A Question of Return

by Robert Carr

  “I’m certain there’s a flaw in your reasoning, a moral one at the very least, but it’s too early in the morning to argue. What am I drinking here?”

  In spite of her lack of sleep, her face was flushed.

  “Something called Red Rose,” he said. “Your face is rosy—lovely and rosy. I can’t fathom this investigation of yours.”

  “I’m almost sorry it’s my last day with Lezzard. He’s beginning to obsess me. I had this strange dream about him last night. I think I was still a student, because I was worried about an exam, but somehow I knew everything about the Kerguelen-Lezzard Gallery, and about Jean Lezzard and his dispute with Dorbao. In the dream, I went to the gallery. Nicholas was with me.”

  “Your husband? After spending the night with me you dream about your husband?”

  She smiled and touched his hand. “I didn’t dream about him, he was in the dream. Anyway, in the dream Lezzard was being slowly killed by a painting sent to him by Dorbao.”

  “A painting that kills?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very medieval. How did you know it was the painting that was killing him?”

  “You just know these things in dreams.”

  Laukhin took their mugs to the sink and washed them. “I’m full of admiration,” he said. “Most of my dreams are much simpler. Trees fall on me, I try to get away, my feet won’t move, I wake up. I’m doing better lately, though. I’ve had this recurring dream in the last couple of months. I have a speeding ticket, I tell the judge I have no car, the judge tells me I can’t publish my father’s journal. I tell him I am there, in front of him, for an absurd traffic ticket, he laughs, tells me I’m a fool, and orders me to jail. That’s the most complicated dream I ever had, and it’s always the same, and over very quickly.”

  He was drying the cups with a tea towel—another gift from Ewa—when he sensed her behind him. She hugged him, and he felt her breasts on his back, the hard nipples, and the warmth of her abdomen and thighs. “You’re very sweet, Art Laukhin. Men who do the dishes turn me on.”

  He gripped her wrists and tightened her hold of him. They remained together for a while, and he thought himself the luckiest man in the world.

  “Let’s go back up,” he said, without daring to move.

  “No, I must go home and change before I run to the gallery. Brush my teeth, have a shower. Martha’s going to give me one long look.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” he said softly. “I don’t dare hope this will last, Audrey. Are you … are still going back to London?”

  Still hugging him, she said she had postponed buying a ticket because she didn’t know what to do about him. She had thoughts of returning to London to see how she felt about him from afar, whether he faded away or not. For a long time she had hoped to avoid a romantic entanglement with him, and yet little by little she had become very fond of him. It was like a drug that worked slowly, but the cumulative effect was an attraction harder and harder to deny. It may have partly been the healing flow of time, but she knew that his insistent presence in her life was another reason she could now think about Nicholas without feeling wretched.

  “I kept telling myself that the timing was awkward, that my father needed me, that I couldn’t possibly live in Toronto. I just didn’t see myself doing it, and I wasn’t going to suggest you move to London. It would have implied a commitment on my part that I wasn’t ready for.”

  He sensed her smile behind him as she went on. “I had some rather shameless thoughts, though. I wondered what it would be like to … take a tumble together, you and I. The roses you sent me had a definite effect, helped focus my thinking. I told myself that, well, if you showed up on Thursday evening at the vernissage, and if I still felt warm toward you—the hormonal itch, as Martha calls it—then, why not, after all.”

  “I had no idea you were thinking this way. I was in despair.”

  “I’m a guarded person when it comes to love. I do not easily share beds with men—not often, or lightly. And yet I wanted to sleep with you before returning to England. I wanted to do it because of the physical attraction, of course, but also because some voice told me that, sometime in the future, I might not mind spending a week or two back in Toronto. And the same voice asked why not have a dress rehearsal before my leaving for London? An undress rehearsal? I thought it would help me later on, while deciding about my future.”

  Audrey let go of him and picked up her purse.

  “When will I see you again?” he asked, turning.

