Mazarine

by Grimshaw, Charlotte

  I used to pine for Werner, and occasionally sent him hectic emails when I’d been drinking, messages that made me ashamed when I thought of them now, with their attention-seeking and melodrama; really I just wanted him to drive over and keep me company, be my new best friend, which would have sorted out my psyche nicely, although, thank god, I never confessed that I missed and yearned after him, and if I had he probably would have said he knew it already, and that it was natural, all part of the ‘transference’.

  He once said to me, ‘I always feel guilty. I’m German.’ Lovely Werner.

  A memory: telling Werner about Rimu Lake, where I was sent to camp with my cousin Aria. I told him about Aria fighting with a boy over the anchor, and the sharp point hitting her head. Aria running through the paddocks screaming, her face covered in blood. I told him: after that happened, Old Tyson’s wife sent us back down to camp by ourselves at the lake, even though Aria had been injured, even though the aggressive boy was still hanging around. That I remembered walking through the paddocks in the dusk, just the two of us. The tent beside the expanse of black water. No lights, only starlight. Fear.

  I told Werner in an email, ‘Strange things happen when I write short stories — reality and fiction merge and time doubles back and outcomes are affected. I used to feel you weren’t real, now you seem more real and yet …’

  Getting into the spirit he wrote back, ‘I’m glad if I can be your anchor! Strange things happen when one moves in the realm of dreamtime. It’s important to have Ariadne’s thread.’

  I used to say to him, ‘How do I know what’s real? How do I know I’m not just telling you another story? Perhaps there is no truth.’

  You have to hang onto your reality, he told me, and you have to validate your own truth. Telling your own story is existentially important …

  It really was rash to drink, the shape I was in, yet it was so pleasant I went on sipping. I was even enjoying the rhythmic thuds from the construction site, which I thought of, in my musing state, as heartbeats pulsing up from the earth. I was drifting, zoning out, and then I was sitting up. Someone was knocking.

  My balance was off. I staggered getting up, and had to blink repeatedly to adjust to the dimmer light as I stepped inside the flat to find that the front door was slowly opening. My mind scrambled, I saw myself running to the kitchen, grabbing a broom, brandishing it as a weapon — comical word — brandishing it at whoever was opening the door. A hand, a face …

  I hadn’t moved.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said.

  Silence. The word in the air between us as we looked at each other.

  ‘I thought you were going to be Nick.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘My ex.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. From Auckland? Why would he—?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, can I just bring this—’ She dragged a suitcase inside.

  ‘How did you get a key?’

  ‘I got it from reception.’

  Mazarine straightened up, panting. Her face was flushed, her hair was messy. We both looked at the suitcase, which was purple.

  Silence.

  ‘You didn’t hear me knocking?’

  ‘I was out on the terrace. But why are you here?’

  Mazarine mopped her forehead with her scarf and edged around the suitcase, murmuring, ‘It’s so hot.’

  ‘Come through, it’s cooler.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  She walked past me into the kitchen, reached into a cupboard and got out a glass, filled it at the tap. She drank, and held the glass against her forehead.

  I hovered, glaring.

  ‘I know the receptionists, Paolo, Clara,’ she said. ‘You made the initial booking under Jasmine’s name, as I suggested. She and I have been here a number of times, so they assumed I was staying with you.’

  She sank down on the tiny sofa, and I, lightheaded again, sat down opposite her. The curtain billowed out in the breeze, the thuds from the building site stopped abruptly, and I could hear two women cleaners chatting in North London accents on the landing.

  ‘I decided to come on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t warn me?’

  ‘I didn’t have your contact details.’ She looked straight ahead.

  ‘Oh, come on. My contact—?’

  ‘Why else would someone end up on someone’s doorstep without calling first?’

  She was smiling.

  After a while I said, ‘So where are you staying?’ Silence.

  ‘Do you have a flat here too?’

