Yet London had its compensations. Joseph was growing into his new life. His house in New Burlington Street was becoming a focus for all of London’s thinkers and philosophers, and his collection there drew people from across Europe. And all day, from breakfast till nightfall, there was talk. Ideas whirled around him like a rising tide, each wave rolling over another and building on the one before. He shared it all with her, the two lying together at night forgetting to sleep, discussing and disputing, until they would notice the fire burning low and would roll contentedly into each other’s arms.
She knew to count these days as precious. Then, in February and March, he traveled to Holland and left her alone in Orchard Street. Knowing that she was there made it easier for him to go; he knew that when he returned she would be there still, wise and lovely in equal measure. After two months of male companionship, nothing could be better than returning to her. And in a different way his being gone was good for her. Not many months earlier she had felt that life without him would be an empty place, but her Madeira paintings had changed all that. They gave her open space and brilliant horizons, and made walls fall away. She felt strong as she worked, and that strength seemed boundless. When he departed her world changed, and she took out her materials and painted.
HE RETURNED at the end of March, playful and loving, younger than ever in his energy and affection. He was to go to North Wales in the summer, he told her, to stay with Pennant and to tour the country there. He would bring her back tales of the dark Welsh mountains. And then, next time, if the place did not prove impossible, they would go there together and she would see the wild moors and the famous Mount Snowdon. In the meantime he had someone she must meet, a Dane, a student of insects called Johann Fabricius, who would be spending the summer studying his collection.
If she was a little more serious than usual on his return, he did not mark it and she waited until the first bustle of his arrival had subsided before she told him. By then she was already three months pregnant.
It was two in the morning before I returned to the hotel. On the fringes of the town there were cars on the roads, but up on the hill there was only silence and starlight. I left the car and walked the final part of the way. The frost had begun to lay intricate patterns on the cobbles.
Inside the hotel a small lamp still lit the reception desk but left the rest of the room in shadow. The hotel’s warmth wrapped itself around me and I paused for a moment to enjoy it, rubbing my hands together and loosening my scarf. Until that moment I hadn’t really noticed the cold, such was the excitement running through me. I felt alive, more vibrant and more joyful than I had in many years.
In my euphoria, it would have been easy to miss the figure in the darkness, but a movement in the shadow caught my eye as I was moving toward the stairs. Through a doorway to my left lay the hotel bar, and in that patch of blackness I saw a small pinprick of light rise and glow brightly, then fall back out of sight. Someone was sitting there, smoking in the dark.
I moved forward to the doorway. “Katya?” I asked, but the reply came in Potts’s American drawl. “She’s gone to bed, Mr. Fitzgerald. A couple of hours ago.” The red eye of the cigarette rose again and pulsed brighter, a lingering drag that was followed by the soft hush of smoke being sighed into the darkness.
“What about the other two?” I asked, pausing in the doorway, wondering where the light switch was, trying to make out his outline and failing.
“Anderson and your Gabriella? He’s not here. He’s driven up to Durham. She went to bed early. They’ve had a long day.”
“No news on the bird, then?” I tried to keep my voice calm.
“Apparently not. You want to hear what happened?”
“Go on.” I could still make out nothing but the tip of his cigarette.
“Well, at one o’clock they left here in Anderson’s car. They drove to a village called Storeby, where they had lunch in a pub called the Bell. They ordered red wine but they didn’t drink much of it. Anderson held her hand between courses and kissed her quite a bit. I’ve seen a lot of that sort of stuff over the years, Mr. Fitzgerald, believe me. You’d be amazed at some of the things I’ve had to sit through.” Potts sighed and raised his cigarette back to his invisible lips. “At two-forty they were joined by two men, both of them people who’ve worked for Anderson before. I know that because I’ve made it my business to know it. You can take my word for it.”
“You’ve been following him?”
“Of course I have.” There was a very faint trace of impatience in his voice. “That’s what I do. Do you want to hear the rest of it?”
I said nothing, so he carried on.
“One of the two men produced a pile of photographs, and the four of them spent half an hour going through them. Anderson got quite excitable and began slapping the table, but not in a happy way. At the end of that time he got up and walked into the village and smoked a whole lot of cigarettes.” A little chuckle came from the darkness in front of me. “Between you and me, Mr. Fitzgerald, I’d say he was mighty pissed.”
“You think it was the wrong bird, then?”
“You can be damned sure it was.”
I let out a long breath. “Just think of that. All that research, and nothing to show for it.”
“That’s right. No bird, no paintings, nothing. He and Gabriella spent the rest of the afternoon in the restaurant, just talking. There was a lot of hand-holding and a lot of shrugging and every now and then he’d pick up one of the Polaroids and look annoyed.”
I watched the tip of the unseen cigarette flare brightly again. By now I could make out the shape of Potts’s body, very faint in a deep armchair, and a glimmer of light reflected from the rim of his glasses.
