“What? Oh, you mean Tara being of noble birth—and being sacrificed, so to speak? Indeed, a most unpleasant irony.”
“And you don’t think it could be more than that?”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t know. Except … why was it there? In her room? Where did the postcard come from?”
Clarissa waved the pipe dismissively. “Oh, that’s easy … Tara was doing the Greek tragedy paper this term. It’s hardly beyond the realms of possibility for her to have copied a quotation from one of the plays, is it?”
“No … I suppose not.”
“It is a little out of character, I grant you that … As I’m sure Professor Fosca would attest.”
Mariana blinked. “Professor Fosca?”
“He taught her Greek tragedy.”
“I see.” Mariana tried to sound casual. “Did he?”
“Oh, yes. He is the expert, after all. He’s quite brilliant. You should see him lecture while you’re here. Very impressive. Do you know his lectures are by far the best attended in the faculty—students queue from downstairs to get in, sitting on the floor if they run out of seats. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” Clarissa laughed, then added quickly, “Of course, one’s own lectures have always been very well attended. I’ve been very fortunate in that regard. But not to that degree, I must admit … You know, if you’re curious about Fosca, you should really talk to Zoe. She knows him best.”
“Zoe?” Mariana was taken aback by this. “Does she? Why?”
“Well, he is her director of studies, after all.”
“Oh—I see.” Mariana nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course.”
8
Mariana took Zoe out for lunch. They went to a nearby French brasserie that had recently opened. It was popular with starving students who had visiting relatives.
It was a good deal more sophisticated than the restaurants Mariana remembered from her days as a student. It was busy, and there was the sound of conversation and laughter, and cutlery chiming on plates. It smelled enticingly of garlic and wine and sizzling meat. An elegant waiter, in a waistcoat and tie, directed Mariana and Zoe to a booth in the corner, which had a white tablecloth and black leather seats.
Somewhat extravagantly, Mariana began by ordering half a bottle of rosé champagne. This was unlike her, and Zoe raised an eyebrow.
“Well, why not?” said Mariana with a shrug. “We could use cheering up.”
“I’m not complaining,” said Zoe.
When the champagne arrived, the pink bubbles, fizzing and sparkling in thick crystal glasses, lifted their spirits considerably. They didn’t discuss Tara or the murder at first. They jumped around from topic to topic, catching up. They spoke about Zoe’s studies at St. Christopher’s, and how she felt about entering her third year—and her frustrating lack of clarity about her life and what she wanted to do.
And then they spoke about love. Mariana asked Zoe if she was seeing anyone.
“Of course not. They’re such boys here.” She shook her head. “I’m totally happy being self-partnered. I’ll never fall in love.”
Mariana smiled. She sounded so young, she thought, when she talked like that. Still waters. She suspected that despite Zoe’s protestations, when she did fall, it would be hard and deep.
“One day,” Mariana said, “you’ll see. It’ll happen.”
“No.” Zoe shook her head. “No, thanks. As far as I can see, love only brings sorrow.”
Mariana had to laugh. “That’s a little pessimistic.”
“Don’t you mean realistic?”
“Hardly.”
“What about you and Sebastian?”
Mariana was unprepared for this blow, decidedly below the belt, and delivered so casually. It took her a second to find her voice.
“Sebastian brought me a lot more than sorrow.”
Zoe was immediately apologetic. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—I—”
“I’m not upset. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. Being here, in this lovely restaurant, drinking champagne, it allowed them to pretend for a while—to escape the murder and all the unpleasantness—and exist happily in a little bubble of the present moment. But now Zoe had punctured that bubble, and Mariana felt all her sadness, worry, and fear flood back.
They ate in silence for a moment. Then Mariana said in a low voice:
“Zoe. How are you doing…? About Tara?”
Zoe didn’t reply for a second. She shrugged. She didn’t look up.
“Okay. Not great. I can’t stop thinking about it—the way she died, I mean. I can’t—get it out of my head.”
Zoe looked at Mariana. And Mariana felt an ache of frustrated empathy; she wanted to make it all okay, take away Zoe’s pain, the way she used to when she was a little girl—put a bandage on the wound and kiss it better—but she knew she couldn’t. She reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“I know it’s hard to believe right now—but it will get easier.”
“Will it?” Zoe shrugged. “It’s been over a year since Sebastian died—and it’s not any easier. It still hurts.”
“I know.” Mariana nodded, unable to bring herself to contradict Zoe. She was right, so there was no point. “All we can do,” she said, “is try and honor their memory—the best way we can.”
Zoe held her gaze and nodded. “Okay.”
Mariana went on: “And the best way to honor Tara…”
“Is to catch him?”
“Yes. And we will.”
Zoe seemed comforted by the thought. She nodded. “So, have you made any progress?”
“I have, as a matter of fact.” Mariana smiled. “I spoke to Tara’s bedder, Elsie. And she said—”
“Oh God.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “Just so you know, Elsie is a sociopath. And Tara hated her.”
“Oh, really? Elsie said they were very close … Elsie also said that you were rude to her.”
“Because she’s a psycho, that’s why. She gives me the creeps.”
