Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

  ‘Careful,’ he laughed, his lips finally pulling free from hers, ‘we’re nearly back at the top again.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She kissed him once more, and he was forced to hoist her in his arms as the metal teeth at the top of the escalator closed in upon her heels.

  As he deposited her on solid ground, she confronted him with an indignation that had been boiling up inside her all day.

  ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re up to, Andres?’ she demanded. ‘Heading off to the ass-end of the globe without even saying goodbye? You might at least have talked to me about it. You might have told me face to face.’

  The words spilled out, unplanned and uncontrolled, but the emotion that drove them was unmistakable.

  He must have understood that, because he responded simply by holding her more tightly to him. His mouth kissed her hair and his hand stroked her cheek soothingly.

  ‘I couldn’t do it, Tara,’ he whispered at last. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to board that plane. I couldn’t run away any more. I was able to take flight from other women, other relationships. But not from this one. Not from you.’

  She hugged him, lost for words.

  ‘When I heard that you were travelling all the way from Claremoon Harbour to try to stop me, I was…simply overwhelmed,’ he said. ‘I could not believe anyone would care about me so much.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Tara felt her head reeling again. This didn’t make any sense. ‘How did you know I was coming to Heathrow? I wasn’t able to make contact with you. I tried to phone, but you’d already left your London base.’

  He smiled. ‘We have your friend Melanie to thank for that. She has always had our best interests at heart.’

  ‘Melanie?’

  It was the last name she expected to hear. Any minute now, the Mad Hatter and the March Hare would come bounding across the terminal building.

  ‘Yes. You called Melanie from County Clare on your way to London. She knew you’d never make it across in time. So she phoned me on my mobile to let me know.’

  ‘You have a mobile,’ repeated Tara flatly. All of a sudden, she felt very idiotic indeed. ‘I could have contacted you on a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, deliberately keeping his tone light. ‘Remember the number she kept trying to give you when I was in Canada? The number you refused to take because you had jumped over the wrong conclusions about me?’

  He looked at her. She looked at him. They both burst into laughter at the same time.

  ‘Jump to conclusions,’ she corrected him, in an effort to save some shred of dignity. ‘The phrase is, jump to conclusions.’

  ‘I sit corrected.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and steered her towards the stairway.

  ‘I was queuing at the boarding gate when Melanie’s call came through,’ he explained. ‘In fact, I was next in line to board the plane. One more minute, and I would have had to switch off my phone. But when I heard how hard you were trying, how much effort you were making, to stop me running away from you, I could not bring myself to go on board. I simply handed in my ticket and walked away.’

  She held him tightly. ‘So you’re not going to South Africa after all?’ she asked.

  For the first time, his voice sounded uncertain. ‘South Africa can wait,’ he said. ‘Right now, we have more pressing matters to consider.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Where we shall eat tonight. Have you checked your own cellphone for messages recently?’ he asked suddenly. ‘If you had, you would have found a message from me, recorded one hour ago, inviting you to join me for dinner tonight. Not in Cape Town. Not in London. But in County Clare.’

  ‘I see.’

  He took her hand and led her towards departure. ‘Let’s hurry,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘If we can catch that plane to Shannon, we’ll still be back in Clare in time for that dinner.’

  ‘I accept your invitation, Mr Talimann,’ she said with mock formality. ‘But on two conditions. Number one: I cook the meal for us at my house. Estonians aren’t the only people who are good at entertaining at home.’

  He nodded. ‘Agreed. And the other?’

  She snuggled close to him as they walked. ‘Condition number two: you don’t make any promises to behave like a gentleman.’

  Andres’s face lit up with pleasure when Tara opened the door of her cottage. And it wasn’t just the warm flow of pleasant cooking smells wafting from her kitchen, although he could recognise thyme, marjoram and lemon grass among the herbs in this symphony of scent and he knew dinner was going to be special.