  She turned to me, serious now. ‘Frances, I suspect neither of us is exactly rolling in money.’

  ‘Is that a question? Me, I’m not rolling in money, no.’

  ‘So, how can I put this? It could make fiscal sense for us to stay together.’

  ‘Fiscal? Together?’

  ‘I’ll pay half.’

  Another long silence.

  She sighed. ‘Divorce is a financial disaster.’

  ‘Oh. But I thought lawyers …’

  ‘My cases are criminal, legal aid — they don’t pay much. And Jasmine wants half.’

  ‘But Mazarine, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? No email, no call, no text. Isn’t that what you called paranoid behaviour?’

  ‘No, I’ve been very busy. I’ve just finished a trial in the High Court in Hamilton. And so I made a quick decision: time to visit family.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘I told you my aunt lives in Amsterdam, I might go there on the train. Also to Paris.’

  ‘It must have cost a lot, booking at short notice.’

  ‘It must have cost you a lot, too,’ she shot back. ‘I got a deal. And I took rather a circuitous route to make it cheaper.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Well, you can call it paranoid,’ she said. She turned her head towards her shoulder, sniffed. ‘Do you mind if I take a shower?’

  I stood up, went to the window, came back, unable to think of what to say that would adequately express the vehemence of my discomfort. It was the proximity that bothered me, and yet some other irreconcilable part of me had rejoiced, for a moment, in not being alone. I really felt that two selves were fighting it out.

  She sniffed again. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said, her expression bland.

  ‘Just a glass of wine. I’ve been ill actually, some kind of virus or flu.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You look pale. I don’t think you take care of your health, Frances. Are you having stomach troubles?’

  ‘No.’ I gave her an affronted look, which she ignored, going on in her frank, serious way. ‘Air travel is bad for the digestion, terrible for the immune system. What supplements do you take?’

  ‘None. I don’t believe—’

  ‘I’ll give you some for your digestion. When I’ve got organised I can cook us a nice dinner.’

  ‘But—’ I gestured towards the bedroom.

  ‘What? The bed? I’ll sleep on the sofa. I see you’ve been trying to get some sun.’

  I stood about, flummoxed, while she dragged her suitcase into the bedroom, unzipped it and began pulling out items of clothing.

  ‘There’s a spare towel in there,’ I said, pointing to the bathroom, ungracious.

  She closed the door and turned on the shower.

  I lifted the lid of her suitcase and looked at neatly folded clothes, shoes, an umbrella, a bag of toiletries, dietary supplements, two paperbacks: a fat crime thriller and The Path to Mindfulness. She’d left her phone on the table and I hesitated, listening out for her, before picking it up, but it was password-blocked of course, its screen displaying a photo of a young Joe and a woman with dark frizzy hair, Jasmine perhaps, riding horses on a black sand beach.

  Still at a loss, I lay down on the bed, resolving to ask the receptionists if I could book a cheap room in one of the corridors below, not that I fancied living among the students in their Spartan singles quarters, the gr
immest aspect of which would be communal shower rooms; even worse, a shared loo on some floors.

  I had a moment of irritation, cursed the invasion of my lair and my lost solitude and then—

  Mazarine was by the bed, leaning over me. Her voice. ‘No, I didn’t say that.’

  I sat up. ‘You said I was over-reacting.’

  ‘No, I assure you.’

  The curtain billowed out behind her and I saw the high, light sky crossed by a vapour trail as thin and straight as a paper cut.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s eight. You were sound asleep. I went to Waitrose, cooked.’

  ‘Eight … in the morning?’

  ‘No, still evening. I’ve made us something to eat. Come on.’ She was holding out her hand. With furious embarrassment I pulled myself up, avoiding her touch. My head reeled. I lurched to the bathroom and washed my face.

  ‘Out here,’ she called.

  She had set the picnic table on the terrace with a casserole dish and a bowl of salad.