“Psycho” wasn’t the word Mariana would have used, but she didn’t entirely disagree with Zoe’s impression. “All the same, it’s not like you to be rude.” She hesitated. “Elsie also implied that you know more about this than you’re telling me.”
She watched Zoe carefully. But Zoe just shrugged it off.
“Whatever. Did she also tell you Tara banned her from her room? Because Elsie kept coming in without knocking, trying to catch her coming out of the shower? She was practically stalking her.”
“I see.” Mariana thought for a moment, and reached into her pocket. “And what do you think about this?”
She pulled out the postcard she had found in Tara’s room. She translated the quotation, and asked Zoe what she thought. “Do you think it’s possible that Tara might have written it?”
Zoe shook her head. “I doubt it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, Tara didn’t really give a shit about Greek tragedy, to be honest.”
Mariana couldn’t help but smile. “Any ideas about who might have sent it?”
“Not really. It’s such a weird thing to do. Such a creepy quote.”
“What about Professor Fosca?”
“What about him?”
“Do you think it might be him?”
Zoe shrugged. She didn’t look convinced. “I mean, maybe—but why send a message in Ancient Greek? And why that message?”
“Why, indeed?” Mariana nodded to herself. She eyed Zoe for a moment. “Tell me about him. About the professor.”
“What about him?”
“Well, what’s he like?”
Zoe shrugged, as a slight frown appeared on her face. “You know, Mariana. I did tell you all about him, when he first started teaching me. I told you and Sebastian.”
“Did you?” Mariana nodded as it came back to her. “Oh, yes—the American professor. That’s it. I remember now.”
“Do you?”
�
��Yes, it stuck in my head for some reason. I remember Sebastian wondered if you had a crush on him.”
Zoe pulled a face. “Well, he was wrong. I didn’t.”
Zoe said this with such defensiveness, such surprising vehemence, that Mariana suddenly wondered if Zoe did have a crush—and what if she did? It was hardly unusual for students to have crushes on tutors—particularly when they were as charismatic and handsome as Edward Fosca.
But then, she might be reading Zoe wrong … She might be picking up on something else entirely.
She decided to let it go, for the moment.
9
After lunch, they walked back to college along the river.
Zoe bought a chocolate ice cream, and was engrossed in eating it. They walked in companionable silence for a moment.
All the time, Mariana was conscious of a kind of double image—another faint picture projected onto this one: a memory of Zoe as a little girl, walking on this exact same pathway of broken, cracked-up stones, eating another ice cream. It was on that visit, when Mariana was a student, that little Zoe first met Sebastian. She remembered Zoe’s shyness—and how Sebastian got over it with a little magic trick, conjuring up a pound coin from behind Zoe’s ear, a trick that continued to delight her for years.
And now Sebastian was walking with them too, of course, another ghostly image projected on the present.
Funny, the things you remember. Mariana glanced at an old weathered wooden bench as they passed it. They had sat there, on that bench—she and Sebastian—after Mariana’s final exams, celebrating with prosecco mixed with crème de cassis, and smoking blue Gauloises cigarettes, stolen by Sebastian from a party the night before. She remembered kissing him, and how sweet his kisses tasted, with the faint trace of liqueur mingled with tobacco on his lips.
Zoe glanced at her. “You’re being very quiet. You okay?”
Mariana nodded. “Can we sit down for a second?” And then, quickly, “Not this bench.” She pointed at another bench, farther along. “That one.”
They walked over to the bench and sat down.
It was a peaceful spot, in the dappled shade of a willow tree, right by the water’s edge. The willow’s branches moved in the breeze, and the ends were trailing lazily in the water. Mariana watched a punt drift by under the bridge.
Then a swan glided past, and her eyes followed it.
The swan had an orange beak, with black markings around its eyes. It looked a little worse for wear. Its once-gleaming feathers were dirty and discolored around the neck, stained green from the river. Nonetheless, it was an impressive creature—ragged but serene, and highly imperious. It turned its long neck, and looked in Mariana’s direction.
Was it her imagination—or was it staring directly at her?
For a second, the swan held her in its gaze. Its black eyes seemed to be sizing her up, with a cool intelligence.
And then the appraisal was over. It turned its head, and Mariana was dismissed—forgotten. She watched it disappear under the bridge.
“Tell me,” she said, glancing at Zoe. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“Professor Fosca? I never said that.”
“It’s just an impression I have. Do you?”
Zoe shrugged. “I don’t know … The professor—he dazzles me, I suppose.”
Mariana was surprised by this, and not entirely clear what she meant. “And you don’t like being dazzled?”
“Of course not.” Zoe shook her head. “I like to see where I’m going. And there’s something about him—I don’t know how to describe it—it’s like he’s acting—like he’s not who he pretends to be. Like he doesn’t want you to see who he really is. But maybe I’m wrong … Everyone else thinks he’s amazing.”
“Yes, Clarissa said he’s very popular.”
“You’ve no idea. It’s like a cult. The girls, especially.”
Mariana suddenly thought of the girls in white, gathered around Fosca at the service for Tara. “You mean Tara’s friends? That group of girls? Aren’t they your friends too?”
