. Tell him I'm sorry about everything. At least, tell him all that if... if it won't upset him or make him worse in any way.'

  'I will tell him.' Berenice's voice dropped to an anguished whisper. 'He clings to life, Didi, for one thing only. He longs to see you.'

  So Papa had forgiven her at last. When she hung up, Domini dropped to the floor beside the yellow unicorn and wrapped her slim arms around its neck. She rested her dry cheek against its carved surface and wished she could shed some of the terrible tears the years had put into her heart.

  Chapter 10

  Berenice used the kind of influence wielded only by the very great or the very rich. Domini was on a Concorde to Paris within hours, in a seat procured heaven knew how. No one asked for money to pay for the luxury flight, and Domini did not offer because she simply didn't have enough cash anyway; she presumed Berenice had looked after it. At Charles de Gaulle Airport a limousine was waiting to take her to a small airfield, where a light plane had been chartered to fly her to Pau. At Pau, Georges, the chauffeur of former years, was waiting to take her for the final lap of the trip, over the twisting route into rugged terrain where no airstrips existed. The loyal Georges reassured Domini that her father still clung to life. She asked few other questions during the trip, not wanting to interrupt his concentration; Georges was driving at top speed. Less than twenty-four hours after learning of her father's illness, Domini drew up at the great ironclad front door of his home.

  There were a dozen cars parked outside the gates, and an ambulance stationed on the driveway close to the house itself. Domini hurried from the limousine to the front door, found it locked, and had to ring the bell. A servant … perhaps the same suspicious woman who had answered the telephone … arrived and went to fetch Berenice, leaving Domini waiting in a small reception room.

  It opened on to the courtyard, and while she waited, pale in the wake of a long, sleepless night, Domini walked over to look out on to the flagged area, once an enclosure where farm animals had been kept. For some reason she wanted to see her father's stone, perhaps because to her it was a symbol of his strength. She saw at once that it had been moved to a new place, a raised platform constructed of large flat flagstones. The great stone sat squarely on top, high as a man's head, more important than ever in its new position. But the stone was not the only thing Domini saw. Disturbed, she realized why there were so many cars around. People whose purpose she could not imagine lounged outside in the noon sunshine of the courtyard. A maid was serving drinks, and a table of sandwiches had been laid out.

  Domini guessed that some of the strangers were members of the press, and at least one woman was wearing the crisp uniform of a nurse. One was a famous French politician, come to pay his last respects. He was posing for someone's camera, smiling and looking like a puffed parrot, with one hand resting on Papa's special stone. Domini wanted to rip it off at the wrist, screaming at the indecency.

  Domini saw D'Allard too. Perhaps her father had mended fences with his one-time dealer, or perhaps D'Allard was also looking for publicity. He appeared overly and insincerely lugubrious in his expensive black suit. Domini knew he had privately bought a number of Le Basque paintings and sketchbooks before the falling out; he had probably been waiting for Papa's death to put them on the market. Domini felt ill.

  Two prosperous-looking men, both in their late forties, were seated on a stone bench hunched in private conversation, with another slightly younger man standing behind them, listening intently. From photographs seen in her youth, Domini recognized them as her own half-brothers, who in all the time of her memory had never so much as sent her father a Christmas card, although he had settled enough money on their mother to make them all very wealthy men.

  Domini turned away. Papa was dying, and the vultures had descended. And yet, would he feel that she was only one of them?

  Berenice hurried into the room a moment later. They embraced wordlessly, too moved for immediate greetings. When Berenice pulled back, Domini saw that her father's long-time companion looked older than her forty-odd years, her fine dark eyes lined and deep with the strain of living in the shadow of death.

  'Before I take you in to him, Didi, there are some things you must know about your father. Dying like this with all these people around … ,' Berenice's voice broke and then calmed. 'He would have preferred a simpler ending. But to bring you here, the whole world had to be told, and it was he who told me to tell them. If you doubt that he cares for you, think of that.'

  Domini's eyes stung, as if the tears she could not shed had already fallen. So she had been right in thinking that in his heart Papa did not change. Why had she ever doubted him?

  'For a long time he tried very hard to find you,' Berenice went on. 'I'll explain later when we talk, because now there is no time to waste; you must go to him. One more thing. He has not been at peace with himself since . . . since that day. He cannot forget what he did. Can you tell him you forgive him?'

  'Oh, Berenice,' Domini said through a hurting throat, 'I did that long ago. I thought it was he who had not forgiven me.'

  'He doesn't know you're here yet. But I did tell him you had called, and every time he wakes he asks for you. Now come.'

  Domini controlled her emotions because she knew she must do so before going in to see her father. She followed Berenice through the familiar halls of her childhood, memories flooding over her at every turn, every time-indented stair. She knew it all by heart and loved every carved post, every mullioned window, every windowseat, every piece of panelling along the way. Her father's paintings crowded the walls, and many were of her; of those done during Domini's adolescent years, none had ever been sold. It moved Domini to see them still hanging. Remembering the destructive slashes of black paint that had destroyed one portrait, she had sometimes wondered if all of them had suffered a similar fate.

