The Saffron Gate

  When he walked me to my door he said he would come by in three days — his next day off — so that we could discuss our plans. We would marry at the City Hall in a few weeks, he said, as it would take too long to arrange a marriage in the church and wait for the banns — we were both Catholic.

  He smiled; it was a tentative smile, but suddenly all my fears blew away. ‘Would you like an engagement ring, Sidonie?’ he asked. ‘Shall I surprise you and choose?’

  It was him, the old Etienne, my Etienne. It had simply been shock, as he’d said.

  ‘No. A wedding band is all I need.’ I smiled back at him.

  He put his hand against my abdomen, through my thick coat. ‘You will sing to it. Dodo, I’enfant, do. I can see you as a mother. I can hear you sing a lullaby to our child.’

  I put my arms around him and again pressed my head against his chest, my eyes filling with tears for the second time. Our child, he had said. Our child.

  Etienne didn’t come three days later. I had expected him to be at the door just after breakfast. I waited until early afternoon, then went next door and asked Mrs Barlow if Dr Duverger had called for me.

  He hadn’t. I told myself he’d had an emergency at the hospital. Of course, for what else could keep him from coming? I waited through the evening, every hour carrying a heavier dread. Finally I undressed and went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. What if he’d had an accident on the road, coming to my house? I remembered the steering wheel wrenching in my hands, the sensation of rising into the air. I saw my father lying in the cold field, and then the image of his body turned into Etienne’s.

  Would anyone from the hospital come to tell me if he’d been hurt? Or was ill? Had he spoken of me to anyone at the hospital?

  I tossed and turned, too hot, then too cold. Cinnabar refused to stay on the bed, and finally I rose as well, and walked around and around the house. I was sick, a number of times, although whether it was from the baby or worry I don’t know.

  The morning was dark and snowy. By eight o’clock I was next door again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sidonie,’ Mrs Barlow told me, ‘but the line is dead. It went down early in the evening. It’s the heavy snow.’

  I nodded with relief. Here it was, then, the explanation. Etienne had been trying to phone all evening to explain what had kept him from coming to take me into Albany to set up our marriage, but couldn’t get through.

  ‘Why don’t you stay and have a cup of coffee?’ Mrs Barlow asked. ‘You’re looking drawn, dear. Are you feeling all right?’

  My stomach churned. ‘Thank you, but I’ll go back home. I … I’m expecting to hear from Dr Duverger. Once the telephone is working, and he calls, would you mind coming to get me?’

  I sat at the living-room window, unable to read, unable to paint. I watched the street, in case Etienne drove up. The snow stopped and the sun came out. A few cars toiled through the snowy street; each time I saw one I rushed to the front door and stepped out on the icy porch, willing it to be Etienne. But he would be at the hospital today, I told myself. Yesterday was his day off. He wouldn’t be able to come today.

  Finally, just after two o’clock, Mr Barlow came to my door, telling me that the telephone lines were finally working.

  ‘And … has there been a call for me?’

  He shook his head, and, without bothering to take my coat, I followed him to his house, across our back yards and through his kitchen door. Mrs Barlow was at the table, pushing back a strand of heavy grey hair from her forehead with her wrist. Her hands were covered in flour.

  ‘Mr Barlow said the telephone is working,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘We’re not sure when it started; Mike just picked it up a few minutes ago,’ she said, nodding at Mr Barlow as he took off his boots.

  They weren’t sure when it started working? Didn’t they understand how important it was to me? I tried to hide my anger; I knew it wasn’t their fault, but I was so distraught.

  ‘Do you mind if I use it — the telephone?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mrs Barlow said. The kitchen was warm and fragrant. There was a bowl covered with a tea towel sitting on the back of the stove, and another round of dough on a floury board on the table. ‘I’m making raisin bread. There are some loaves already baked. You take one, dear,’ she said, kneading the dough.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the receiver from its hook and pulling the hospital phone number from my dress pocket. When I was put through to the hospital operator I asked for Dr Duverger. There was a moment’s silence, and then the woman said, ‘Dr Duverger is no longer at the hospital. Can I give you another doctor?’