  ‘You look…wonderful,’ he said, his voice revealing something close to awe as he handed her a bunch of red roses and a curiously lumpy package wrapped in crimson paper.

  It was Tara’s turn to feel a surge of pleasure. She had swapped her shirt and jeans for a black evening dress of a classic early 1960s style. Her only jewellery was a necklace of jet-black hematite that echoed the colour of her swept-up hair and completed an ensemble that made her look like the young Jackie Kennedy.

  Andres had never seen her dressed to kill, and she was enjoying his reaction.

  ‘Well, thank you. You look pretty good yourself, Andres.’

  He glanced down at his stone-coloured linen suit and open-necked cotton shirt. He accepted the compliment with a shrug. His eyes returned to Tara and seemed to light up again, with something akin to wonder and delight.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t you want to come in?’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He seemed to snap out of his temporary trance and followed her through the cottage door. A stereo was playing slow, mellow torch-songs by Ella Fitzgerald.

  ‘Dinner smells delicious,’ he said.

  ‘It should be ready soon. Would you like an aperitif? I’ve got most of the usual things. Except your exotic Swiss wine. Sluther’s off-licence has run out of it, unfortunately.’

  She gave that throaty giggle that always sent sensual shivers down his spine.

  ‘Any sort of wine would be fine,’ he said.

  He sat down on the sofa, feeling the warmth of the late evening sun as it filtered through the honeysuckle around the window. There was a pop and a splash of pouring liquid, and a moment later she handed him a tall crystal glass half-filled with pale white wine.

  ‘To us, Tara.’

  ‘To us, Andres.’

  She sat down beside him and took his hand.

  ‘Come with me to Cape Town,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to be with you. Always. Come with me to Cape Town. It is very beautiful. You’ll like it there.’

  ‘But I thought…I thought you weren’t going to South Africa.’

  ‘You have been jumping on conclusions again, Tara. I should really like to take that job. But I want you by my side. I want you to share this new life with me.’

  She looked out through her window towards Claremoon Harbour. The pretty little port, bathed in the saffron glow of sunset. The beach, stretching to vanishing point. The beautiful old spa house on the hill…

  ‘Let’s not talk about South Africa right now, Andres,’ she said. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Tonight is special.’ He leaned forward. ‘Tonight I want to tell you, face-on-face, how I feel. For years after Manuela died, I was sure I would never be able to love again. But all that has changed. My whole life has changed since I met you, Tara. No more running away. No more self-blame. This is my one chance at happiness, and I’m not going to let it pass.’ There was not the slightest trace of doubt in his voice. ‘I want to tell you that I am badly in love for you, Tara.’ He suddenly frowned. ‘Have I got that right?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Yes, you’ve got that absolutely right.’

  He glanced down at their joined hands. His eyes slowly rose again and looked into hers. For a few moments neither of them stirred a muscle. Then, as inexorably as drifting objects in space, their faces began to move slowly closer together. Their lips w
ere about to meet when the romantic atmosphere was suddenly shattered by the piercing shriek of a smoke alarm.

  Tara sprang to her feet and dashed into the kitchen. Andres followed. A pan had boiled dry and was emitting a dense cloud of acrid smoke.

  ‘Damn!’ shouted Tara when she’d got everything under control. She pointed to a blackened, charred nuclear-meltdown of meat and vegetables at the bottom of the pan. ‘That was our dinner.’

  He fanned the smoke alarm with a newspaper until the shrieking stopped, then opened a window to allow the smoke and smells to escape.

  ‘I’m sure it would have been delicious,’ he consoled her.

  She shook her head ruefully. ‘Yes. It would have been.’

  ‘You know, Tara, I am not really that hungry,’ he said. ‘We could always have that most impressive salad’ – he gestured to a large pottery bowl filled with a Greek salad of lettuce, olives, sun-dried tomato and feta cheese – ‘and skip straight to dessert.’

  Her face fell. ‘I didn’t plan any dessert,’ she said.

  He pointed to the unopened crimson package he’d given her earlier.

