The Chrysalis

by Catherine Deveney

  She left most of her things behind, all part of the elaborate fantasy that we conspired to concoct. Her suitcase, a small black case with a white double stripe down the centre, sat in the hall waiting for the arrival of her taxi. A horn blasted outside.

  “Take care,” I whispered, hugging her.

  Even in that last hug I sensed her desire to be gone.

  “I will phone you this evening,” she said, gathering up her things.

  “Safe journey.”

  She opened the door and a burst of wind and rain blew in. She stepped out and then turned back to me.

  “There is a bit of me that will always be yours, Marianne.”

  It was her parting gift, my consolation present.

  “I know.”

  Her eyes filled.

  “Whatever happens.”

  “Whatever happens.”

  Then she stepped back over the threshold and kissed me gently on the lips.

  The last glimpse I caught was of her hurrying down the path, bracing herself against the wind and rain; a tall elegant figure in jeans and a tailored white jacket that was quite unsuitable for the British weather. Rae was no more practical than Raymond had been.

  The reverse lights of the taxi lit up, the black cab manoeuvred into the driveway, windscreen wipers flying furiously, and turned to go back in the direction it had come from. And then she was gone. After all those years, all those fears, all those agonies, it really was that simple. Just jump on the bus, Gus. Drop off the key, Lee. And set yourself free.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Zac

  “Who is this little friend you keep sneaking out to see?” demanded Jasmine, slapping Zac playfully with a pair of black kid gloves. “Why are you not coming with us to lunch?”

  Zac felt the heat flush through his cheeks to the roots of his hair. He was uncomfortable around Jasmine. If he were honest, he was actually a little afraid of her.

  “Leave Zac alone,” said Rae reprovingly. He smiled indulgently and patted Zac briefly on the shoulder as he passed. “We will take care of Marianne.”

  “But I dare say he will come with us this evening!” said Jasmine archly.

  I dare say, Zac mimicked in his head. I dare say! Why did she talk like that? Why did she constantly make herself sound like an actress in an Oscar Wilde play?

  “Why? Where are we going this evening?” asked Marianne, looking up with bright eyes.

  There was something very alive about Marianne in the last few days Zac thought, watching her carefully. Very alert, like a death rattle almost, a last burst of fervent activity before everything began shutting down for good.

  “Just Patrice’s,” said Jasmine. “But I rather think our Zac has a little playmate behind the bar there. Don’t you Zac?”

  Zac looked at her warily, following her almost sullenly with his eyes, and Jasmine laughed lightly.

  Bitch, Zac thought.

  “Although, I think he is a little old for you, Zac. A father figure, perhaps?”

  “Oh shut up, Jas,” said Rae impatiently. “Take no notice, Zac.”

  Zac shut himself away inside his own head. The last two days had been the most amazing of his life. Every spare minute he’d had, while Marianne was with Rae and Jasmine, had been spent in the dingy bar or in Alain’s flat above. Was he in love? No, he thought, with a level of self-awareness and honesty that surprised himself. Yet this relationship was the most intense and satisfying of experiences because it involved an awakening, a submission to something deep inside, and Alain would always be the person who awakened him, whatever happened afterwards.

  Perhaps it was different for Alain. He insisted that he was unlike his father, Patrice, in every way, that as a rule he did not have relationships with people in the bar. This was different. Zac was special. And Zac, who was used to being ridiculed for being different, gloried in being celebrated for his uniqueness for once. It was a kind of fantasy and he melted into it, into Alain, with a passion that he had never felt before. But he did not kid himself the passion was for Alain.

  Zac’s eyelids flickered as he remembered the moment Alain’s lips had finally fluttered over his, the sensation of his hand on his back, the heat of him close to him. He blocked out everyone in the room and thought about that moment, when all the vague longing he carried inside had abated and his soul had stilled. Zac had been dressed in a dark purple velvet dress and Alain had run his hand over the soft fabric causing a ripple to run through Zac’s entire body. He had never had such a physically satisfying experience in his life. Did he mean sexually satisfying? No, he decided, physically satisfying. Emotionally satisfying. He felt whole and desirable and cherished.