  ‘No longer …What do you mean?’ I turned so that my back was to Mrs Barlow. There was a dull thump as she slapped the dough on the board. My ears were humming, and I cleared my throat.

  ‘We’re referring his patients to Dr Hilroy or Dr Lane, ma’am. Would you care to make an appointment with one of them?’

  I stood there, the heavy black receiver pressed to my ear, my lips touching the fluted mouthpiece.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  I hung up the receiver, but didn’t turn around. I was vaguely aware of Mrs Barlow’s endless thumping.

  ‘Sidonie? Make sure you take one of the—’

  I left the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind me.

  FOURTEEN

  I already had on my coat and boots when Mrs Barlow came to the back door with the bread a few moments later. The loaf was wrapped in a clean tea towel, and gave off a yeasty, fruity smell. ‘I wanted you to have it while it was still warm. Oh,’ she said, as she held it out to me, ‘you’re going somewhere?’

  I nodded, but Mrs Barlow asked, ‘Is everything all right, Sidonie?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and then shook my head. ‘Not really. Etienne — Dr Duverger — was supposed to be here yesterday.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Doctors are busy men. Surely he had a reason.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m worried that something has happened to him.’

  ‘Why would you think that? Because he didn’t come round when he said he would? There’s no reason to worry yourself, dear. Give it another day or so.’

  I didn’t want to tell her what I’d just heard on the telephone. I stood in front of her, now looking at the bread she still held towards me.

  She set it on the table and patted my hand. ‘Give him time, Sidonie. He’ll most likely be along as soon as he can,’ she said, turning to leave, and then added, ‘My. You look more like your mother every day now.’

  I was ashamed to ask Mr Barlow to drive me to the hospital, knowing Mrs Barlow thought I was irrational for worrying because Etienne hadn’t come when he said he would. But of course she didn’t know the whole story. Something had happened to him. He wouldn’t promise to come and then not show up. Especially not for something as important as arranging our marriage.

  I walked to the hospital; it was a good hour and a half, but after the heavy snow the weather was surprisingly warm for mid-February, and by the time I reached the hospital I was too warm.

  At the front counter I asked for Dr Duverger. Somehow I hoped that my physical presence in the hospital would actually produce him. When I was given the same answer, that he was no longer in the hospital’s employ, I asked to speak to one of his colleagues. I tried to remember the names of the two doctors he worked with.

  ‘Dr Hilroy or Dr Lane,’ the woman said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, either of them. Could I speak to one of them?’

  The woman consulted a series of papers in front of her. ‘Do you need an appointment? There will be a week wait. I can book you for next Monday, at noon.’

  ‘No, I don’t need an appointment. I simply have a question. It’s not anything medical.’

  The woman looked up from her appointment book, frowning.

  ‘I just have a question,’ I repeated, annoyed that I was forced to explain myself.

  ‘Have a seat then, please. Dr Hilroy is almost done with his shift. When he�
��s finished I’ll have him speak to you.’

  I sat down, taking off my coat and dabbing my forehead with my gloves. I felt truly ill; clammy and nauseous. I waited for what felt like a long time, and finally a tall, white-haired man came from behind swinging double doors.

  ‘I’m Dr Hilroy,’ he said, after speaking to the woman at the desk. ‘May I help you?’

  I stood, explaining that I had expected to hear from Dr Duverger.

  ‘I assume you’re a patient of his. But you mustn’t worry. Dr Lane or I will take over your records.’

  I shook my head and cleared my throat. ‘Actually …’ I licked my lips, ‘although I was a patient once, now … I’m, a friend of Dr Duverger’s. A good friend,’ I stressed. ‘I’m concerned for his well-being. As I said, I expected to hear from him, and now I’m afraid something must have happened to him.’ I hoped I didn’t appear as shocked and confused as I felt. ‘Naturally I’m very worried.’

  The doctor frowned. ‘I’m sure he’s all right.’

  ‘You don’t think that something may have happened to him? Has anyone checked on him?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, but there was no reason to suspect … Look, he did leave a month early, but it was quite straightforward.’

  ‘A month early? What do you mean?’