  ‘I did,’ he smiled.

  For new lovers, eating fresh lychees is a deliciously sensual experience.

  Tara and Andres sat facing each other across the narrow table, with the Indian lychee fruits placed between them in a simple white bowl. Near them on the table was an empty salad dish, two plates with discarded olive-pips and chunks of bread, and two bottles of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc – one empty, the other chilled and glistening and ready to pour.

  Two candles lit up the scene, flickering over Andres’s tanned features as he looked deep into Tara’s eyes. He was entranced by the way the soft candle-glow lit up her face with a magical, almost mystical light, transforming her into an angel from a Leonardo painting.

  However, Tara was feeling anything but angelic. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she lifted a single lychee fruit and rolled it between her fingers and thumb until the hard, brittle exterior shell cracked and a small drop of deliciously sweet juice came through to the surface. She removed it with the tip of her tongue. Then slowly she began to peel off the tough, reddish-pink skin, revealing the delicate pale, fleshy fruit concealed just beneath the surface. She teased the flesh gently with her tongue to savour the luscious juices trapped in the folds, before removing the rest of the husk and biting softly into the firm, yielding fruit. The top part of the lychee disappeared into her mouth. She ate it luxuriously and slowly, nibbling it away from its hard smooth core, savouring its spongy, resistant texture and the beguiling honey flavours. Then, with a single abrupt motion, she popped the remainder of the tiny fruit between her lips. She took her time, enjoying the sudden rush of flavour, the sudden and intense release of the fruit’s hidden secrets.

  Andres watched, and relished her enjoyment. He wanted to share it, be part of it.

  His hand went forward to the bowl of lychees. But her hand intercepted it, her fingers softly touching his, silently asking him to hold back. Instead, she herself lifted another lychee. Holding it up between their two faces, and keeping her eyes on his eyes, she peeled it with infinite care and passed it over to him. Three of her fingers gently stroked his cheek as her thumb and forefinger moved towards his mouth, ready to pop the peeled fruit between his half-opened lips.

  But he wasn’t going to let her control the situation completely.

  Rather than take the tiny prize from her immediately, he raised his hand towards her outstretched wrist, took hold of it and drew her palm towards his mouth instead. Gently, not at all hard, he bit into the soft fleshy mound under her thumb – the erogenous region known as the mount of Venus. He felt her entire hand ripple with pleasure. It was only then that he allowed his lips to start their nuzzling journey across her palm towards the proffered lychee. But even then he refused to take it all at once. The tip of his tongue rolled across its moist, membranous surface, exploring all its raised surfaces and hidden folds, before he finally allowed her to put the lychee between his lips.

  Tara felt her entire body give a secret squirm of pleasure as she watched and shared in his enjoyment. For the first time since she had known him, his face seemed entirely free of pain. The last lingering traces of anguish were being slowly erased. The bad memories were being steadily peeled away like the hard skin of the lychees, leaving only the pure, innocent heart of peace, contentment and pleasure which every soul possesses at its inner core, which every soul deserves to rediscover.

  She caught sight of her own face in a distant mirror and realised, with a jolt of pleasant surprise, that exactly the same thing was happening to her.

  They said nothing at all during these magical few minutes, or those several hours, whatever it happened to be – words, as well as time, had become irrelevant.

  Somewhere far away, the smoky, dark-chocolate voice of Ella Fitzgerald was singing her heartstopping, bittersweet version of Jerome Kern’s ballad ‘The Way You Look Tonight’.

  Around midnight, Andres poured the last of the wine.

  ‘We’ve finished the lychees,’ said Tara at last.

  It was the first time either of them had spoken for a long time.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve finished the lychees.’

  ‘What was the tradition about lychees?’ she asked, almost dreamily.

  ‘That they should be shared only by lovers.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘Yes, that was it.’

  She looked into his eyes and blew out the candle on the table.