  “I’ll call you. Sunday evening?”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “Shouldn’t you work? Anyway, tonight I’m dining with Martha. She insisted.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll call you on Sunday. Sunday evening, provided you’ve done all you have to do.”

  “Why not tomorrow? Just come around, Audrey, however late. Undress and slide into bed, and slowly wake me up.”

  “You’ll be tired and unable to work the next day.”

  “We’ll just cuddle, then.”

  “Cuddle?” She kissed him. “I’ll call you on Sunday.”

  She walked out quickly, and he followed her to the door. Afterward he thought about going back to bed. The smell of her might still be there.

  * * *

  “What on earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be chained to your worktable?”

  She looked lovely, tall, slender, in a white cotton blouse with a long, ruffled V-neck and a faint empire waist. Capri pants, and espadrille wedges with leg straps that made her as tall as he.

  “I had to see you again, if only for a few minutes. Sunday seemed so far away.”

  He hugged her and buried his face in the pit of her neck. “It’s your scent that does it—the same you, yet subtly different every time. It’s witchcraft, Audrey. You are a tall witch.”

  “You’re tickling me—stop talking nonsense.”

  She sought his mouth, and pressed her groin against his. “You fool,” she whispered on his lips, “it’s Dawn Mitsuko.”

  “Ah, Japanese witchcraft.”

  She pushed him away and looked around. “Well, if nuzzling is called for, let’s go inside, away from the curious. Maybe the cleaners will be late.”

  They climbed up the steps clumsily entangled. To Audrey’s surprise the door was unlocked. Inside, they found Lezzard, at his desk, reading a newspaper clipping, and looking pasty and shrunk. He threw a jaundiced eye at them. He must have been surprised to see him there, so early, with Audrey.

  “Couldn’t sleep last night,” Lezzard said. “I thought I might as well come in.”

  Audrey said, “You could have let me know.”

  Lezzard growled and stared at Laukhin. “Why are you here, at this time?”

  “Oh, just a short visit. A word with Audrey, rather urgent.”

  The art dealer fluttered the newspaper clipping at him and Laukhin realized it was his interview in the Globe. Lezzard’s eyes were bloodshot. “I thought you were a busy man.”

  “I am.”

  “Can I have the second half of the first volume? Have you finished correcting the proofs?”

  “Not yet. I’ve had other things to do. ”

  Lezzard held his head with both hands, remaining motionless and, it seemed, breathless, for several seconds. “Three Tylenols,” he said. “Three!”

  “You should go home and rest, Jean,” Audrey said. “You don’t look well.”

  Lifting his head slowly, Lezzard said, “Never mind how I look.” He waved the newspaper cutting again. “Why don’t you stick to it? If you’re so busy, why waste time on crap like this?”

  He wasn’t sure what Lezzard was on about and resented his being at the gallery. It felt invasive. This was his morning after with Audrey.

  “What crap?” he asked.

  “This woman poet—Tsvetayeva, or whatever her name is. What makes you think the readers of the Globe, or that fancy magazine in New York, would be interested in this o
ld stuff?”

  “It’s not that old—less than fifty years.”

  “It’s fascinating, Jean,” Audrey said.

  “Fascinating,” Lezzard repeated. “Listen to her, fascinating.”

  Laukhin was in too good a mood to do it, but the thought of punching Lezzard crossed his mind.

  Probably sensing trouble ahead, Audrey said, “It is. I read it this morning and I couldn’t put it down. Horrible, of course—what happened to Tsvetayeva.”

  A middle-aged woman in faded blue overalls poked her head in the door.

  “I’ll do the large room first, then,” she said.

  Audrey said, “Yes, please start there, very good.”

  Lezzard was looking puzzled at Audrey, then at Laukhin, then back to Audrey. “You read … What did you read this morning?”

  “The whole thing, all the Tsvetayeva excerpts from Pavel Laukhin’s journals. The excerpts to be published next month, you know, ahead of the first volume.”