“I spoke to one of the guys working for him, got the full story. It turns out the Polaroids came from a big house near Durham, where they’ve got quite a few things that came from Ainsby Manor. And they’ve got paintings, too, a bunch of botanical drawings. That’s why Anderson was so excited. But according to the photos, none of the birds is the bird, and the paintings aren’t right, either. Anderson’s driven up there to check them out for himself, but he’s wasting his time. I got a look at the Polaroids and they’re definitely not by Roitelet. But then Anderson doesn’t know much about art. That’s why he should have agreed to work with me.”
“So the stuffed bird’s still out there.” I pondered for a moment. “And what about you now, Mr. Potts? Why are you sitting in the dark?”
It seemed an obvious question but Potts didn’t seem bothered by it.
“I was waiting for you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I was curious to see just when you’d come home. And I guess I’d like to know where you’ve been. Jeez, all that business of the Stamford letter has led us precisely nowhere. And I guess that means you’re about our best hope for finding those pictures. You’re the one who knows about stuffed birds. Maybe you know more than you’re telling.”
I was about to reply when a cigarette lighter clicked open and lit up Potts’s face. I realized it wasn’t a random act. He was using it to study mine.
“Who knows?” I turned away. “I’m going to bed.”
I left Potts sitting in the dark, but as I climbed the stairs I could still feel him watching me. It would be easy to underestimate Potts, I thought. Even so, it was all I could do that night not to run up the stairs. The adrenaline was still flowing, and the strain of maintaining a calm exterior was almost more than I could bear. And all the time my brain was racing. I needed a plan. But more than that, I needed to talk.
On reaching my room I washed in cold water, waited five minutes, then turned off the lights. Then, without undressing, I sat down with my back against the door and waited some more. It was forty-five long, cold minutes before I heard Potts come upstairs. Even then I made myself wait another hour before I dared move. Then I washed again—in warm water this time, to stop my shivering—and picked up the bedside phone. I rang Katya’s number and let it ring for a fraction of a second before I hung up. Then
I waited a few seconds and did it again, then a third time, each time just a fragment of a ring. On the sixth attempt, Katya answered, sleepy and confused.
“Don’t say anything,” I whispered to her. “Just get dressed as quietly as you can. We’re going to London.”
At four-thirty in the morning the roads were empty and the frost was white between the carriageways. The cold seemed to have a razor edge to it, and the air rushing against the windscreen was flecked with ice. We drove with our coats on and our scarves pulled tight around our necks. Katya had taken an old blanket from the backseat and tucked it around her.
“So what’s going on?” she asked when we’d successfully negotiated the outskirts of the town.
“Not yet,” I told her. “Wait till we’re warmer. I’m still piecing it all together.”
She thought for a moment. “So tell me about Gabriella, then.”
“Gabby? You know most of it already.”
“So tell me the rest.” She turned to look at me. “I can’t tell what you feel about her.”
I didn’t answer for a few seconds, waiting while a fat Mercedes rushed past us faster than I’d expected.
“I suppose it took me a while to work it out myself.”
“And?”
I hesitated. “I think I needed to see her again before I really knew. So many things that mean a lot to me are tied up with her. That makes it hard to just let go.”
“Do you want to let go?”
“Yes. It’s time.” My eyes were still on the road ahead.
“Because you found out she’s with Anderson?”
“No, that’s not why.” There was a firmness in my voice that seemed to surprise her. “I knew before then. I was just scared to believe it.”
She considered that, her face turned forward now as she watched the road. “And what about Gabby? Has she moved on?”
“In one way. She still has her work, though. That doesn’t change. It’s what really matters to her. More than people do.”
“You sound quite harsh.”
“I don’t mean to. Gabby really loved me once, I know that. But it was when I was part of her work. When I stepped away from it, I stopped being part of her world. She couldn’t understand that I had feelings more important to me than the whole bloody rain forest.”
After that, Katya seemed content to huddle under her blanket and watch the night. I think she slept. Gradually, as the miles clicked by, the car grew warmer.
We’d been driving for more than an hour when Katya stirred and asked the time and said she was hungry. A little after that we pulled into a Little Chef for coffee and breakfast. Katya waited until the coffees were steaming in front of us before she placed her chin on her hands and raised her eyebrows at me. “So?” she asked, and waited.
We talked for nearly an hour. By the time we’d finished, the night sky was liquefying at the edges, its color draining into the fields below. When we climbed back into the car, Katya understood the bargain I had struck that evening in Lincolnshire and knew I had no more than a couple of days to come up with what I’d promised. Neither of us had any time to waste.
We drove in silence after that. When we reached the edge of London, a rush of extra traffic signaled the dawn. We picked our way through it and made our way home. When I turned the engine off, Katya didn’t move.
“What?” I asked.
“I was thinking about Karl Anderson. I think it’s real, what he feels about Gabby. The way he looks at her.”
I thought about it. “I’m not sure. I can’t see their lives fitting together very well.”
Katya shrugged. “Perhaps she’s changed. Perhaps she’s ready to do something different. Perhaps she’ll marry Karl Anderson and settle down.”