  Inside the house it was relatively peaceful because all the visitors but Domini were for the moment outside. But there were nurses and two doctors in attendance in Le Basque's room, and equipment that must have been rushed from a hospital in Lourdes. Berenice told Domini to wait at the open door. 'He will want to see you alone,' she said, 'and with no one to watch.'

  She hurried the nurses out easily enough, but Domini heard one of the doctors objecting in a low voice. Berenice literally pushed him through the door. 'And what do you think you have been keeping him alive for?' she hissed, sottovoce.

  Domini entered her father's room, closing the oaken door quietly behind her. This great sunny bedroom was loved and familiar too. In her very youngest years she had often come bouncing in to wake her father in early morning, certain of her welcome even when there was a mistress in his huge old four-poster bed. There had been romps and tickles and screams of l
aughter, the good-natured Basque women in their voluminous white nightdresses joining in as easily and naturally as Domini did herself.

  The room was unchanged but for the I.y. stand and other medical equipment. Even the sun spilled in, and Domini knew it was because her father preferred it so; he had never liked sickrooms and darkened windows. She walked to her father's bedside. His eyes were closed, his face grey, his cheeks shrunken, his skin like parchment. He might have been dead already but for the faint, irregular breathing that lifted his once burly chest. Without hesitation Domini dropped to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and picked up a hand that looked far too limp and lifeless. She kissed it and then pressed it to her cheek.

  'I've come home, Papa,' she said.

  His sunken eyes opened. Although his great heart had almost given out, the spark of life in his eyes was not yet dead. They were not focused on Domini though, and he muttered as if in pain, 'Didi? I think I dreamed. Oh, God, I dreamed...'

  'No, Papa, you're not dreaming. I've come home,' she repeated and moved to sit on the edge of the bed where he could see her more easily. She kept his hand in both of hers. 'I love you, Papa,' she said simply and leaned over to rest her face against his time-weathered cheek. 'I love you more than I can tell.'

  'Didi,' he said, and Domini could feel the tremble in his mouth, the heave of his chest, the quiver of his hand. His voice was agitated. 'There's so much to say, so little time to say it. I destroyed your picture, but …., '

  'Hush,' she whispered to calm him. 'It doesn't matter. I love you, Papa. The rest can wait.'

  For a time neither spoke nor moved. When Domini felt peace begin to steal through her father's body, she finally raised her head so she could see him. There were tears standing in his eyes, but he was calmer.

  'Will you forgive me, Didi?' he whispered.

  'Will you forgive me, Papa?'

  'How could I not forgive, when I love?' he said, trembling. 'I forgave you long ago.'

  'And so did I,' Domini said gently. 'I stayed away out of pride, only pride. I would have come before if I had known you needed me.'

  'Tell me about.. .' Effort had made his words weak, and although Domini could not hear the rest of his sentence, she guessed that he wanted to know where she had been, what she had been doing, how she had been surviving. And so she told him, in simple words and omitting all the more painful parts, including any mention of Sander.

  'Anastasia,' he muttered at one point, with a smile hovering at his lips. 'Is she... like you?'

  'She has my eyes, Papa. And .. . yes, I think she's a little like I was at that age. Very happy, very trusting, very ... full of joy. I think you would love her.'

  'Yes,' he said without question and did not ask who the father had been. His eyes closed tiredly, but he looked quite pleased. Serenity washed over his face while Domini talked on, telling quietly of happy times until she saw that he was growing too weary to listen more.

  'Papa, you should rest now,' she said. 'I can come back in a short while.'

  At once he seemed to grow restless again, and his fingers found the strength to clutch at hers. 'No,' he mouthed, the word too weak to be heard. And so Domini sat, no longer speaking because she was afraid she had overtired him. Within moments he slid into a shallow sleep, not quite relaxed because every once in a while his mouth would twitch as though he were trying to say something.

  When her father spoke again, his voice was so faint, so far away, that Domini had to bend her head to hear it. 'Something else... wanted to say...'

  'You can tell me later, Papa.'

  'No . . .' Effort was rattling his chest, moving his mouth in meaningless little mutters. '. . . sold the . . . sold the unicorn...'

  'You don't have to explain, Papa. I don't mind at all. After all, I grew out of it years ago.' Domini looked at her father ruefully, realizing from all she had learned that he must now deeply regret that time when he had tried to thrust her from his life. She wondered what she could say to put some peace in his soul.

  'Do you know, just a few months ago I bought one almost like it for Tasey,' she said gently. 'It was only a copy, but I bought it because . . . because to me it meant love, your love. You gave me the most beautiful childhood in the world, Papa. If you sold the unicorn it doesn't matter, because it will always be here in my heart.'