Zoe shook her head forcefully. “No way. I avoid them like the plague.”
“I see. They don’t seem very popular.”
Zoe gave her a pointed look. “Depends on who you ask.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, they’re Professor Fosca’s favorites … His fan club.”
“What do you mean, fan club?”
Zoe shrugged. “They’re in his private study group. A secret society.”
“Why secret?”
“It’s only for them—his ‘special’ students.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “He calls them the Maidens. Isn’t that the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“The Maidens?” Mariana frowned. “Are they all girls?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see.”
And Mariana did see—or was beginning to, at least, have an inkling where all this might be leading, and why Zoe had been so reticent.
“And was Tara one of the Maidens?”
“Yeah.” Zoe nodded. “She was.”
“I see. And the others? Can I meet them?”
Zoe pulled a face. “Do you want to? They’re not exactly friendly.”
“Where are they now?”
“Now?” Zoe looked at her watch. “Well, Professor Fosca is lecturing in a half an hour. Everyone will be there.”
Mariana nodded. “Then so will we.”
10
Mariana and Zoe arrived at the English Faculty with only a few moments to spare.
They looked at the board outside the lecture-theater building and consulted the schedule for the day. The afternoon lecture by Professor Fosca was in the biggest room upstairs. They made their way up there.
The lecture theater was a large, well-lit space, with rows of dark wooden desks descending to the stage at the bottom, where there was a podium and a microphone.
Clarissa was right about the popularity of Fosca’s lectures—the auditorium was packed. They found a couple of remaining seats high up at the back. There was a palpable sense of anticipation as the audience waited, more akin to a concert or theater performance than a lecture on Greek tragedy, Mariana thought.
And then, Professor Fosca entered.
He was dressed in a smart black suit, and his hair was pulled back and tied in a tight knot. He was holding a folder of notes, and walked across the stage, up to the podium. He adjusted the microphone, surveyed the room for a moment, then bowed his head.
There was a ripple of excitement in the audience. All talking faded to a hush. Mariana couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical—her background in group theory told her, as a rule, to be suspicious of any group in love with a teacher; those situations rarely ended well. To Mariana, Fosca looked more like a brooding pop star than a lecturer, and she half expected him to burst into song. But when he looked up, he didn’t sing. To her surprise, his eyes were full of tears.
“Today,” Fosca said, “I want to talk about Tara.”
Mariana heard whispering around her and saw heads turning, looks being exchanged; this was what the students had been hoping for. She even noticed a couple of them starting to cry.
Fosca’s own tears spilled out of his eyes and fell down his cheeks, without him brushing them away. He refused to react to them, and his voice remained calm and steady. He projected so well, Mariana thought, he didn’t really need the mike.
What had Zoe said? He was always performing? If so, the performance was so good that Mariana—like the rest of the audience—couldn’t help being affected.
“As many of you know,” Fosca said, “Tara was one of my students. And I’m standing here in a state of—heartbreak. I nearly said ‘despair.’ I wanted to cancel today’s lecture. But what I loved most about Tara was her strength, her fearlessness—and she wouldn’t want us to give in to despair, and be defeated by hate. We must go on. That is our only defense against evil … and the best way to honor our friend. I’m here today for Tara. And so are you.�
��
There was thunderous applause, and cheers from the audience. He acknowledged it with a bow of the head. He collected his notes and looked up again. “And now, ladies and gentlemen—to work.”
Professor Fosca was an impressive speaker. He rarely consulted his notes—and gave the impression of improvising the entire lecture. He was animated, engaging, witty, impassioned—and, most important, present; he seemed to be communicating directly with each member of his audience.
“Today,” he said, “I thought it would be a good idea to talk about, among other things, the liminal in Greek tragedy. What does that mean? Well, think of Antigone, pushed to a choice between death and dishonor; or Iphigenia, preparing herself to die for Greece; or Oedipus, deciding to blind himself and wander the highways. The liminal is between two worlds—on the very edge of what it means to be human—where everything is stripped away from you; where you transcend this life, and experience something beyond it. And when the tragedies are working, they give us a glimpse of what that feels like.”
Then, Fosca showed a slide, projected onto the large screen behind him. It was a marble relief of two women, standing on either side of a nude male youth, each with her right hand extended toward him.
“Anyone recognize these two ladies?”
A sea of shaking heads. Mariana had a slight inkling of who they might be, and she very much hoped she was wrong.
“These two goddesses,” he said, “are about to initiate a young man into the secret cult of Eleusis. They are, of course, Demeter and her daughter, Persephone.”
Mariana caught her breath. She did her best not to be distracted. She tried to focus.
“This is the Eleusinian cult,” Fosca said. “The secret rite of Eleusis—that gives you exactly that liminal experience of being between life and death—and of transcending death. What was this cult? Well, Eleusis is the story of Persephone—the Maiden, as she was known—the goddess of death, queen of the Underworld…”
As Fosca was speaking, for a second he caught Mariana’s eye. He smiled, ever so slightly.
The Maidens Page 10