A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  Stephanie sat on the rocks beside the edge of the pond where the still water fell into the deafening waterfall. Around her, children ran and shouted, dancing on the rocks, daring the water, screaming to make themselves heard; their parents clicked cameras and dragged the children back, warning of danger. Stephanie was unaware of them. She stared at small rainbows in the river’s dancing droplets, at rocks glistening purple and brown and black from centuries of polishing by that relentless flow, and she felt herself become part of it, merging with it, fighting it, being carried away by it. It was as if she were back in the hospital, imprisoned in a fog, unable to break out or even move; it was as if she were in bed in Cavaillon in those early morning hours when she would wake from a dream and try to recapture it, to find in it a clue to her past, but would find instead an emptiness as loud, in its way, as the roaring water beside her.

  Standing a few feet away, Léon watched her. She was very beautiful and he knew he wanted to paint her, but he was more interested in the impression she made of tentativeness: a woman unsure of herself, of who she was, where she was, even how she got here. He knew that was fanciful, but Léon believed in fancy: he believed in the furthest stretches of the imagination, in coincidence and unlikely circumstances, in events that seemed impossible or, more likely, unexplainable.

  He knew that art could not be created or enjoyed without the unexplainable, nor could love and friendship grow, and so he trusted his emotions and his senses, his imagination, and his delight in complexity and perverseness to lead him, ultimately, to some kind of truth. Because of that, when he saw Sabrina Lacoste, stunningly beautiful, charming and intelligent, looking in this pensive moment like a woman who did not know who she was or where she belonged, he believed it was possible that indeed she did not know those things, and instead of brushing that idea aside, he found himself wondering about her past, and what part he could play in helping her, if help was what she wanted.

  His painter’s eye framed the landscape: a woman sitting on gray-white rock in front of a dark cliff where tenacious trees grew outward to catch the sun, the black water of the still pond, and the woman herself, wearing dark blue bicycle shorts and a white bicycle shirt open at the neck, her chestnut hair barely brushing her shoulders—it had been shorter when he met her six weeks ago—her slender body, her long legs, and a regal bearing that must have been drilled into her when she was young, so natural did it seem. Her gaze was fixed on the tumbling water, and he wondered what compelling memory it had brought to life. And then he saw that her hands were clenched, the muscles of her arms taut, as if she were trying to swim against that fierce current, or to escape whatever thoughts were roiling within her.

  He took a small sketch pad and a piece of charcoal from his backpack and drew swiftly and surely, first the landscape—crowds milling about the motionless woman, leaving a small private place for her as she stared at the water—and then the woman herself. Sabrina, he thought. A lovely name. A lovely mystery. Tantalizing and irresistible.

  And married.

  But I am involved with someone, too, Léon thought. Not a marriage, but still complicated. So we shall not look too far ahead, Sabrina and I. Not yet.

  After a time, he went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “If you’re ready, we can go to lunch.”

  “Yes.” She came out of her reverie and took his hand and stood up. “Thank you for bringing me here; you were right: it is magical.”

  “It reminds you of something.” Their heads were close together, in order to hear each other. “Something beautiful . . . or overwhelming?”

  “It’s overwhelming on its own—don’t you think?—without reminding anyone of anything. How deep is the spring beneath the pool?”

  “No one has found it yet, though Cousteau and many others have tried.”

  “No one has found it? But isn’t that amazing, that its beginnings are hidden, that only part of it is revealed, but still it has such strength and beauty . . .”

  Léon was looking at her with curiosity. “Most of us reveal only parts of ourselves.”

  “Yes. Of course.” As they turned, she looked back at the torrent. “I wish we didn’t have to leave.”

  “But we aren’t leaving. You’ll see.”

  They walked back the way they had come, down the stone staircase to a glassed-in restaurant, and beyond it, a broad flagstone terrace shaded by an awning and extending over the water. “Oh, perfect,” Stephanie said as they were shown to a table at the railing, with the river just below them. “What a lovely discovery.”

  “It often seems that most of the world has discovered it,” Léon said with a smile as the waitress brought their menus. “When I want to be truly alone here, I come in the winter; it’s truly magical then, with steam and snow and not a human voice to be heard, nor any presence but my own. Except, of course, for whatever gnomes and elves inhabit the caves in the cliffs.”

  “Gnomes and elves. Do you see them? And have conversations with them?”

  “Not so far. But one doesn’t have to do either to believe.”

  Stephanie rested her chin on her folded hands. “You believe in things that are invisible.”

  “I believe that there are things beyond our knowing: mysteries, magic, the shape of the future, the whole meaning of the past.”

  “And that doesn’t frighten you?”

  “It makes me very happy. How poor life would be without mysteries and miracles. And they fill my life, so I must believe in them.”

  “You mean your painting.”