  Dr Hilroy looked as if he’d said too much, and shook his head.

  ‘Did he … when do you expect him to return?’ I asked.

  ‘Would you care to sit down, Mrs… ?’

  ‘No. But it’s quite out of character for Etienne — for Dr Duverger — to act in such a spontaneous manner, you must agree. Leaving. So suddenly,’ I added. ‘Surely, there’s something more.’

  Dr Hilroy looked even more uncomfortable. I told myself I sometimes had that effect on people even under normal circumstances. ‘As I’ve just said, it was only a month less than the year contract. As a visiting surgeon.’

  I blinked. ‘He was leaving next month? For where?’

  ‘I really don’t know of his plans once his term contract was up. But frankly, none of us got to know Dr Duverger very well. He never spoke of his family before this, although I assume they’re in France.’

  I nodded vacantly, trying to take in everything Dr Hilroy was saying. Etienne’s family? But … they were all dead. ‘He’s gone to France?’

  Now Dr Hilroy looked vaguely displeased, shifting and glancing at his watch. ‘I really can’t help you any further. He simply said it was impossible for him to stay on, due to family circumstances, and that he had to return home.’

  Return home. Family circumstances. I thought I only repeated it in my head, but I must have spoken aloud, for the doctor said, ‘Yes. Good day, then, Mrs … ma’am.’

  ‘So … you have no way of reaching him? He must have … did he leave an address? Some way to contact him?’ I asked, no longer caring if I appeared desperate. It didn’t matter what this man thought of me.

  Dr Hilroy suddenly looked down, and I followed his gaze. I saw, my own hands, gripping his. I let go and took a step back. Now he rocked, ever so slightly, on his toes.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, and I must have made a sound, perhaps a small cry, or a sudden intake of breath, and stared into Dr Hilroy’s eyes. I saw my tiny reflection there.

  I’d thrown on the first dress my hand touched in the wardrobe, and my hair … had I brushed my hair? I remembered how colourless and hollow my face had been in the mirror last night. Surely I appeared a madwoman.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Is there anything, anything more at all, you can tell me?’ I heard the beseeching tone of my voice. ‘What about … can you tell me the address where he lived? A rooming house nearby. I know that much.’

  I know that much. The words only emphasised how little I did know.

  Dr Hilroy frowned. ‘I don’t believe I should be giving out that information.’

  ‘I’m Miss O’Shea,’ I said, forcing myself to stand straighten I knew I couldn’t carry on in this manner; it was obvious Dr Hilroy was unsettled by me. I spoke more calmly. ‘Miss Sidonie O’Shea. You can check the hospital records. You’ll see I was a patient of Dr Duverger’s last year. And I don’t see how it could hurt to give me the address now. If Dr Duverger has truly left Albany, it won’t matter, will it?’

  He studied me for a moment longer.

  ‘Please,’ I said, in little more than a whisper, and he shook his head, as if to himself, and then walked away from me, speaking to the woman at the front counter in a low tone, glancing towards me. Then he motioned me towards the desk, leaving before I stepped up to the high counter, and the woman handed me a slip of paper.

  The rooms Etienne had rented were ten long blocks from the hospital. I told myself he was actually still there; that he hadn’t left Albany. He wouldn’t leave me like this, especially not now. He had said we would marry. He had said our child.

  He wouldn’t possibly have gone to France without talking to me, without telling me what had happened — what family circumstances he had spoken of. And when he would return to me.

  The house was tall and narrow, the red brick well maintained and the creamy paint around the windows and door obviously fresh. In one of the front windows there was a hand-printed sign: Furnished Rooms for Rent. I told myself there were many rooms in the house; the sign didn’t have to refer to Etienne’s rooms.

  I knocked on the door, and it was opened by an elderly lady in a neatly pressed brown housedress with a white lace collar.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, immediately. ‘The rooms haven’t been properly cleaned yet. If you would care to come back in a few days, I can show—’

  ‘No,’ I said, interrupting her and taking a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m a friend of Dr Duverger’s.’

  ‘He doesn’t live here any more,’ she said, starting to close the door, but I put my hand on it, pushing against it.