  Abbie. He tried to shut out the guilt but every so often, it clutched at his heart, flooded him with panic. He was a bad person, such a bad person. In his mind’s eye, he could see Abbie, silently watching him, her blue eyes blinking with pain. But it was Alain’s voice he heard.

  “I like you…” Alain had said haltingly, “like this.”

  It was the full extent of his English, but it didn’t matter. Zac had smiled shyly, pleased at Alain’s attempt to speak in his language. They spoke in French normally and there was something touching about the effort. Like this… like a woman. He meant he liked him as a woman. Since that conversation, Zac had dressed every day in women’s clothes, not just in the evenings when he went to Patrice’s.

  “I like you too,” Zac had whispered. Alain smiled. Zac wondered fleetingly if the attraction was partly that there was no need for words, difficult, messy words and hard to express feelings. Everything was in a look, a gesture, an expression, a touch. It was a kind of liberation.

  “Zac!”

  Zac looked up sharply at the sound of Marianne’s voice.

  “Who is she talking about?” Marianne demanded, jerking her head towards Jasmine. “This person that you are seeing?”

  Jasmine looked on with interest.

  “Alain,” mumbled Zac, flushing.

  “Who is Alain?” asked Marianne.

  “I think we knew his father, Marianne,” Jasmine said. Her voice sounded almost malicious to Zac.

  Marianne did not look at her.

  “What is his name?” Marianne asked Zac.

  “Alain. He owns the bar,” said Zac.

  “No, his surname.”

  “Moreau. Alain Moreau.”

  He wondered why Marianne gasped.

  “What did you mean,” he asked, turning to Jasmine, “about knowing his father? Alain did not know his own father. He was murdered.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Jasmine, “we were all there.”

  “When he was murdered?” asked Zac incredulously.

  “No, of course not,” snapped Rae. “Jasmine means that we were here, in town, when it happened.”

  “Do I?” said Jasmine.

  Rae followed her with her eyes as she walked over to a cabinet and calmly took out a bottle of gin.

  “Drink anyone?”

  “I thought we were going to lunch?” said Rae. Her voice sounded edgy and slightly querulous to Zac.

  “There’s always time for a drink,” said Jasmine.

  “What happened to Alain’s father?” asked Zac.

  “Yes,” said Jasmine, unscrewing the cap of the bottle and pouring a generous measure for herself. “What happened to Patrice, Rae?”

  The question hung in the air. Zac looked on silently, uneasy at the sudden change in atmosphere. What a strange feeling had descended on the room, as unexpected as a sudden flurry of snow in spring. He glanced at Marianne, but though her eyes glittered feverishly, she did not seem to be taking much notice of the conversation. At least, as far as he could tell.

  “Well?” said Jasmine.

  “What’s got into you, Jas?” demanded Rae.

  “You have never said…. either of you,” said Jasmine.

  “Said what, for God’s sake?” said Rae.

  “What happened to Patrice that night.”

  “How
would we know? We know no more than you. Poor Patrice was stabbed by some, some… lunatic.”

  “I met Marianne that night,” said Jasmine.

  Zac noticed that her hand shook slightly as she raised her glass to her lips. The little display of vulnerability surprised him.

  “You met Marianne a lot of nights,” said Rae impatiently.

  “I saw you in Patrice’s,” said Marianne, her voice breaking through the conversation. Everyone turned to her.

  “Yes,” said Jasmine, her voice softening. “We danced.”

  “No,” said Marianne crisply. “YOU danced.”

  Jasmine’s mask returned and she looked at Marianne with disdain.

  “Yes of course, Marianne. You were always much too stuck up to dance with the likes of me.”