  He took her hand. “Do you know, you are the first person who has understood immediately what I mean when I say that. Most people think I take a brush and paint what I see in front of me, just as they think writers write about people they know and scientists weigh and measure what they can pick up or trip over. Which is all nonsense. We paint and write and study what we cannot see; we leave the rest to the camera and the journalist. And we don’t even know how we do it. Something inside us—or outside of us, who knows?—guides the brush and the pen and the scientist’s thoughts, and we never fully understand what that force is, where our vision comes from. Why should we even try? We should only be grateful that it’s there. I think our waitress would like us to order. I recommend the omelet with truffles and the Provencal tomatoes, unless you don’t like—”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  Léon ordered, and chose a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, and in the flurry of ordering and the setting of cutlery and napkins at their places and the pouring of wine, their hands came apart, and when they were alone again, Stephanie was holding her wineglass, and her other hand was in her lap.

  They gazed at the water in a comfortable silence. “Have you been to the top of Mont Ventoux?” Léon asked.

  “No. I’m waiting until I can do it on my bicycle.”

  “A formidable trip.”

  “I have a friend who does it every week. He says in a month or two I’ll be strong enough if I work at it.”

  “And is it so important that you ride to the top?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be a triumph over . . . what?”

  “It would be a triumph. Tell me about your painting. Have you always been a painter?”

  “Since I was four. In fact, I remember the day and my first box of colored chalk, a birthday present. I took it to my room and stayed up through my naptime covering the walls as high as I could reach—and standing on chairs—with drawings of people, pets, animals in the zoo, and of course goblins and elves. I think they all may have looked alike; that part I can’t remember. I do know that I used up every bit of the chalk.”

  “Your parents told you about that later.”

  “No, it’s quite astonishing, but I remember it. No one was with me, but later I described the room exactly as they saw it when they walked in. As far as I know now, that’s the only day I remember from my early years, but I do remember it: one ecstatic afternoon with four blank walls and a fresh box of colored chalk. The d
ream of every painter, and the birth of this one. I’m sure I have never been more perfectly happy.”

  Stephanie’s eyes were on his, but she was seeing beyond him. “Wonderful,” she said softly.

  “It is a wonderful memory.” He knew, without being able to define it, that they were talking about different things, but he had decided that he would ask her nothing about herself. It seemed clear that she would fend off any personal questions, as she had several times today, and so he let it go. Next time, perhaps, or the time after that. He would wait until she was ready.

  “And you went on drawing and painting?” she asked. “No time out for sports or mischief?”

  “None. I was an exceedingly dull boy. I was an only child and my parents had many ambitions for me, but I had only one for myself and I never wavered, though, for their sake, I did give some thought to medicine, law, science . . . all the respectable professions. It did no good; I always came back to what my mother called ‘making pictures.’ ”

  “Are they pleased now with your success?”

  “They’re very pleased that I’m successful, but they think I’ve come to it by a dubious route, through play rather than hard work and purposeful activity.”

  Stephanie smiled. “Where do they live?”

  “In Lyon.”

  “Is that where you were born?”

  “Born and grew up.” Léon sat back as the waitress refilled their wineglasses and served their lunch. “I left high school after my second year and hitchhiked and worked on freighters—Europe, England, America, Africa, India—and then settled in Goult, which astonishes my friends and dismays my parents.”

  “I’ve been to Goult, to La Bartavelle, for dinner.”

  “An excellent restaurant. You were a few blocks from my house when you were there.”

  “It’s a strange town. So tiny and . . . ghostly. It makes me think of a medieval town that everyone has fled because marauders are storming the walls.”

  He chuckled. “A perfect description, and the very reason my parents are dismayed. They think I’ve holed myself up in a village of stone walls, shuttered windows and hermits, cutting myself off from the world. In fact, I’ve found a perch from which to view it, and swoop down now and then to capture what takes my fancy.”

  “And what is it that takes your fancy?”

  “You do,” he said quietly.

  Stephanie caught her breath and looked away, to the blue-green river with sunlit froth dancing on the surface. Léon’s eyes were the color of the river, green and blue; she could see them in her mind and feel them watching her. He had let her lead the conversation and she had been lulled by that, thinking it extraordinary but somehow natural that he knew she did not want questions about herself. A few times he had tried to turn the conversation to her, but when she changed the subject, he had moved smoothly on, and had not asked again.

  She felt a small twinge of disappointment. If he had persevered, she might have answered. But that’s foolish, she thought. I made it clear I wouldn’t answer; I changed the subject and he allowed me my privacy. But that odd disappointment lingered. She felt again the warmth of his hand on her shoulder as she sat beside the waterfall, and his hand holding hers on the table, and she knew she wanted to talk to him.

  I want to confide in him and trust him. I want to tell him whatever is inside me. Because I think he’ll understand.

  I want to make love to him.

  She felt a sinking within her. I can’t think that. I’m married to Max. I have a home with him, he’s given me the only life I know. I owe him—

  “And opera,” Léon went on easily. “Theater, the circus, market days, bookstores, toy shops, antique shops, bicycle riding, hiking, good movies, good food, and good friends. Not, of course, in that order.” He saw Stephanie watching him with a small frown. “You did ask what takes my fancy.”

  “A long list for someone who was a dull boy.”

  He smiled. “I picked things up along the way.”

  “And you didn’t finish high school or go to college?”

