He looked down at her. He could have made a flippant comment, laughed off the four years he had spent aching for her. But he had learned something – hadn’t he? – when he had gone back to his childhood home: learned about how hard his brother had tried to be good, and how blind he, Francois, had been. He knew then that he would tell her about Denise, even though he had not told his parents; about how Ben had strived for redemption, disappointing himself even as everyone around him loved him. The girl needed to know that about his brother. And what did she need to know about him? There was now a hum in his head, the notes of a song, soaring high and low.
He said, ‘Because I couldn’t bear not knowing how you were or where you were. And even though I have no right at all, I wanted to see you again, Rita.’
She watched him speak, as if she were not only listening to his voice but reading his lips. For a long while she was silent. Again, he had that sensation, that she was not so young, with the way she held herself, the way she received his words with composure. She raised her eyes to his, spoke quietly.
‘Why do you think you have no right?’ Her voice too was not a whine, a demand; rather she sounded as if she understood everything already but only sought confirmation. None of this surprised him. She could certainly see, feel and intuit: this had been clear from what she had written.
He said, ‘Because you’re so young, Rita. And because you loved my brother.’
She absorbed his words, her face upturned to his. Someone was approaching, their footsteps sounded behind them, a dog sniffed at his ankles, and then they were alone again.
He found his voice. ‘I wanted to see you today to make sure you were all right, but I also know that’s not enough for me. It’s all I can do to stop myself from touching you.’
Now there was only silence in his head. Mahler had abandoned him, refusing to be party to his inappropriate avowals. Best, he thought, if he could claw back some lightness, offer the girl in front of him a chance to shake his hand and then disengage herself from him. She had sent him a clue, true, but perhaps it was only in order for her to have one last reminder of his brother, before closing the door on the episode with finality.
‘If only,’ he said, grasping for levity, ‘if only I were twenty years younger.’
She did not return his smile, and he allowed it to fade: too difficult to pretend now. Then she tilted her head slightly, so her hair fell against one cheek, as she held his eyes.
‘I didn’t just leave because of Ben,’ she said. ‘I left because of you, Francois. I needed time to become a person, not someone’s story.’
She had that way, that wisdom, which, coupled with her artlessness, made her irresistible. Whether he would have done then what he did a few moments later if she had not stepped forward, he would not know. But, there was no need to know, because before he could say anything or do anything, she had raised her hand and put her fingers on his mouth, where it felt like they burned against him, and traced his lips, as he stood before her, unable to breathe. Then she drew them away and touched her fingers to her own lips.
He recognised the play from what she had written. When he had read that section, he had had to close his eyes and fight the longing in his chest, because he had wanted to be the recipient of her touch. She knew, he realised, that he would know. What was she saying to him now? He could spend years trying to understand what she meant, but instead he slipped his hand behind her neck and drew her close, kissed her on the mouth, which was as soft as he had imagined. A chaste, closed-lip kiss. She remained where she was, letting his mouth remain pressed against hers. Then he felt her arms slide around his neck, her mouth opened and their tongues met for a long time-stopping breath. When she drew away, he tried to still his heart, pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in.
He said, ‘Rita . . .’
She whispered in his ear, ‘I want you to come up with me.’
30
HER landlady’s bedroom and sitting room were still, except for the sound of the television. The sound of tinned laughter erupted as they passed it, accompanied by the yelp of the dog. They crept up the stairs. She opened the door to her bedroom; he followed her in. It was a few metres square, the bed lay under the window, with the colourful coverlet she had brought back from India thrown over it. On the other side was the wardrobe and her desk, with laptop and lamp, above which were her shelves of books.
‘It’s cosy,’ she said.
They had not moved on entering; they could not move. Their two sets of feet took up nearly all the floor space available. The striped rug she had also brought back from India was obscured with both of them standing on it. He pointed to the photographs she had taken and then blown up, framed and displayed: of the lane leading to the synagogue, the entrance to the antique store, and the Chinese fishing nets arcing up into the sky. ‘They’re good,’ he said. ‘But no photo of the lake and the earth bridge.’ He smiled at her.
He remembered.
She shook her head: ‘I didn’t go there. They didn’t even know I was back.’
She bent down and undid her sandals, and he followed her example, stepped out of his shoes, one by one, then laid them neatly lengthwise along the door. From where he stood, he inspected the books on her shelf.
‘I don’t have many,’ she said. Then, she caved in: ‘Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea, there isn’t room to swing a cat . . .’
He turned to her, smiling. ‘This is an excellent idea.’ Then he gestured around: ‘I like seeing your things.’
He reached over and picked up a photo from the shelf, of Mira on her First Communion Day. ‘She’s grown,’ he mumbled, then briefly touched her image: holding Mira’s hand, the sun glinting off her sari. He ran his fingers along her books and then picked one out: an old dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre, showed it to her with a small smile. And then, further along, he picked out another, stared for a few moments at the cover: War and Peace. When he replaced it, he continued facing the shelves. She was not sure whether he was still looking, until he reached forward again and pulled out the copy of his father’s novel, which Ben had given to her, which his parents had refused to take back from her. She had written about how she had held one end and Ben the other; Francois would be thinking of that now, and she could not breathe. But he said nothing, returned the book to the shelf and let his fingers touch some of the trinkets she had brought back from the antique shop. Then he looked up, pointed to the small en suite, ‘May I?’
