Alette’s kitchen was small but well equipped. Alette had liked to cook: relishing the flavours and the smells of good food. ‘Every scent captures an emotion,’ she’d say, chopping herbs with stunning precision. ‘Cinnamon is remembrance. Paprika is desire. Basil is contentment. Garlic is pure, earthy, uncomplicated happiness.’
After her solitary lunch Isa went for a chilly walk and then took a long, hot bath, using some of Alette’s sandalwood oil before dressing herself in Alette’s nightdress. It had become almost a rite now. As she closed the curtains in her bedroom, she looked up at the corner window of the apartment block opposite. The window was uncurtained but dark. Michael was still away. Strange how quickly she had become dependent on seeing a light in his window.
Boxing Day she stayed in front of the TV watching It’s a Wonderful Life and The Philadelphia Story. But the next day was spent in the library to which Michael had introduced her two weeks earlier. She was the only person using the library, and after a while even the dumpy librarian disappeared—where to, she did not know. As the long hours ticked away, time became suspended. Outside, restless clouds were whirling across the sky with great speed and the wind shook the branches of the trees. But in here the air was still and so quiet, she could almost sense the blood pumping through her every vein.
She sat all by herself at the very end of a long polished refectory table. She had opened every book at the correct page and had placed the books next to each other. They stretched the length of the table, looking like white, broken-winged birds.
There was an amazing amount of literature on the topic. Everything from pseudo-scholarly journals—extensively footnoted, to floaty New Agey prose, to stark, sober first-hand reports. The first-hand reports were what really interested her. She had expected a kind of breathless ‘I was touched by the light’ tone to these accounts, but in every case the report was completely devoid of sensationalism and in most cases the people writing, or being interviewed, sounded almost unwilling to share in their experience.
Many mentioned that when they received the telephone call, they had not realized the person they were speaking to had died. In almost every case frustration was expressed at the poor quality of the connection. If more than one phone call was received, the quality of the connection in the later phone calls was sometimes markedly poorer than the first, as though time was taking its toll. Some reports stated that the conversations consisted of one phrase being repeated over and over again by the caller. There were even reports of phone calls not being received, but being placed, to the dead. The caller, not knowing that the person he or she had called was dead, would conduct a normal conversation and only discover afterwards what had happened. The person who was contacted was the only one able to hear the deceased’s voice, even though someone else in the house might also be able to hear the phone ring. Often the ringing of the phone produced a physical reaction: nausea, headache, auras.
One denominator was common in all cases: the person who was contacted had shared an exceptionally close relationship with the deceased. And emotional bonding was not the only requirement. Caller and receiver were more often than not genetically linked: blood relatives. What disturbed Isa was that many recipients seemed to believe that they were in some way responsible for the contacts. Even though she wanted the calls to stop, one woman said, she recognized that there was something inside her which invited them.
Only one book mentioned a possible link between lucid dreaming and phone calls from the dead. The book dealt with the topic of lucid dreaming as such and on the first page was an eye-catching, colourful illustration from an illuminated Iranian manuscript dating from the year 1550. ‘Seven Sleepers’ read the caption. The painting depicted seven sleeping Sufi masters sharing a collective dream as part of a meditative practice. Isa looked closely at the exquisitely drawn figures: seven, sweet-faced men in turbans huddling together, in some instances hugging each other: their eyes closed, their minds wandering together through the same fantastic landscape. She suddenly felt an immense sense of kinship with those tiny figures from the past. ‘Yes,’ she felt like saying. ‘I’ve been where you’ve been. I know what you know.’
Near the end of the chapter, buried in a footnote, she came upon the following:
‘Lucid dreaming has been loosely linked to the mysterious phenomenon of phone calls from the dead. Access to these calls can no doubt be gained in more than one way, but one possible route may be through telepathic, lucid dreaming. This theory proposes that those who are able to control their dreams, thereby building a bridge between the sleeping and the waking worlds, may also have it in their power to find a way to link the worlds of the living and the dead. To walk in full consciousness through your own inner psychic labyrinth is a stupendous achievement and may serve as a dress rehearsal for exploring the realms of the dead.
In the Vigyan Bhairava Tantra the seventh sutra contains the instruction that the lucid dreamer should utilize his third eye and with tenuous breath “reach the heart at the instant of sleep and seek direction over dreams and over death itself”.
Over death itself. Isa stared at the words for a long time.
She suddenly realized how weary she was and how stiff from sitting in one position for so long. She was becoming light-headed from too much reading. She would finish this chapter and then pack it in. Glancing back at the book, she turned the page over.
She felt her breath catch. There, stuck in the deep fold of the book, was a postcard and she recognized her own handwriting. The words were unexceptional, a kind of ‘wish you were here’ message. She couldn’t even remember where she had sent it from.
She turned the card over in her hand and looked at the picture. A view of a turbulent ocean: white spray and a vast sky. Now she remembered: Betty’s Bay. She had spent ten days there supervising the initial work on a glorious holiday home. And for some reason she had felt compelled to write to Alette, to let her know that she would have liked to have her company.