  “No, I couldn’t handle it—classrooms, teachers, assignments. I’m sorry now, because there is so much about literature and history and science I’d like to know in an organized way instead of the haphazard way I teach myself, but when I was young I couldn’t do it. I hated having other people organize the world for me. I knew that when I painted I created worlds and images that made sense to me and I knew, even when I was very young, that I had to believe in myself and my way of doing things or I would never be a painter. I still believe that, but I went too far, and with all the arrogance of a young person, I decided that the only worthwhile and important thing in the world was my painting. So, in school, I got myself into trouble, doing my damnedest to get expelled, and though my father tried everything he knew, even threatening the principal with the wrath of God—as if my father could direct God’s wrath—and giving me regular whippings—”

  “He whipped you?”

  “He thought that would make me understand that life is harsh, filled with obstacles, pain and disappointment, and that the only way I could make my way in its tangles was with diligence, concentration, constant application, and automatic obedience to authority. I could handle the first three if I could apply them to art, but of course that wasn’t the lesson he was trying to teach me. And then, as you may imagine, I was a total flop when it came to automatic obedience.”

  Stephanie laughed. “I can’t imagine that you even tried.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t. It seemed to me that obedience would require great amounts of energy and offer a meager reward. I was working and saving my money to buy paints; that was where my energy went.”

  “Where were you working?”

  “I modeled for other artists from the time I was ten. The pay was not bad and I liked being around them. They gave me things, too—sketch pads, canvases, extra tubes of paint—and introduced me to dealers and gallery owners. After I was expelled—because of course I was—and came back from my travels, I showed the paintings I’d been making to some of the dealers I’d met and they took almost all of them. It was a very lucky time for me.”

  “Or the paintings were very good.”

  “Luck always plays a part. The fates play tricks on us, and all our talent and experience piled up together often can’t deflect them. We forget that at our peril.”

  The sunlit river ran swiftly past their table, the restaurant emptied, the waitress served coffee with small wrapped squares of bittersweet chocolate, and Léon and Stephanie rested their arms on the table, leaned toward each other, and talked all through that long summer afternoon.

  * * *

  Max waited in a dim corner of a café in Carpentras, drinking marc and cursing silently as the time dragged on. Everyone who worked for him knew that he was never kept waiting, but Doerner was—he looked at his watch—four minutes late. Only four minutes, he thought; it had seemed like twenty. He told himself to relax, but he could not; he had not relaxed since the death of his secretary, and that was why he was here now, waiting for Hermann Doerner, whom he had sent to find out what the police knew about it.

  He had told Sabrina he would be late, but would be home for dinner. She had gone bicycling the day before—to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, she had told him—but today she was working on their house, and he pictured her walking through the rooms, making sketches, talking to Madame Besset, gesturing as she described to the gardener new plants she wanted along the terrace. His body strained to escape from the grimy booth, the secretive dark, and go to her. But he sat, locked in place, waiting for a fool who was late, because he had to know what had happened to his secretary before he could decide what to do next.

  “Es tut mir leid.” Doerner slid into the opposite side of the booth. He was as tall as Max, slightly stooped and balding; he wore square glasses and his mouth was wide, with a full lower lip.

  Max nodded shortly; apologies sounded the same in any language. He signaled for two drinks. “Well?”r />
  They spoke German, falling silent when the bartender brought their beers.

  “They think it was an accident. No sign of foul play.”

  “They think?”

  Doerner drew an envelope from inside his jacket and held it out to Max. “They’d been to a party in Toulon. They were driving back to Marseilles, late, and they’d told their friends they’d take A-Fifty, but for some reason they took N-Eight instead. Probably not thinking; they’d had a lot to drink. It looks like they realized their mistake and tried to cut back to the highway at Le Beausset, but they never made it; just outside town they lost control of the car. It turned over a few times and they were both thrown out and killed. Instantly, the postmortem says.”

  “No witnesses.”

  “No, but someone who was on the road behind them said a car came toward him and slowed down at the place where they were thrown out and then turned and went back the way it had come. You know, as if making sure . . .”

  “The police think someone followed them from the party?”

  “They don’t know. Everyone denies it, all the guests. They all say it had to be an accident; you know, three a.m., lots to drink, a difficult road. But the police are leaving it open.”

  “Were all the guests from Toulon?”

  “Most. A few from Marseilles, a couple from Aix, three people from Nice. Some of them stayed the night.”

  “Did you talk to any of them yourself?”

  “Eleven of them: the names checked on that list. I couldn’t tell if anybody was lying.”

  Max read the list of names. None of them were known to him. “No one else was at the party?”

  “That’s the whole bunch.”

  “Are the police going to watch them?”

  “They said they would. But who knows? Most of them think it was an accident.”

  “But they’re not sure.”

  “They won’t say they’re sure.”

  Max tossed down the glass of marc, letting the fumes fill his head. “Is there anything else in the report?”

  “Details. Nothing I haven’t told you.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “Keep in touch with them; they may find something else. Meanwhile, you’re interviewing secretaries?”