She nodded, and with one stride he was inside, squeezing around the door and closing it, and she heard the water running. She looked around frantically. She pushed some of the cushions on the bed to one side. She threw her jacket into the wardrobe, flung her bag on top, shut the door. He reappeared, filling the small room with his height and broad shoulders, something he seemed to be aware of because he sat down on the bed as if to free up some space, and she squeezed past his legs, feeling his fingers briefly brush against her as she moved past, slipped into the bathroom, closed the door, leaned against it.
Before they had left the banks of the great wide river, those years ago, Seline had said: this river is full of people who have drowned themselves because they couldn’t have a life with the person they loved. She had turned and looked out at the water, had seen only the expanse of green-grey water, the reflection of the hills around them. It was a benign and beautiful vista, in contrast to what her cousin had said; but then Seline had continued: if we can choose, then how lucky we are . . . She did not imagine that her cousin was prescient, but that night, back in the old house in Mattancherry, her cousin’s words had returned, and she had imagined herself walking into those waters, fully clothed. It was a vision that had not revisited her until now, this moment, standing in her small tiled bathroom. She could feel the river in her mouth, while next door Francois sat – alive, warm and near – after years of wondering whether she would or should see him again.
And what had she learned just a few minutes ago? That he had tried to find
her, visiting her parents, walking in the park hoping to catch sight of her; she smiled to herself at that thought. What had he just said: that’s not enough for me. What he needed to know: it was not enough for her either. She could hear nothing. He seemed to be sitting still, content to be surrounded by her things. He was waiting for her in her room, and she knew the move that was to follow whether in the next year, the next month, the next day, the next minute: the beat was already playing in her head. She undressed herself before she lost her nerve, pulled her bath-time sarong off its hook on the door and tucked it around her. And then she stepped back into the room.
His fingers were tapping on his knee, but he stopped mid-beat when he saw her, when she flicked off the light and let the sarong fall off her, onto the floor. He opened his mouth, to say something, but she moved forward, bent down and was suddenly kissing him, kissing him deeply, feeling his warmth, her body trembling against him. His hands were in her hair, and then she felt herself lifted off her feet so that she was on the bed, and he was on his side next to her, kicking off his jeans and pulling off his shirt.
It was impossible not to think of the first time with Ben. But Ben was nowhere in the room; he was in the pages of her manuscript, in a memory. There was no doubt that it was Francois touching her, and that he was everywhere: on her skin, in her bones and in her heart.
He had pushed aside the curtains because he said he wanted to see her, and the moon was complicit: huge and round and voluptuous, bathing them in a soft glow. She lay on her stomach, watching him stretched out beside her. He was tracing her spine with his palm, moving it down to the backs of her thighs and then up again: long, sweeping strokes. He was smiling, and in answer to the question in her eyes, he leaned forward and kissed one buttock and then the other – ‘we do it twice in Lisbon, remember’ – as she laughed, blushing, hiding her face in the pillow.
It was quiet now. He was gentle again, tender, after the torrent earlier. He had lost himself in her. And with that thought she remembered the insistence of his tongue, his hands pinning hers above her head, the strength of his body moving hard against hers: a memory which sent a tremor through her. She shifted slightly so his lips were now on her hip.
‘They all say hello, you know,’ he mumbled into her skin. ‘Ricki and Moises and all those boys in Lisbon. They’ve asked after you every time I’ve seen them. I’ve always just said you were fine, hoping that was true.’
‘How are Gildo and Jacinta?’
‘Very well. They couldn’t believe it when I told them I’d be seeing you. They send their love.’
She watched as he buried his head in her stomach, feeling his breath against her.
‘Can I stay?’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with your landlady.’
‘Quite the opposite. She’d be ecstatic if she knew you were here.’ She threw her head back theatrically: ‘You’re ravishing, Rita! You should be out! Out!’
He laughed. ‘You are ravishing.’ His teeth scraped against her shoulder. ‘Delicious. I could have you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m trying my hardest to hold back a bit, behave like a gentleman.’
The deference was gone, the restraint; she could not have imagined an exchange like this when he had arrived to meet her at the library. But now, suddenly, accoutrements had been stripped away, and they were lying naked as if reborn. And while unplanned, there was an intoxicating absoluteness in feeling the warmth of his body next to hers, in hearing his voice coming from deep in his throat, these words. She had felt the same, she remembered, that other time: that the moment had been fated. But the thought was only that; she did not repeat it, only let it dissolve on her tongue.
She watched as he laid his head on her shoulder, and she pushed his hair back from his forehead.
‘You’re the one who’s delicious . . .’
‘What, little old me?’ He was grinning widely.
‘You are.’ She paused. ‘And I know you’re not short of admirers . . .’
‘Well,’ he reached forward and kissed her neck. ‘As long as you admire me . . .’