  “Oh God,” muttered Rae, crossing over to the cabinet and taking out the bottle of gin.

  “I saw you in the lane,” said Jasmine suddenly. “Afterwards. Later that evening.”

  “Oh no,” said Marianne calmly. “I don’t think so.”

  “You know I did,” said Jasmine. “You were upset.”

  Marianne’s eyes fixed on Jasmine like two hard, black stones.

  “You were crying. Why were you crying so hard simply because you could not find Raymond?” demanded Jasmine. “You had lost control. What did you think had happened? And where did you go?”

  “For God’s sake stop over-dramatising, Jasmine!” said Rae, screwing the top back on the gin bottle. Zac noticed he drank half her glass in one. “Everyone had been drinking that night. It’s hardly surprising if things got a bit emotional and out of hand. They usually do when alcohol’s involved!”

  “She was trembling,” Jasmine said accusingly, gesticulating at Rae’s back. “Why would she tremble like that?”

  “Because she was cold!”

  “It was summer!”

  “It was the end of summer. And anyway, Marianne feels the cold.”

  “Stop talking like I am not here!” Marianne snapped.

  Zac looked between the three of them. Marianne looked a little confused but he recognised that mutinous look. Such a wave of emotion rolling between them about an event from so long ago…Zac did not understand. What was going on here?

  “We met in the lane,” repeated Jasmine. “You were upset. You had been looking for Raymond all night, you said.”

  “No,” said Marianne. “It was earlier in the evening that I was in the lane. Then I went into the bar to buy cigarettes and then I went home. I was not in the lane again.”

  “Yes!” retorted Jasmine. Yes, yes, yes! Why are you lying, Marianne?”

  “Stop it!” snapped Rae. “Leave her alone, Jasmine. You can see how she is… you cannot expect her to remember everything from so long ago.”

  “I remember perfectly,” said Marianne flatly, and Rae and Jasmine stopped shouting and turned at the sound of her voice.

  “If you remember everything,” said Jasmine, her voice trembling, “who was the blonde woman who you told the police you saw with Patrice that night?

  “Perhaps,” Marianne said evenly, “it was you, Jasmine. I am beginning to wonder, with all these lies, if it was you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Yes,” continued Marianne. “You are trying to make up a story, to cause confusion.”

  “My hair has always been black, for God’s sake!”

  “It could have been a wig.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What is going on?” asked Zac, his stomach twisting anxiously.

  “Nothing,” said Rae soothingly. “It’s just Jasmine causing mischief.”

  Jasmine looked at him bitterly and Zac had a sudden flash of insight. Jasmine had felt sorry for Marianne when she first saw her again. She saw the physical disintegration and pitied her. But the strength of the bond between Marianne and Raymond was too strong to be pitied. Zac could see the edge of envy in the way Jasmine’s eyes flashed between them. She was the outsider, the one to be pitied, not Marianne.

  “Patrice’s wife had blonde hair,” said Marianne suddenly. “Perhaps it was her. I would have killed him had I been married to him.”

  “She had auburn hair!” said Jasmine.

  “Are we going for lunch?”

  Jasmine looked at Marianne with incredulity, rattled by the sudden change in direction.

  “You are mad!”

  “I may be but I still need to eat.”

  “You still have an appetite after all that has been said?”

  “Well Zac must be hungry,” said Rae. “We are keeping him from his lunch date. Go on Zac.”

  “No, I…”

  “Well I, for one, am no longer hungry,” said Jasmine. She looked over her glass at Rae with an anger that was laced with contempt.

  “Liquid lunch again?” said Rae. Her eyes flashed coldly in a way Zac had never seen. Rae always seemed gentle, ineffectual almost. A bit like me, Zac thought uncomfortably. It was like he did not exist in this room.

  “What is this all about?” Zac asked. “Who was this blonde woman you are talking about?”

  “Well it wasn’t me,” said Jasmine.