  “Where did you read them?”

  Audrey hesitated a moment then braved Lezzard’s glare with a casual, unflustered, “Art has them at his home.”

  “Does he now,” Lezzard said.

  She blushed and was quick to add, “Art is under the gun to finish the story about Tsvetayeva this weekend, and took everything home with him to have a last go through. Another day to type it into the computer on Monday, and then off to the New Yorker. And the Globe. It’s all there, mostly handwritten pages, but quite legible.”

  “Ah, he let you read it. He doesn’t usually do this, you know, let other people read his work before it’s published. I’ve tried many times. But I assume you were nice to him. Probably very nice.”

  Laukhin heard voices in the next room and then the loud drone of a vacuum cleaner. He bent over Lezzard’s desk and, his face close to the old man’s, whispered, “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, Jean.”

  Judging by the noise, the vacuum cleaner was coming their way.

  Lezzard nodded pensively and got up, a move that, although slow, made him grimace. “I need to disappear for a couple of hours, Audrey,” he said. “You’ll be here for a while, won’t you? Josiane said she’d drop by too, but don’t leave before I get back.” He walked out, treading gingerly.

  “A horrible man,” Laukhin said looking after Lezzard. “To think I used to get drunk with him.”

  “Oh, he’s not that bad. He has a venomous tongue. Art, you should get back to your bundle.”

  She came close to him, another kiss, and morning Mitsuko threw one more loop around his ankles.

  “I’m shackled, I can’t move.”

  “Bye, darling.”

  “Only English women say that properly—darling. I love the word. It’s better than a hundred ‘I-love-yous.’ You’ll call, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Darling.”

  “I’ll call you, darling.”

  He floated to Alumni Hall to see Bill MacNaughton. They went to the Bloor Street Diner. Laukhin liked Bill, but he fidgeted throughout the meal, impatient to get back to his work. Impatient too to be alone and think about Audrey. He walked Bill back to St. Joseph Street. As they parted, Bill said, “You’re impossibly agreeable this morning. What’s wrong with you? Or is it what’s right?” Laukhin laughed and said, “I followed your advice—I’m being more sensible.” Before he went home he dropped by his office and picked up Ben’s draft translations of the last two excerpts.

  He spent the rest of the day going over them. Ben’s first drafts were very good.

  * * *

  On Saturday Laukhin worked on Brodelshchikova’s story, touching it up here and there. It was the most important excerpt of the entire bundle, and he went over it several times to make sure the old woman’s story was in the best possible shape. He felt confident and buoyant, and he worked fast and well. On Sunday he’d work on whatever he had skipped earlier. He was certain there was enough material to put together something coherent and compelling by Monday.

  Audrey phoned around seven, just as he was eating a sandwich in the kitchen. “Art,” Audrey said, almost whispering, “this is a bit on short notice, and, yes, I told you I’d ring on Sunday, but could I sleep at your place again tonight? I know you’re busy, but you still have to sleep.”

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  “I promise I’ll leave early in the morning.”

  “I could come to your place.”

  “No, no, it’s better I come there. That way, you’ll be ready to sit down and work right away in the morning.”

  “Is your mother still there?”

  “Yes. She has an early flight tomorrow morning. She said she’d leave today, but changed her mind.”

  “Are you all right? You sound, I don’t know, tense, stressed.”

  She inhaled deeply and sighed. “She has that effect on me.” She added that she’d bring something to eat and be at his place in less than an hour.

  He rushed to have a shower and a shave.