A ray of startlingly bright light fell through one of the mullioned windows, drawing a golden line across the open pages of the book in front of her and onto the dark wood of the table. She suddenly had a mental picture of Alette sitting at this exact spot, paging through these same pages, inhaling the same dusty, throat-catching smell of unused books and then marking these pages for future reference with a postcard she was carrying with her. A postcard that had been sent to her from thousands of miles away by someone who was missing her.
The translucent beam falling through the window was fading. Only a moment before, it had pierced the gloom of the narrow aisle stretching ahead of her, shining off the faded titles on the spines of the stiff-backed volumes on the bottom shelf. But a cloud was moving in front of the sun, and as she watched, the worn, gilt lettering on the books receded back into shadow.
She was suddenly cold. She slipped the postcard into her handbag and shrugged into her coat. As she closed the books on the table one by one, a thought stuck in her mind.
Alette had always seemed so self-sufficient. For the first time Isa wondered whether Alette had felt herself alone; lonely.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, at ten o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang and she opened the door to find a smiling Lionel Darling on her doorstep. Today he was dressed in a rugged canvas jacket and corduroy trousers.
‘I told you I would see you soon. This is for you.’ He handed her the manila envelope and a form to sign.
‘I didn’t expect you to deliver this yourself,’ she said, signing the slip of paper. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble.’
‘Not at all. It was on my way. We’re taking the children to the Trocadero.’
She looked past his shoulder to where a car was parked outside the garden gate. A slightly harassed-looking brunette was in the passenger seat. Two small boys stared grimly at Isa through the back window.
She handed the form to Mr Darling. Every time she saw him he was in a different role. Solicitor, biker, shopper, fami
ly man. It was disconcerting, somehow.
He was now peering past her into the entrance hall. ‘I never asked you,’ he said. ‘Was everything in order on the day you arrived?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
He turned away from the door—rather reluctantly, she thought. ‘Well, this is the last envelope. But don’t hesitate to let me know if there is still any way in which I can assist you.’
‘Thank you.’
At the garden gate he stopped and looked around the winter-bleak garden. ‘I love roses.’ He stretched out his hand and brushed it against the naked stem of one of the rose bushes lining the outer wall. ‘This garden will be lovely in summer.’
She nodded.
‘A pity you won’t see it.’
She glanced at him and he smiled. ‘I assume you’ll be back in South Africa by then.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose I will be.’ But truth to be told, the thought of returning to Durban hadn’t crossed her mind in days. Just after her arrival she had been convinced she would never be able to call this home. That had changed, she realized. I recognize it as my place now.
She shook her head sharply. What was she thinking? This was Alette’s home, not hers.
A demonic howl came from the car, where the two boys were engaged in an act of sibling savagery. The brunette was making futile gestures across the back of her seat.
Mr Darling sighed. ‘Domestic bliss. Well … I should go.’ He held out his hand, suddenly formal. ‘Let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you. My office won’t open until next week but you can always leave a message on the machine. I’ll keep in touch.’
He got in behind the wheel and she watched as he calmed his fractious children with what seemed like no more than a single word. As the car moved away from the curb, Isa turned around and walked slowly back to the house, the envelope in her hand. An envelope sealed with dark blue wax that crackled as she slid her finger underneath the flap.
Dear Isabelle,
This will be my last letter to you.
With luck Justin will be knee-deep in lawyers by this time, with more problems on his plate than he can handle. It is time for the final blow.
Dearest Isabelle. I am forever in your debt. Love, friendship, and loyalty are the most important things in life, and you’ve come through for me. I cannot begin to express my gratitude. This is not easy for you, I know that. And maybe by this time you think I’m insane. But never forget that Justin stole from me that part of me that makes me who I am. His ultimate aim was to turn me into a willing victim, and for a while he succeeded.
No more.
Now, let me tell you a story.
Just before the outbreak of the war in Yugoslavia in 1991, a certain Jakob Juric was employed as a senior researcher at the Zagreb Institute for Immunology. Professor Juric’s speciality was medicinal plants and their use in ailments of the central nervous system. He also had a special interest in Alzheimer’s.
In August 1991, he was scheduled to deliver a seminar at a scientific symposium in Belgrade. The topic of the paper was the potential of vincristine and vinblastine in combination with essence of palmetto angelicus to slow the progression of Alzheimer’s.
This was still just a hypothesis on the part of the professor. No real trials had yet been conducted. As is the custom, he sent his paper to the organizers of the conference ahead of time. The paper was received and date-stamped by the organizers on 10 May, 1991. Keep this date in mind Isabelle; it’s important.
On 25 June, Croatia and Slovenia declared their independence and war broke out. The organizers of the conference were Serbs. They cancelled their invitation to Professor Juric and they did not publish his paper along with the other conference papers. A month later Professor Juric was killed by sniper fire.
End of story, right? Not quite.
On 12 May, 1991, a certain Justin Temple filed for a patent for the development of a compound that would come to be known as Taumex. Remember, the professor’s paper was date-stamped to have been received on May 10. In other words, Justin filed for a patent two days later. When he filed for the patent, Justin did not know about Professor Juric’s research. He had never even heard of Professor Juric.