  Without another word he rose, lifted her in his arms, and carried her towards the bedroom.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  TARA LAY on the bed, watching him sleep, as the first traces of light stole through their curtains and lent sepiatinted colour to the patchwork bedspread. The past few hours of lovemaking had left her exhausted, but deeply at peace. She knew now, as she watched his body stir gently in sleep, that she had never really loved anyone until this moment; she knew why the feelings she’d had for other men had been illusory, self-deceiving, and plagued with uncertainty. For the first time in her life, the insistent questioner inside her head was silent. For the first time in her life, there was no doubt. She was sure. She was sure about everything.

  Softly she left their bed, threw on a silk dressing-gown, and crept quietly downstairs to the kitchen.

  She made herself a large pot of Japanese green tea and sat down at the table. Now it was time, she told herself. At last she had the strength to do it.

  She took a deep breath and opened the parcel Manus Kennedy had given her.

  Inside, as she had always suspected, was Michael de Blaca’s first sculpture, the sheela-na-gig, looking more repulsive than ever in the innocence of the dawn sunshine. She stared into the monkey-eyes of the gruesome old hag for a few moments, trying to understand the mind of the man who had created her. Then she opened the accompanying envelope to discover the fatal letter that Michael de Blaca had sent to Ann Kennedy after the birth of their son Manus twenty-seven years ago.

  Tara had expected a lengthy document filled with apologies and excuses, but in fact it was cruelly curt and to the point.

  ‘Ann,’ it began coldly, ‘this is my first sculpture and I would like you to give it to your new-born son Manus on my behalf. After all, he is my son, too. I am confident that, at some stage, this sculpture will be of some value, and he may sell it or keep it as he chooses. You might also explain to him what it signifies. The sheela-na-gig is an ancient symbol of the essential ugliness of carnal lust and was designed to protect good men from the evil temptations presented by licentious women. May it remind him of this and give him the strength that his father did not have in his weakest moment. I hope you, too, will somehow find peace and forgiveness, Ann. As you will not be hearing from me again, you may regard this as a full and final discharge of my responsibilities as the boy’s father. Yours sincerely, Ml. de Blaca.’

  Tara read it and reread it, stung and left b
reathless by its brutal insolence. Forgiveness? For her? Unbelievable as it might seem, de Blaca was effectively blaming Ann for her own rape. In his eyes, the victim had become the perpetrator.

  Furious, Tara had to fight to remind herself that the letter had been written nearly three decades ago and that the same arrogant de Blaca was now a broken man, existing in a living hell, his soul daily gored and prodded and torn and bleeding by the demons of his own guilty memories.

  But of course, that would have been no help at all to the young Ann Kennedy as she cradled her new-born child and read this appalling litany of self-justification from the man who had blighted her life.

  Tara gave a sudden shiver, almost as though she were sharing in Ann’s anguish and humiliation. Across the yawning chasm of years, she felt for Ann Kennedy, longed to offer her words of support and consolation, yearned to hold her hand and comfort her.

  She rose and poured herself a glass of water. Then, for a long time, she simply stood at her kitchen window and gazed down towards the harbour where the Róisín Dubh lay beached on the sand, her hull repaired and newly painted, ready for sale to another fisherman who would take her out to sea once more and hunt the wild salmon of the Atlantic.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘SOUTH AFRICA?’ squawked Melanie. ‘You’re going to South Africa?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tara replied honestly. ‘I just can’t make up my mind.’

  Melanie frowned. ‘But what would you do there?’ she asked. ‘You can’t speak South Africa-ish. Or whatever it is they speak.’

  ‘English is one of the official languages. I’d get by.’

  ‘What would you work at?’

  Tara shrugged. ‘I don’t think that’s a problem, either. Ever since the Clare Electronic News won that award for Best Online Newspaper in Ireland, I’ve been inundated with job offers. Including one from Hibernian Newspapers. They own lots of papers in South Africa.’

  ‘But you haven’t accepted anything yet?’