  Le Basque's face lit into a dim smile, and he slept.

  He died peacefully towards the very end of that same night, with Berenice and Domini beside him. The doctors had thought him improved. They and the nurses had been told by Berenice to stay out of the room, and because she could be very firm, they had finally withdrawn. She knew Le Basque's time had come, with the inner knowledge of someone who understood his true heart and not merely the erratic patterns on a screen. If she had been the great love of Le Basque's latter years, for her he had been the great love of her life.

  The daily retinue of those who had come to see Le Basque die had left some time before. Some had returned to Paris, and some … Domini's half-brothers among them, and a few persistent journalists … were staying at a local hostelry.

  Berenice had prepared a room for Domini, and because she alone of the visitors was asked to stay at the farmhouse, others remained for the time being unaware of her arrival. Only the doctors and nurses and a few of the servants knew. Berenice had suggested some discretion, thinking to spare Domini the agony of unnecessary publicity. Already there had been too many questions over the past few days about the whereabouts of Le Basque's famed illegitimate child. In the latter part of his life Le Basque had protected his privacy, and so it had not been generally known that Domini had vanished some years before; but one of the servants had let it slip, arousing immediate curiosity. Only the day before, a photographer had been caught trying to take a shot of one of the portraits of Domini in her late teens. The publicity could not be avoided forever, but at least it would not mar the time of deepest grief.

  In the bedroom of her childhood Domini had slept the sleep of exhaustion after the afternoon visit with her father, and wakened for a late supper before joining Berenice for the long night's wait in her father's room. It was nearly dawn when he died, and even then Berenice did not call the doctors at once. Quietly she closed his eyelids, her final gesture of farewell. Then she said to Domini, 'If they come now they will thump at his heart and do undignified things to try to make him live. Your father would not have liked that; he knew he was mortal. He will live, but not because of anything the doctors do.'

  And then Berenice bent her head and murmured, 'He wanted no priests to be with him when he died. He said they would have him soon enough, and for all time.' In the tongue of the Basque people she added so quietly that the words could hardly be heard: 'Orhaithilceaz.'

  Remember Death. It was an inscription often seen in the Basque Pyrenees, where the end of life was accepted with peace ... not as a penalty, but as a fair and natural price to be paid for the gift of living. Since that long-ago when one dead lamb had been used to save the life of another, Domini had not been uneasy in the presence of death. It is not death that matters, but life, her father had said. Not long after the incident of the lambing, her father had taken her to a nearby country graveyard. There they had walked together hand-in-hand and looked at the tombstones of Basques who had died many centuries before. Most of the odd disc-shaped markers wore the patina of very great age, and they had seemed as timeless and enduring as the quiet mountains that guarded them. It was a place where peace seeped into the soul, and with her small hand in her father's the repose of that graveyard had held no fears for Domini.

  At the time Le Basque had told her it held no fears for him. And although she had not been able to imagine him ever dying, she had known he would tell her no lie.

  Beneath the grass of that same serene and simple graveyard, soon he would rest. Orhaithilceaz.

  And so they sat for a time, Domini's eyes hot and dry as desert sands, Berenice pale and tearless too. Half an hour later, when the sun rose, th
ey retired to a small private sitting-room, at last leaving the shell of the great man both of them had loved in the care of professionals. A servant brought coffee and croissants, which neither woman ate. It was the first time the two had been alone, and Berenice began to ask quiet questions, discovering some of the same things Domini had told her father. She listened with tired eyes, smiling faintly when she learned of Tasey, and stemming her own grief for some later and more private time.

  'You made him content at the end,' Berenice said, once Domini had revealed the simple facts of her existence during the past few years. 'If you had not come, he would have died an unhappy man. And after what happened, I thought you might not, because he had been very... harsh. After you vanished, I regretted that I had sent you away so quickly that day, not taking time to help you understand why your father was so upset. It had a great deal to do with his own life. His youth, his first love, his marriage.'

  'I know very little about those things,' Domini said.

  'Yes,' sighed Berenice. 'Because he always hid from you the hardness of his life. I think he told no one, until he told me. You see, my child, to your father his name meant a very great deal. Inside him there was a great pain for the life he had led to earn it. His strength and his sorrow came from that name, and when he saw it used so lightly ... but how could you understand his anger without understanding his past?'

  'Please tell me,' Domini said quietly.

  Berenice laid her head against the high back of the rocking chair where she sat, and closed her eyes. 'Yes, I will tell. He asked me, in fact, to tell you the whole story, because he wanted you to know what caused him to send you away when he did. And I think he would want you to be told today, of all days. It may make many things clear. You are what you are because he was what he was. I can't start at the beginning, Didi, because to your father's story there is no real beginning, just as there will be no real end. His memory only started halfway through his childhood, and when it started he had no name at all.'