This had to be Kirk’s former girlfriend, Jolanta, even though I remembered her last name as starting with “cz” and ending with “wic.” It had been three years; maybe she’d married. When I got her number I would call and all would be revealed.
I had learned that text messages were the way to get to Sula. I told her I’d be at the Wallace Collection on Saturday at 11:00 a.m. There was a picture I wanted to show her. A Rembrandt. I’d be waiting for her on the bench just inside the entrance. Confidence was the key. Invitation on Wednesday, a follow up on Friday. Looking forward to seeing you again. She didn’t answer. I refused to worry about that.
She was there at exactly eleven. I knew the game; show up on time, wait five minutes. Duty done, Shalabon too, back to her convent.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asked with that I-know-you-know-I-know infinite regression about why I was there on time.
“It’s good to see you.”
She stood before me in a charcoal overcoat and scarf, her face enlivened by the cold. Something generally positive was called for from her side. I waited. “Yes, for me also.”
We headed upstairs to the first room, her boots clicking on the hardwood floors. I kept quiet, and generally within her orbit. If she stayed by a painting for longer than others I circled back to check it out. There were a lot of seventeenth and eighteenth century portraits that didn’t do a lot for me. I adjusted to her pace, noticed that she was circling back on my pictures. We fell into a mutually encircling rhythm, some planetary conversation in pictures.
We continued through the galleries, came together, went apart. You could just about say we were together. Then we were in the big room with more interesting paintings. We slowed here, no longer an adjustment, for we had settled on a mutually comfortable, mutually-orbiting pace, like earth and moon working through the zodiac. Sometimes I would lose myself in a painting, come to, and Sula was nearby.
Then I stood before my favorite painting. Rembrandt’s oil of his son Titus, about fifteen then. A father looking at his son with weight, responsibility and (we assume) guilt. I stood there long enough to bring our shared pace to a crashing halt. I wanted to talk about it. I was entranced, however, by our quiet waltz through the constellation of paintings. We could talk about Titus later.
We resumed our shared pace and tour. Sula brought me up short at another Rembrandt, a self-portrait. First the son, now the father. For some crazy reason I had never noticed it. It was high up, lost on a wall full of paintings. If it was possible to not like a Rembrandt, this might be the one to start with. The viewer is placed down below, off to the painter’s right so we’re looking up to him, expecting arrogance or might, but no, we only get a tentative, furry, rodent-like visage.
We went down to a room with rococo furniture. I looked at us in an antique mirror, distended. We hung together not so badly, which I guess implied some level of comfort. An atrium restaurant was outside the window in what was once a garden, walled on all sides by mansion.
“That was nice.” Sula’s soft voice sounded so bedroom feminine. “I shall buy you a coffee.”
An older couple moved out of our room. Sula’s cool hand was on my face, turning it to her lips. She gave me a short, sharp kiss. It was over before I could get beyond the sheer surprise of it.
“If that’s my reward for silence, you may never hear from me again.” Damn, that was unfortunate.
“It is an experiment.”
“You’ve got some control group off somewhere?”
She smiled, impatiently. “What do we conclude from our kiss?”
“That it wasn’t long enough?”
“That is a corollary to our major conclusion. We are good for mating.”
“What!?”
“I am talking about taste. You taste to me quite good. This is what kissing is for on biological level. It is a test to see if man and woman are optimum for children.” She stopped for a moment. “You see, I had to know.”
I had no idea where this was going. We made the short walk to the atrium restaurant, nearly empty. It was early. All those heavy, gray clouds above the glass ceiling, yet bright here. I didn’t know what to think.
“It tells me of great difficulty to be friends. It is like we are in the same bed but for sleep only. To say this to each other, oh, we will only sleep, we are fooling ourselves.”
“Sula, have you considered the possibility that you think too much?”
“People tell me I am too honest. To me it is good to be honest; it is also efficient.” She paused, I think to signal oncoming honesty. “I tell you this now: I am attracted to you. From the first time I met you this is the case. From the first time I have two equally strong feelings; yes, that I am attracted, but also that this is a great mistake. These are feelings. I have no control over them.”
Her eyes drilled into mine—it was like she was using her honesty to drive a wedge between us. She looked down.
“You are pressing against me. I understand this. You are interested in me, and me the same to you. All very good. But it is the phrase you said to me before, all or nothing at all. For me it has to be all now. Accept this. All, to the very end, whenever that happens, even if it is death.” She paused, lifting her green eyes to mine. “You must know how much I hate this. It is like I am trying to trap you. Like I am making demands to you. I don’t want to do that; I don’t want to make any demands of you. None. I want you to be free, very much so. You are turning me into a weight. I hate that; I hate myself to be in this position. I hate talking like this. I want you to be free. Same for me.”
“Well, it’s good that we’re talking. Look, if I say, hand on heart, that I accept you are not trying to trap me, does that make it any better?”
“I don’t know. That means yes, but I don’t know for how long.” Her face lightened a little. “Jim, I cannot…”
I took her hands, quieted her with my eyes. No doubt she thought on a deep level, like chess, many moves in advance. Well, I would show her my level. I said, “Look, let’s order some lunch.”