I shook my head. “Gabby won’t change. What she does now is too much a part of her.” I paused. “And with Anderson’s money behind her, who knows, perhaps she’ll save the planet after all. But she won’t marry him. At least not for a while.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I kept my eyes very firmly ahead of me. “Because at the moment she’s still married to me,” I said.
I’ve often wondered if my grandfather’s life would have been different if he’d ever met a woman he loved. Whatever made him marry, it wasn’t love. From the diaries he left behind, you can see how little time he ever spent with his wife. They don’t even explain why he married her. It’s as if his proposal just bubbled to the surface one day to the equal surprise of them both. By the time either of them had the chance to wonder why, it was too late: my grandfather was back in the jungle and the pattern of their lives was established beyond hope of alteration.
The day in the Congo when my grandfather separated from the bulk of his party was a final chance to send back letters. He knew that the next opportunity would be many months away. And yet he didn’t write to his wife or send back any message. Instead he and his remaining companion simply shouldered their burdens and set off into the silent crescendo of the forest.
Neither of them knew the terrain. Neither really knew where they were going. Their ignorance made easy things ten times more difficult than they should have been, and difficult things became impossible. They deliberately avoided the local people—who could have helped them—and seemed to seek out the most impenetrable tracts of forest for their path. In their first month they traveled a hundred miles, but it’s clear from my grandfather’s log that their route was serpentine, their progress achieved at massive expenditure of energy. They pushed forward into unmapped areas of jungle, my grandfather’s positional reports becoming sketchier with every day that passed. They reached a river and misidentified it, then followed its course through dense undergrowth for three weeks. Then, when the quinine began to run low, they left the water and struck out for higher ground. For another month they continued in that way. In that time my grandfather gave up keeping his log book, as if he already knew the worst. It isn’t even clear whether their increasingly circuitous route was an attempt to push on or a desperate effort to retreat the way they’d come. Either way, it made no odds. They were lost and exhausted. Their supplies were almost gone. My grandfather’s fever had returned. And nowhere they went was there any sign of peacocks.
When we went inside, I showed Katya the photograph on my bedside table.
“My daughter,” I told her. “She was just under a year old then. She died a few weeks after this was taken.”
We were sitting on the bed in my crumpled, comfortable little room, our knees and elbows touching.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. She held the picture gently between her fingertips.
“There are hundreds of things in Brazil that can kill a child. It’s a fact of life out there. But it was more than that to me. It just changed everything.”
She touched my hand, so I carried on. “I wanted us to leave, to come back here. I couldn’t bear just going on as if nothing had changed. But Gabby’s work was a place for her to hide. She needed it more than ever then, I suppose, just when I stopped caring about it completely.”
For a moment I found myself there again: that plain room, its window half-covered by a dirty net, an electric fan turning endlessly, achieving nothing. The stench of sweat. The small bed, empty; the blankets still curved into a child’s shape. And Gabby downstairs, her voice flat, making the arrangements that had to be made.
“So you left her?”
“I was in her way. Everything she did I held against her as a sign of her not caring enough. It wasn’t fair, but that’s how it was. We were in danger of hating each other. In the end we agreed I had to go.” I looked at the picture in front of me, feeling the emptiness all over again. “We called her Celeste, after Gabby’s mother. This photograph is all there is of her now. Only this and the things we remember. When Gabby and I are gone, there’s just the photograph. After that, nothing.”
We both sat silent for a little before Katya spoke. “So that was when you started tracking down extinct birds?”
> “That’s right.” I gave a sort of off-beam smile. “It all seems a bit obvious now, doesn’t it? Hanging on to things. Refusing to let things go. But it didn’t at the time.”
“And Gabby?”
“She got on with her work. She dealt with it like a grown-up, I suppose. While I was just angry about everything. I was like that for three years. In the end I was too exhausted to feel angry any longer, so I came here and started stuffing birds.” I pointed to the corner of the room. “I put all the papers for the book away in that trunk and began a different life. Now I don’t feel angry anymore. I don’t think I even feel pain. I just feel so incredibly sorry that she never had a chance to grow up. There’s so much that’s wonderful in the world that she’ll never see.”
“And you and Gabby never saw each other until this month?”
“It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I suppose I was angry with her. But she’d write to me and I’d read the letters and keep them. And while she was writing and I was reading, there was still a link. She’d write about her work mostly. Never anything personal. That would have been too dangerous. And I knew there were men sometimes, but while she was still writing that didn’t seem to matter.”
“Because you still loved her.”
“No.” Again my voice was firm. “That vanished somewhere. But she was the only other person who remembered Celeste. That was what mattered.”
Katya was looking away. We sat in silence for another moment before I spoke again. “I wasn’t trying to hide being married to Gabby. It just didn’t seem to matter. It sounds stupid, but I find myself forgetting.”
Katya was looking out of the window, her face turned away from me. I thought at first she wasn’t going to reply, but then she turned and squeezed my hand.
“Okay,” she said.
We didn’t say much more after that, but Katya’s hand stayed in mine. And when the silence was over, we got up and set about getting hold of the Ulieta bird.
The Conjurer's Bird Page 24