  ‘It’s a smoked fish pie.’ She handed me a plate, pushed the salad bowl towards me, filled my wine glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It looks great. Good of you.’

  The building site was silent now, the sky was pale blue, almost green near the horizon, the air not much cooler after the boiling day.

  ‘Do you cook?’ Mazarine asked.

  ‘No. I hate it. Hate fiddling about with food.’

  ‘You like eating though, I hope.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The more gruff and charmless I was, the softer and more lilting her voice seemed to grow, yet I had a sense of how tough she was.

  The pie was creamy, fragrant, spicy.

  Despite the undeniably good meal, I was unable to shake the oik that had inhabited me, the grumpy hermit. ‘Two things,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said I was over-reacting.’

  ‘No, I really didn’t, Frances. You were dreaming.’

  ‘I was awake.’ I put down my fork. ‘I was …’

  She shrugged. ‘The jet lag. Although—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The night when you stayed at my house, you quoted something I’d said, but I hadn’t actually said it. I just let it go.’

  ‘You mean I imagined it?’

  ‘That’s what I assumed. It wasn’t a big deal.’

  ‘What was it I thought you’d said?’

  ‘That I’d called you crazy. But I hadn’t.’

  ‘So, I’m hearing things.’

  ‘No, no.’ She smiled. ‘All is well.’

  ‘All isn’t well. Where’s my daughter?’ I blinked, looked away.

  ‘It’ll be okay.’

  We ate in silence. After a while she said, ‘You said two things?’

  ‘I’m going to see if I can book one of the student rooms downstairs.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said softly.

  ‘I don’t mind moving down there, to a single room.’ I waited for her to insist that she should be the one to move.

  ‘It would be cheaper to share,’ she murmured.

  I put down my cutlery. ‘Mazarine. The sofa is about three feet long.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  Distracted, she filled my glass to the brim. ‘Whoops.’ She dabbed the spillage with a paper napkin.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything. Have you? Any sign of Joe?’

  ‘No, nothing. Their father’s heard nothing.’

  ‘I talked to a person who works with Maya. What he told me, it shocked me.’

  ‘Oh. What?’

  ‘Maya was working for a guy at Arlington Books, who she never mentioned to me, and—’

  ‘Oh sure, but the kids, they have their own lives. They don’t want to tell you everything.’

  ‘He committed suicide.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Recently. Just before they all went off for their break.’

  ‘And she said nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. And according to the Arlington person I talked to, Maya and this man worked closely together.’

  Mazarine was silent. She put her hands together, rested her chin on them.

  ‘Perhaps this explains things,’ she said eventually. ‘A suicide is a horror. A crisis. She’s gone to ground because of it — to recover.’

  ‘But to not tell me, not confide, not share the experience?’

  ‘That might be quite normal.’

  ‘It’s not like her. We have a strong relationship. She tells me everything.’

  ‘But Frances, think. You don’t know how your daughter “normally” behaves after her close colleague kills himself. It’s completely out of the box.’

  ‘Out of the box.’

  ‘Out of left field. There’s no precedent. You know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t accept it. It’s too out of character.’

  ‘A death, a shocking one, could throw everything out of whack.’

  ‘Even if that’s the case, I still want to find her, especially if she’s upset.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If it does explain Maya going to ground, what about Joe?’

  She shrugged. ‘Gone to ground in sympathy.’

  ‘And the other one, Mikail?’

  Her expression hardened. She jutted her chin forward. ‘Mikail’s different. He’s been out of reach for a long time now.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much of a coincidence, all three vanishing at once?’

  ‘Not necessarily. My sons are often out of contact. Men are different, more careless.’

  Although arguing, I felt a minor lift in spirits. Perhaps she was right. Maya had had a shock, taken refuge with her boyfriend, was grieving the loss, didn’t want me fussing. She’d grown beyond needing me at every step.

  Mazarine was smiling. ‘Maybe we just need to calm down.’