  “What blonde woman?” asked Marianne.

  Silence cut through the room like a scythe. Zac looked at Marianne curiously. Was she serious? Had she already wiped out the conversation they had just had? Or was she deliberately “forgetting” as Marianne sometimes could? Marianne glanced up at him, but her expression was impassive, and he could tell nothing from her eyes.

  “I have to insist that we talk about this later,” said Rae. “This is not doing Marianne any good.”

  “How convenient,” said Jasmine, and she lifted her glass and drained it.

  Maurice, Zac thought, was one of the kindest men he had ever met. They had taken to having coffee each morning when Zac left Marianne with Rae, and sometimes Jasmine. He felt enormously fond of him already. Maurice felt like his French soul mate, someone who understood without much explanation ever being necessary. He was old enough to be his father, Zac realised suddenly. He wished he could be. How good it would feel to have a father who understood you, loved you for who you were, unconditionally.

  Yet there was also something contradictory about Maurice, a quality that seemed simultaneously simple but unfathomable. Something that made him seem alone even when he was with other people. A two-week friendship, Maurice had said, but Zac suspected it would take a lot longer to know this man. He was an enigma.

  Maurice had a letter on the table in front of him when Zac found him in a dark corner of Patrice’s one morning. It must be from a woman Zac thought; at least, it was written on lilac paper. Maurice was holding it as if he were reading it, but the edges of the pages were crumpled in his hands and Zac suspected that his mind was somewhere else entirely.

  “Ah, my new friend,” said Maurice brightly when he looked up to see Zac standing over him. “My two week best friend!” He stuffed the letter into the inside pocket of a suit jacket that looked like a limp rag.

  “Is everything all right, Maurice?”

  “God is in his heaven and all is well with the world!”

  Zac smiled faintly.

  “No really, Zac. When you have God on your side, what else do you need? Everyone else may desert you but He does not. But I see you have something on your mind. Come and sit down. I’ll get some coffee.”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Alain is on the bar, but I am not sure where he has disappeared to.

  “It doesn’t matter. Leave him for now. I want to talk to you alone.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Zac hesitated.

  “I want to talk to you about Alain’s father.”

  Zac could see that Maurice was still fingering the letter in his pocket but he became very still, his eyebrows arching in surprise.

  “Yes?”

  “Jasmine was talking to Rae and Marianne earlier, and they said that they were here when Alain’s father was mur
dered.”

  Maurice frowned.

  “I think I knew that about Jasmine… but I had forgotten. A few of the old timers in the bar remember it. Anyway, what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing probably. But Jasmine reminded Marianne that she had told the police that Patrice Moreau was with a blonde woman the night she died.”

  Maurice shrugged.

  “It is no secret that Alain’s father was… an adventurer.”

  “So it is known already? About the blonde woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It is probably nothing but….”

  “What?”

  “I think Marianne knew who she was. The blonde woman.”

  “Really? Perhaps you should tell Alain, then. But it was thirty years ago. I doubt…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  It doesn’t matter, Zac thought as he turned away. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was. A man had died. Wasn’t that always important? And it would matter to Alain. It was his father and fathers were… fathers were what, he wondered? Perhaps this trip to France, his conversations with Maurice, were as much about coming to terms with his relationship with his father as coming to terms with his gender and his sexuality.

  Maurice had certainly helped him to see that relationships, even with fathers, were not one-way streets. His father needed his approval as much he needed his father’s. Nonetheless, he did need it, Zac recognised. Whether he liked him or not, whether he had him in his life or not, there could not simply be a gaping hole where his father should be. In the worst scenario, the space might be filled with sadness, or pain, or even an acknowledgement that things could never be fixed, but it had to be filled with something.

  “Marianne said perhaps it was Jasmine,” Zac told Maurice.

  “Jasmine! I cannot imagine her blonde.”

  “Or Patrice’s wife. Was she blonde?”

  Maurice shrugged.