Let’s move our story forward. It is now several years down the road. Taumex has just finished the first clinical trials. The way is open for human testing. After a lot of hard work and many difficulties, Justin is on the home stretch. The market is showing real interest in the drug for the first time.
I remember that day so well, Isabelle. Justin came home and his eyes were desperate. I had never seen him looking so helpless. Somehow he had got hold of Professor Juric’s paper; the one that had never been published.
In order for a patent to be valid, there must be no prior art. To put it very simply, it means that if you want to file for a patent, you have to give assurances that no one else has come up with the same idea ahead of you. Even though the professor had not filed for a patent himself, his paper had effectively wrecked Justin’s chances—or anyone’s, for that matter—for an exclusive patent. Any non-secret, public use qualifies as prior use. The professor’s paper was never formally published, but it still qualifies as prior art.
If this becomes public knowledge, Temple Sullivan’s patent for Taumex will become invalid. Any other pharmaceutical company will have the right to manufacture the drug. It will become a free-for-all; the compound would no longer be Temple Sullivan’s exclusive property. You can imagine what this would mean to the company.
Justin was weeping that day. ‘Two days,’ he kept saying. ‘Only two days.’ Two days only: but what a difference two days can make.
To make a long story short, Justin decided to keep the whole thing quiet. ‘It’s not as though I’m stealing from the professor,’ he said. ‘I developed Taumex without his assistance, and what’s more, he never had to go through the agony of getting the drug approved. And after all, he’s dead. No one gets hurt.’
Shortly afterwards I asked for a divorce. When Justin threatened to play rough, I told him I would not hesitate to reveal what I knew about the patent. Justin’s company is the most important thing in his life: even more important than his hate for me. So he let me go and he also gave me a very generous settlement.
What Justin didn’t realize was that I had made certified copies of the article. You will find those copies, along with a translation, in this envelope.
By now you know the drill. Call the brokers, contact the papers. And then you can go home.
It will be over.
• • •
ISA OPENED THE LAPTOP computer and accessed the file in which Alette stored the addresses and phone numbers of her clients.
Alette had often spoken of one of her clients, the wife of a retired investment banker. ‘She’s one of the “ladies who lunch”,’ Alette had said, ‘and has probably never done a stroke of work her entire life, but she belongs to a generation of women who are extremely accomplished in the art of conversation and who have turned entertaining into an art form. I adore her company. Her husband’s a real sweetheart and a killer investment counsellor.’ More to the point, Alette had mentioned that the husband had been a patent solicitor before turning to investment banking. ‘A good thing for me that he switched careers,’ Alette had said. ‘He has given me some excellent financial advice over the years. I trust him implicitly.’
Tunbridge, that was the name. Isa moved the cursor slowly down the list of names. And here it was: Mr and Mrs Henry Tunbridge, 44 Eaton Crescent, Belgravia.
She picked up the phone and started to dial. The phone was answered by a young, fresh voice who promised to call her grandfather to the phone immediately.
Isa waited. She could hear the sound of a TV and children’s laughter in the background. A voice said, ‘Danny, will you stop that,’ and then there was the noise of someone closing a door and picking up the phone.
‘Tunbridge.’ The voice was thin, with the high-pitched intonation of the elderly.
‘Mr Tunbridge, you don’t know me, but I’m a relative of Alette Temple’s. My name is Isa de Witt.’
‘Oh yes, I believe she mentioned you. I was so sorry to hear what happened. A tragedy. Is there anything I can help you with?’
She took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, there is. I was wondering if we could meet.’
‘Well …’ He paused. ‘I was actually on my way out to lunch. I have lunch at the Savoy Grill every Monday afternoon. Would you care to join me?’
‘I promise I won’t take up much of your time.’
‘Not at all,’ he said courteously. ‘I look forward to seeing you.’
The driveway of the Savoy hotel was jam-packed with black taxicabs. A steady stream of dark-suited men, their faces red from the cold, pushed through the revolving door and turned immediately left to enter the restaurant.
Henry Tunbridge had not yet arrived. But the maitre d’ confirmed that they had his reservation. ‘His usual table’ was the way he put it.
Rather than wait at the bar, Isa decided to go directly to the table. She was escorted to one of the corner banquettes and given a glass of mineral water and a menu.
The chef obviously did not believe in lean cuisine. The fare ranged from the hearty—kidney pie with sweetbreads; bangers and mash—to the decadent: chicken breast stuffed with langoustines; sweet pepper salsa with smoked eel and quails’ eggs. She looked around her. The room was large, with impressive panelling. The clientele was overwhelmingly male and had that unmistakable look of the banker and the businessman.
A thin, tall, elderly man dressed in a beautifully cut suit approached her table and held out his hand. ‘Henry Tunbridge. How do you do?’
She shook his hand and watched as he carefully manoeuvered himself into his seat. He moved with some difficulty.
‘I hope you’ll enjoy the food here,’ he said. ‘The plats du jour are always good; and anything that needs to be carved or flambéed.’ He nodded a greeting to a diner at one of the adjacent tables. ‘Another regular,’ he said to Isa. ‘I’m afraid we rather consider this dining room to be our own private club.’
The Midnight Side Page 16