  ‘You think I’m over-reacting.’

  Our eyes met. I saw the small flaw in her iris, a black line. She said something I didn’t catch.

  ‘You have a beautiful voice,’ I said, and saw her glance down at the table, registering the comment — its oddness and randomness — with a quizzical smile.

  My glass was almost empty. I said, with a sense that I was rambling, ‘When I was a child, my brother tortured me with his voice. He tormented me with incessant singing and chanting. To this day, I can’t bear to hear repetition, in songs especially.’ My words sounded oddly disconnected, alien, someone else speaking through me. ‘I suppose I have a thing about voices. My mother’s voice has a quality I can’t describe.’

  ‘Sugary? Sentimental?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’ I laughed.

  She tilted up the wine bottle. ‘Empty.’

  I cleared the plates and took them to the tiny kitchen, wiped the table, washed the dishes, covered the remains of the pie and put it in the fridge. I was compulsively tidy; Patrick used to laugh at me for the care I took to straighten and order hotel rooms.

  Mazarine came in from the terrace. ‘What a beautiful sky.’

  We faced each other, I twisting the tea towel in my hands.

  She smiled. ‘So. I will go and ask about a room downstairs,’ she said. Behind her it was dusk, and a single bright speck moved above the city buildings, a distant helicopter, too far away to hear.

  I slung the tea towel over my shoulder. ‘The great thing about this flat is, you can leave the terrace doors open all night.’ Another random comment, a non sequitur. The wine.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

  I was pleased she was volunteering to ask about a room, but when she hesitated, still facing me, I wondered if she was waiting for me to relent. Yet there was nothing pleading about her expression, it was cool and detached, as though she was merely curious to know what I’d say.

  Looking at her dusty, scuffed shoes and at her shirt, which had a stain on the collar, I could hear a nagging voice in my head: Inez Bravo Sinclair, little Mother, who was un
failingly chic and well presented, who would not be seen dead in a shirt so scruffy, with that trailing thread dangling from the sleeve …

  ‘Right then,’ I said, and glanced at the door.

  Her voice was a little higher as she said, ‘Okay. I’ll be back.’

  The door closed behind her. I went immediately to the bathroom and surveyed the disorder she’d made of the shelves. I straightened the towels on the rack, screwed lids on tight, wiped the sink, washed my hands.

  She’d left a bulging sponge bag on the shelf above the basin. It contained vitamin and mineral supplements, a tube of sleeping tablets, a small bottle of shampoo neatly wrapped in a plastic bag and secured with a rubber band.

  What was I looking for? Each inspection I made of her things revealed nothing, yet I kept searching for clues that would tell me who she was, who she really was.

  The stuff was unremarkable, except for being shabby, in need of replacing. Her sponge bag was like her house, overstuffed, and I was still trying to reload it when I heard the front door bang.

  I leapt across, locked the bathroom and went back to wrestling with the zip. A pill bottle dropped on the floor and rolled under the heater.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘Coming,’ I sang out, on my knees.

  I stood up. Next to Mazarine’s bag was a pair of her glasses, the lenses catching the light disconcertingly, as though her gaze had been on me the whole time, and for a moment I was brought up short.

  It was a memory perhaps, yes, that’s what it was, the recollection of coming upon items that had belonged to Patrick: a box of cufflinks, his shoes — especially his glasses. The way ordinary things take on a ghostly poignancy, become suffused with the loved one’s essence.

  She coughed, startlingly close. Had she put a stealthy ear to the door?

  I replaced the glasses and burst out, but she was standing in the centre of the room, rummaging in her handbag.

  Her tone was flat. ‘They don’t have a room available. They’ve recommended some cheap hotels near here, in Cartwright Gardens. I rang one, they have a room. From there I can look up an Airbnb.’

  She sat down, took out a tray of cough lozenges, cracked it and put one in her mouth. She coughed again. I looked at her bowed shoulders.