She could feel his tongue now on her throat, his fingers brushing against her breast, his thumb circling the nipple. Her body was alive to his touch, but it was the absence of any denial that made her move slightly away. He sensed the change and stopped, lifted his head.
She tried to keep her voice casual, but failed, even to her own ears: ‘So have you been on your own, all this time?’
The query hung between them. They were so close that their breath mingled, but she could feel herself moving backwards as if being pulled from behind.
‘I’ve not met anyone,’ he said finally, holding her eyes. ‘But I’ve not been celibate, if that’s what you’re asking.’
And then, he spoke again, his eyes softening in that way she remembered so well, his voice quiet: ‘Does that bother you?’
She turned away. ‘A little.’ Angry at the tears which arrived as she spoke, surprised at the hot wave that went through her. She glanced at him and saw the concern in his eyes. He would always expect, she realised, for her to match his ease with the ways of the world; and she would always lag behind, unable to catch up. She turned her face away; her throat was tight with anguish even though she had prepared herself for just this revelation. This, here, lying in her bed with him was, for her, momentous. And for him?
There was a long silence, when she could not look at him. She crossed an arm over her breasts, felt her skin grow cold under his touch. Now when he laid his head next to hers on the pillow, his hand on her hip felt tentative, as if asking permission. He was now as she had found him, all those years ago: careful with her, careful of not breaking her.
He spoke suddenly into the quiet, his voice low. ‘It was always you I wished I was with, Rita, even imagined I was with. It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t fair. It was a sort of madness.’ Then, ‘Does that bother you?’
‘A little,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a bit strange to know that.’
She looked at him; his eyes were still on hers.
‘I’m not . . .’ she searched for the right word, ‘I’m a person, Francois. I’m not a photo or a painting.’
He regarded her silently and then laid a hand on her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. They were quiet for some time.
‘You asked me that time – do you remember? – what I thought of you when I found the photograph.’ He was speaking softly. ‘I thought you were beautiful, anyone would. But then I found you, and you were even lovelier in person and inside here,’ and he tapped her gently on her chest, his fingers lingering before returning to her hip. ‘And in the same way, being here with you like this is more wonderful than I ever imagined. Because you’re real to me, very real to me, Rita.’
She said nothing, and he turned slightly, drew his hand away and leaned back on the pillow, his arm over his head. He looked defeated suddenly, as if he was certain he had lost her, and his assumption pained her. Her heart quickened; she felt a sensation move through her, a realisation of something.
‘I’m not going to copy your question,’ he said, then gave her a weak smile before turning his head away again. ‘I’m not sure I can bear to know.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘there hasn’t been anyone.’
She regarded him through her eyelashes. She had an urge to stroke his cheek, feel the scratchiness of his jaw, then dig under his skin and lift out that thin film of sadness that he carried inside him, perhaps unaware of it himself. Just as she did, she thought: that’s something we have in common.
‘My parents wanted me to get married when I was in India,’ she continued. ‘To a pharmacist, like my sister-in-law. They didn’t make a big deal. They just offered me that way out.’
He did not look at her, did not say anything. She watched as his chest rose and fell with his breathing.
‘I didn’t want that life,’ she said, and then he turned, and his eyes on hers made her heart stop.
‘Are you sure?�
� he asked.
‘I’ve never been surer,’ she said.
He reached over and traced her mouth with his finger. She felt her body melt into the bed, her head falling back onto the pillow just as he was raising himself on his elbow beside her.
She asked him, ‘Will you ever be able to forget, that I knew Ben first?’
He smiled into her eyes, shook his head.
‘But I don’t think I have to,’ he said. Then, quietly, ‘What about you, Rita?’
She touched his lips and said, ‘All I feel is you, in the here and now.’
He kissed her: he tasted sweet and troubled and full of desire. His hands ran lightly over her belly, his thumb slipping momentarily into her navel, then down below. His touch was feather-light this time, like brushstrokes in the air; she could barely feel him. He was bent over her, like he bent over his canvases, as if he was painting her image with his breath. A new image, not the young girl looking back, but who she was now, in this bed, with him. The warm rush rippled through her, she felt her body arching upwards and his mouth was on hers as if to catch the sound that came from her throat. Then he was pushing her legs further apart and was inside her again.
She closed her eyes, breathed in and out, as if expelling a spirit. He pulled her on top of him, so that her hair fell around them, pressed her to him and whispered, stay with me, Rita. Don’t leave me again. His eyes were dark with longing. As he spoke, his hands slid around from the base of her spine so that they were at her hip bones, holding her close. And it came to her suddenly, from inside her, to her lips: I won’t leave you. I’m yours to keep.
Acknowledgements
My deepest gratitude to my agent Stan, editor Alison Rae, Jan Rutherford, Kristian Kerr, Vikki Reilly, Edward Crossan, Jamie Harris and the rest of the team at Polygon, and copy-editor Ailsa – thank you all for your wisdom and encouragement. And to the Kalayil clan, the Peacock clan and all my wonderful friends whose enthusiasm and support mean so much to me.
The Inheritance Page 29