We ordered, then chatted. I tried for a glass of champagne but no, she was going back to work shortly. We talked amiably about nothing serious. We relaxed, found a rhythm, laughed a few times. This was more like it.
I had worked hard to connect with Sula on an honest and direct level. Now that was subverted by two women sidling up to our table. I knew that sidle all right.
“Jacksonville, in ’97. You guys were crazy. Good crazy.” She was an American, probably a tourist. Her friend hung back, leaving it her show.
I gave her a nod that said thanks.
“Just wanted to say, I sure do appreciate the memories.” She said that with a retrospective tinge. Her life had moved on, but once, back then…
I gave her a vague salute. At least they didn’t want my autograph.
When they had retreated I said, “I keep getting mistaken for someone else. The guy I used to be.”
Our food came. We were quiet for a time as we grazed on our respective salads.
“You must know I am most flawed,” Sula said.
“Okay, so make a flawed decision.”
“You have Internet? Look up Panos Lamzaki.”
“Your father? What would I find?”
“I prefer for the Internet to tell you this.”
“Because by then you’ll be gone?”
She didn’t deny this.
“Let’s see, your father? Out there on his Greek island. You’re a princess, so he must be the king. I see him fighting off a string of suitors—”
She interrupted here to ask what “suitors” meant.
“Men who come from all over to seek this princess, to marry her.”
“They want the island?”
“They want everything.” I let my eyes tell her what that meant. She took that in, smiled knowingly, and kept quiet. “The father, this king, is highly protective of his daughter. I’m guessing the princess is an
only child. This is a Mediterranean play, Shakespeare, so there’s no mother.”
“No, no mother.”
Well, I had gone far enough to provoke some explanation. Sula kept quiet though. I thought of other fathers. I had been up against a few in my time. Before I was on their side, the “you can’t be serious” one. Already, somewhere in the depths of some other part of me, I had considered coming up against her father. It was so instantly familiar to this narrator-self when it appeared just now.
“So…we have a powerful king. Dangerous?”
“You have your own Internet? In your head?” She laughed uneasily, looking at me in acknowledgement of that awkwardness. “He does not approve of you.”
“Sula, there’ve been times in my life when I haven’t approved of me. Are you really saying you can’t stand up to this man?” That was hard to believe. “Be master of your life,” I added, when it was clear she didn’t follow “stand up.”
“My father plays to win. He has many resources.” She buried her head for a second, then came up defiantly. “If you must know, he is one of the most richest men in Greece. His people know all about you. Maybe they are outside right now. I have no way to stop them.”
“Fine, I will go see him.”
“The president of Greece must make an appointment. Believe it, he will not see you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Jim?” I liked it when she used my name. “Please do not. Promise me this?”
“So, we can be friends?”
“You should not need to blackmail for this.”
“How come your father can do these dirty tricks and I can’t?”
“He is a difficult man. It is only fair that you know this about me.” She leveled her eyes on me, softened them, smiled reflectively. “I tell you this because if you know this and still want to see me…I would like that.”
It was time for a more elaborate experiment, a real kiss on the steps before the frosted-over square in front of the museum. I pulled her to me. She brought a considered surrender to the passion of her kiss, yet her left hand on my back was seeking something, questioning something else, then that slowed and I had all of her.
CHAPTER 10
I’d been back for two weeks now. I had vowed to become a temporary detective and search aggressively for answers about Kirk and Claudia. I was more confused than ever. I’d been pinning my hopes on Francine, a Russian speaker who had lived in Moscow, knew Hardcastle, certainly knew Claudia. She had to be a key to both cases. If only I could have met her that day before I flew home! Apart from helping with my case, I could have clarified my murder comment. Maybe she’d still be alive. Now I was left with another mystery: how Francine’s suicide drug could be the same as Kirk’s. Add to this my strong suspicion that Hugh Ravenhall was lying about his relations with Claudia, and finally the sketchy possibility of a Russian spy somehow connected to Claudia Steyning.
I met with the consultant I was paying to investigate Iken. He gave me a detailed report on their cash flow problems. I didn’t try to follow it. He was unquestionably good at his job. He had only spent one day there yet knew enough to give me an outline. His advice was not to invest without stipulating wholesale changes. Iken would need an interim CEO, a part-time finance director, a new business plan and budget, plus at least £400,000. For such an investment I should ask for something like thirty-five percent of the shares in the company. There was one major problem, however. The sole owner was not there to sign off on any of this. Time was of the essence; the mechanism for agreement stretched on for months. We would have to convince Iken’s accountants to declare the company insolvent, then buy it out of receivership.
“Can’t I just loan them the money?” I wondered.
He looked at me heavily, disappointed. I wasn’t being compensated properly for the risks I was taking. The company was on its knees; now was not the time for compassion. In life there is a constant trade-off between risk and reward; here it was manifest. I realized I would have to humor this man, so I told him that the loan would be contingent (I actually used that word) on Iken putting his recommendations into place.