  ‘I know,’ I said panic filling me even more than it had at the hospital. ‘I know,’ I repeated, ‘but …’ I stared at her face. ‘But he asked that I come and see if he left a black leather case behind.’ I didn’t know where that sentence came from, but I wanted — needed — to go to Etienne’s rooms. I needed, for myself, to see that he was gone.

  ‘A leather case?’

  ‘Yes. Black. With a brass clasp. He’s quite fond of it; he asked me … as I’ve told you, to come by and look for it here.’ As I spoke, I pushed harder on the door, and then stepped into the hall. There was the faint smell of boiled beef. Etienne did indeed possess such a case; I had seen it lying in the back seat of his car when he drove me to the clinic. At least that was the truth.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if the doctor forgot something. He certainly left in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll only take a moment, if you’ll point out his rooms,’ I said, staring into the woman’s eyes.

  ‘I suppose it won’t hurt.’ She turned and pulled out the drawer of a cabinet in the hall, handing me a key. ‘Upstairs, first door on the left. There are two connecting rooms.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and went up the stairs. ‘Oh,’ I said, turning to look back at the woman. ‘Did Dr Duverger remember to leave you his forwarding address, so that any mail might be sent on?’ I struggled to keep my voice deceptively casual, but I heard the beat of my heart in my ears.

  ‘No. Although he only got one or two letters the whole time he was here. Foreign, there were.’

  I nodded, but just as I put my foot on the next step she added, ‘He got one just days before he left, too.’ I looked back at her. She nodded. ‘The same foreign stamps.’

  Without answering I climbed to the top of the stairs. I had to stop there, out of view of the woman, and lean heavily against the first door, trying to breathe. Finally I straightened and unlocked the door.

  The shade of the wide window in the first room was drawn, and the room had a musty, stuffy air. The room was simply furnished with a tufted couch and small table with two straight-backed chair
s, as well as a sturdy desk with a swivelling wooden chair. There were a few papers in a pile on the desk. I shut the door and crossed the room, giving the tassel of the shade a quick tug. Pale light flooded the room, and dust motes scattered through the dull rays. I struggled to raise the sash, managing to lift it enough for cool air to rush in, riffling the papers on the desk and bringing in a fresh scent.

  Through the open door into the next room I saw a neatly made bed with a candlewick bedspread.

  I sat in the chair in front of the desk, my fingers shaking as I scrabbled through the papers. But they were only printed pages of a study on throat ailments. I opened the drawer on the right of the desk. It was empty but for a pair of spectacles. I picked them up and ran my fingers over the thin frame. I pictured Etienne sitting here, one finger absently tapping the bridge of his spectacles as he read.

  ‘Etienne,’ I whispered into the empty room. ‘Where are you? What’s happened to you?’

  I set the spectacles on the desk and slowly pulled out the other drawers. They were empty apart from the usual desk items: a few paperclips, a half-empty bottle of ink, some pencils with chewed ends.

  I looked under the desk; there was a trash container. It held a crumpled paper and a small pill bottle. I smoothed out the paper, but it was only the wrapper from a packet of mints. The pill bottle was for a drug with the long and unpronounceable name of oxazolidinedione, and was prescribed for Etienne. I knew the bottles that held the pills for his headaches — a simple painkiller, he had said — and the ones to help him sleep. There was another he sometimes took, before he left my house in the morning. To help keep me alert through the long day ahead, he had said, in an offhand way. But this was one I hadn’t before seen.

  I put the spectacles and empty pill bottle into my handbag. I needed something — anything — of Etienne to hold on to. Then I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes in sudden exhaustion and despair.

  I wanted to go home, but first I knew I had to go into the next room. Here a sliver of cool wind blew with a tiny, persistent whistle through a crack in the sash of the window. The room contained only the bed, a dresser and a wardrobe. Again I pulled out each of the dresser drawers. There was nothing. Like the drawers, the wardrobe was empty, but as I turned to leave, I noticed a book on its floor. It was the one on famous American watercolourists I had given to Etienne for Christmas. He had, more than once, said he knew he was lacking in knowledge about the other side of life, the one opposite science, and wished to know more.