  Audrey arrived with a bottle of white wine and sushi. She said she had not known what to do with herself on Saturday afternoon, and she rued her promise to ring him only on Sunday night because he had so much work to do. Her mother had gone out, but had said she’d be back in the evening, and she feared more difficult hours and words with Martha. The dinner with her on Friday had not been easy. She made the mistake of telling her she’d hang around for a while longer. Martha didn’t understand Audrey’s decision to delay her return to London, and, when she learned Laukhin caused it, called him too old for her. “She called you scruffy looking too,” Audrey went on. “I told her I liked your looks. The rest of the evening was rather awkward, and I had a lot of wine. To avoid Martha, who’s catching an early morning flight to Montreal, I thought of spending the night in a hotel. But then I convinced myself to end this headmistress act of mine—after all, you have to sleep tonight anyway, and you might as well sleep with me.”

  “You’ve made the happiest man in the world happier,” Laukhin said. “I’m beginning to like your mother.”

  The wine was fine, some miracle from Burgundy, and he was the only one drinking it. He ate most of the sushi too, as Audrey barely touched it. She seemed stressed or with something else in her mind, the way she’d sounded earlier on the phone.

  “You’re still thinking of Martha,” he said.

  She shook her head and sighed. “Did you see the paper today?” she asked.

  “No. I don’t often read newspapers, and this weekend …”

  “Mr. Gratch is dead.”

  “The elderly Russian? I know one person who won’t mourn him—Lezzard.”

  “He may have had something to do with it, Art. Gratch was killed.”

  “What?”

  She went to her purse and returned with a newspaper clipping. “I was watching television this afternoon, just to avoid thinking of Martha. It was a news item, a murder in an apartment building in the north of the city. I paid little attention, and I didn’t catch the victim’s name, or only a bit of it that sounded like Gratch, but I couldn’t be sure. And then they said it was a building with many former Russians. So I watched the next news, and I heard the name, Yakov Gratch. I run out and bought all the newspapers. The Toronto Star had the longest write-up. I think it’s our Gratch, Art.” She handed him the clipping.

  It was a fairly long article. Yakov Gratch, sixty-seven years old, was the twenty-first homicide in Toronto that year. He was found dead by his niece, a school teacher who had lunch with her uncle every Friday. He never missed a lunch. He waited for her outside his apartment building, and she picked him up and drove to some neighbourhood restaurant, lately south on Bathurst, to Moe Pancer’s Deli, which he’d taken a liking for, although the food there was not particularly Russian. But this Friday her uncle wasn’t there waiting for her. She parked the car and went up to his apartment. She rang and knocked—no answer. She became worried that something had happened to him, as he wasn’t in the grea
test of health. She was about to go and look for the janitor when, without thinking, she tried the door handle and the door, unlocked, opened. She walked in and found her uncle dead. She could barely walk out, so shaken was she by what she saw.

  Ilya Talashkin, a floor-neighbour, described Yakov Gratch as a somewhat bitter man, often impatient with people. Talashkin had been away much of Thursday—babysitting his grandchildren—but on Friday it was his door that a shocked Mrs. Trauberg had banged on. He called the police and then went into Gratch’s apartment. Gratch was tied up on a stool, likely with a bullet in the back of his head or neck, but Talashkin didn’t look too closely. Gratch’s head was slumped over onto his chest. His face seemed to have been worked over with a knife. Maybe it was an impression, because of the blood from the bullet-exit wound. There was a lot of blood. Clothes and drawers were thrown on the floor in Gratch’s bedroom, as if a search for something had taken place.

  According to Talashkin, Yakov Gratch arrived in Toronto in the mid seventies. He’d been wounded and decorated in the Second World War. He was an engineer by training, but at his age found no job in his profession in Canada. He worked as a draftsman for a while, was laid off, held a succession of poorly paid jobs. He wasn’t doing great lately, his main income being the Old Age Security, and that wasn’t much. He had been trying to get into one of the much cheaper assisted housing apartments.

  Detective Sergeant Dempsey said Gratch died sometime on Thursday, and that it was murder, no doubt about it. The neighbours had not heard or seen anything suspicious, although the police were still talking to them. Dempsey surmised that a silencer had been used in the execution. That was all he was prepared to say for now.