“Well, it would be speedier,” he said, dubiously.
That afternoon I did some research on Panos Lamzaki. Over 1.2 million hits. Forbes put his wealth at $4 billion. That was a guess. For some reason, I didn’t want too many details. I took in the basics. Rumors of arms trading. A serious oil spill by a ship owned by a shell company, a shrug from the Big Man. A suspiciously convenient helicopter crash that killed the CFO of one of Lamzaki’s main companies who the US was trying to extradite for securities fraud. Close ties to a renegade Middle East power. I stopped there: I had the picture.
Sunday afternoon, Natalie came over. She had to call first since she didn’t have keys anymore. She was carrying a black plastic bag with a guitar neck poking out of it. She looked tired, and had a cut above her left eye. I thought of Sherlock Holmes returning after a long day and longer night in the opium dens of East London. She wearily handed me the bag. Obviously it was a guitar; even so, I went through the motions of surprise and appreciation.
Estelle had a small gash in the soundboard (matching the scratch above Natalie’s eye); the B string was missing. I replaced it, tuned and started playing. Natalie pretended boredom on the sofa. She had a drugged, glazed-over look about her. Her eyes were okay, though.
“I guess this one cost you,” I said.
She gave me a dull look. None of that overlay commentary in her eyes. I found that disturbing.
“You think you know who your friends are.” She said this across the room, away from me.
It brought back those days so clearly. The boneheaded things you did; yet still a sense of honor, of the classy thing to do in atoning for them. I remembered sitting in the Hesse’s living room. They were our neighbors, and I’d plowed into their fence. Late at night, no doubt incapacitated one way or another. It hadn’t been me; the guy who did it proving in one shocking shrug he was now a former friend. I had to take the hit. Betrayal was so unexpected back then. Your instincts are so trusting.
“I went out and found her.” It took me a long moment, and Natalie’s quavering bitterness, to understand the parallel she was underscoring. Her eyes avoided mine.
“What about my guitar? The other one?”
She shook her head in a “you’re-not-going-to-like-this” way, then looked at me. Her expression said, Do you really want to hear this?
I didn’t, but may as well torture myself. It wasn’t my best acoustic. Still, it was a Martin D28, albeit not vintage.
“It was sold. They wouldn’t tell me who.” She was lying. Somehow I could always tell (or she was always giving me that). I started to say something, but she needed to get this over with. “I know. I know. Get the money from them. It’s the least I can do, right? Well, these dickheads spent it.”
“They spent…” I did a quick conversion to pounds. “They spent fifteen hundred pounds? On what?” And that was lowball.
“They didn’t get quite that much for it.” She winced here, telegraphing how bad it was. Now I didn’t want to know. The cops had the serial number. I could live in hope.
While she was here, and after I’d cooled down, I asked her a few questions about her mother to show I was still on the case. I can’t remember how that led to the last time Natalie saw her.
“Mum had seen a lot of me over the summer. I had just started school. A few weekends I didn’t go over…here. Did she have things on her mind? That’s what the police wanted to know. Well, I know I get in the way of her good times. It’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it?” She gave me a sharp look. “Mum and her good times; that’s not for the police, is it?”
I asked about Claudia’s mood during those last weeks. I tried to remember how I looked at my mother when I was a teenager. It was the opposite of a finely-tuned reading of sensibility and emotion. Everything is so bright and new. A parent is
supposed to be as constant as the sun while you are busy fooling around in the shadows.
“I could tell you her mind was on other things, but like what else is new? Her business, her boyfriends, her social life. But…”
“But what?”
“Maybe she was trying to keep me away…from something. I don’t know.” She was getting testy now, so I backed off.
“So…are you going downstairs?”
“It’s been a while…”
She didn’t look like she was going anywhere yet. Some other business first.
“When your dad…” she couldn’t bring herself to make verbal his desertion. “You did some stupid things?”
“I did a lot of stupid things. I mean, looking at it from here, really stupid.”
We were sitting in my living room. I was on the sofa, playing random jazz chords too brightly on Estelle. Natalie was perched on the edge of a leather armchair, a color I’ll call butterscotch, the one by the front window. Her feet were together, legs aligned, prim, like waiting for a dance that she was obligated to accept. She looked up at me, wiping her too-long sweater sleeve across her chin. Nerves. “I’ll be okay,” she said, reading my look.
“Look, a lot of that stuff can be undone, but it’s gotta be undone quickly.”
Natalie gave me her eyes then. The aware ones I’d been missing. “Not that stupid. But thanks, Dad.” She had a way of bouncing back; she did this now. “At least you’re asking questions.”
It took me a second to understand she meant questions about her mother. “My questions might not lead all that far. Okay?”
“It makes me mad. Just because you’re this rock guy, everyone thinks you’re stupid!” She said this with heat in her face. “It’s been over three months. The cops have other cases. Mum, they don’t even know if it’s a crime or not. Just to know someone’s looking…” She gave me a lighter smile. “You know?”
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