Snowstorms in a Hot Climate

by Sarah Dunant

  And then I wondered, not for the first time, if she ever lay in bed at night crippled by a sense of futility, or haunted by the specters of sexual frustration. I wondered about this while all the time we talked of other things—the comparative curiosity of American and English students, her latest published articles, my half-formed, unpublished ones. And if she was a little disappointed in the speed of my academic progress, she did not show it. Instead we mused over the problems of reconciling teaching with research, and she suggested a few people I might contact, publishers who might be interested in my work on the Lindisfarne monastery. And for a while she really did go some way to convincing me that this was it—the sunshine, the sherry, the study of the past, and her firm, poised grip on the world. But when at last I left her on that fourth and final evening, after a quiet simple supper, and we stood on her polished step, shaking slightly awkward hands under the glow of the streetlamp, I knew that the illusion went with her; that for me it could never be quite as whole or as satisfying. And I think she knew it too. And I wondered how much it mattered, or if perhaps she had a store of heirs apparent to carry on her good work.

  Back in my elegant, expensive hotel, I fell asleep almost immediately. In fact, those nights in Boston I slept remarkably well, better than I had done for months. So, when Elly’s phone call woke me the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky and I was prepared for anything.

  “… well, I was planning on taking the train. Probably late afternoon. It would get me in around nine P.M. tonight. Why?”

  “Could you make it a little earlier?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing really. There’s been a slight change in schedule. I wanted to tell you about it.”

  “What is it?” I sounded wonderfully unperturbed.

  “I’ll explain when I see you. It’s not important. Do you want me to meet you at the station?”

  “No,” I heard myself say. “No. I’ll find my own way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  And I was. Amtrak did not waste time, and I hit Grand Central Terminal when most people were leaving it. It was a good introduction back into New York; bedlam, with a thousand commuters pouring in through the barriers and flooding onto the trains. Another day of upward mobility. I was moving against the flow, but the pace was infectious. Outside I hailed a cab with what looked like a knife wound in the backseat. I sat and watched the meter move. There was no point in worrying about something before I knew what it was. I imagined Teresa Geldhorn pouring boiling water over Earl Grey tea leaves and getting stuck back into Capetian foreign policy. There is much to be said for dead men, even if history discovers that not all of them told the truth.

  Outside the apartment block, I held my finger on the bell. The intercom buzzed her voice down. It had broken glass in it. The door opened. I nodded to the porter. The lift was waiting. On the eighth floor so was she, a tight little smile on her face. I walked past her into a maelstrom, a chaos of furniture and wooden crates and, in the corner, two smart leather suitcases, all packed and ready to go. I turned.

  “Lenny’s father has had a heart attack,” she announced quickly. “We heard last night. He took the last plane to Rhode Island. It sounds bad.”

  “How did he find out?” You see, even then something didn’t quite fit.

  “His mother called.”

  “But I thought you said they didn’t keep in touch.”

  “They don’t. But he’d given her this number. In case of emergencies. I suppose this qualified …” She trailed off.

  “What will you do?” I asked, moving from fact to implication. “Do you want to stay until you know he’s OK?” Forty-eight hours to D-Day. Another dozen or so couldn’t matter.

  She shook her head. “That’s not the problem. We can still go, but …”

  “But?”

  “I have to go to London first.”

  Strange how you can go for months without hearing your own heartbeat, and then suddenly there it is, loud and insistent, like an amplified drum smashing against your rib cage. I realized I hadn’t spoken. “London?”

  “Lenny was due to leave tomorrow. I have to go in his place.”

  “Why?” I tasted dust in my mouth.

  “Because there’s someone he has to see. Apparently it’s important. It can’t wait.”

  “And what about Paris?” I think I may have raised my voice, but only to make it heard above my heartbeat. “You and I and Paris?”

  “It doesn’t change anything,” she said quickly. “It’s just a delay. Probably only a day or two. I’ll still come to Paris, I promise you.”

  She smiled brightly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. But it fooled neither of us. A small chasm had opened up between us. We both studied it with surprise. I said, “Elly, I don’t understand. Why do you have to go? What’s so important? Why can’t you cancel it?”

  And there was a pause, during which the ice cracked and the chasm widened. She looked at me, clear-eyed and certain. “Because I can’t, that’s why. And I can’t explain it either, Marla. Believe me. It’s just something I have to do for him. A favor. A way of saying good-bye, if you like.”

  I stared at her and felt a tightening in my gut. And I knew then that I had been neither as clever nor as blessed as I had thought. Because what Elly was saying was there was something she had not told me. I was not the only one with secrets. It was a shock well deserved. I had been so busy celebrating, I’d forgotten there was still a war on. Now, across the battlefield, Lenny’s sword glinted in the sun. I stepped carefully.

  “I thought you didn’t approve anymore?” I said quietly.

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I know you’re upset, and I can see why. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But I haven’t changed my mind. It’s no big deal, right? There’s nothing to worry about. There never is with Lenny. I’m not doing anything illegal. It’s just that I can’t talk about it. And I do have to do it. I owe him one. Please don’t make it any harder. I tell you, by the time you get to Paris and order the first espresso and croissant, I’ll be on a plane to Charles de Gaulle. And real life starts then. All right?”

  Here it was, my big moment. I heard my cue, watched the spotlight playing over the stage waiting to pick me up. I knew the speech, word-perfect—No, Elly, it’s not all right. Sit down, I have something to tell you. I have reason to believe that your lover has been set up and that he has moved you into the firing line. Simple. So why couldn’t I say it? Maybe I had waited too long. Or maybe I had just got used to the sound of my own silence. I opened my mouth. But nothing came out.

  She smiled. “Come on, Marla. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Oh, but it is, Elly. It is. “All right,” I heard myself say. “So you have to go to London. I assume I can’t come with you. But at least we could fly out on the same day. Share a taxi to the airport. Or is that forbidden?”

  She laughed, and a little stream of anxiety flowed out of her and away. “Idiot … of course we can. Oh, thank you, Marla. I knew you’d understand.”

  “What are friends for?” I said weakly, but the weight on my heart didn’t lift. I needed to get away from her, think things through. I looked around. “How long is all this going to take?”

  “Not long. Lenny’s letting the apartment for a while. I’m just casing up some of the valuables. I’m already packed.” And she pointed to the two suitcases by the door. “Smart, eh?”

  “Smart,” I echoed. “I think I need a cup of tea. How about you?” I said with enormous casualness.

  “You bet.”

  In the kitchen I stood over the kettle, watching to make sure it didn’t boil. My head was thumping. What did it mean? Could it really be just a devastating coincidence, or was it more than that? The only person who might know the answer was three thousand miles away. I opened the fridge and reached down for the carton of milk. In an absence of mind, it slid smoothly through my fingers and onto the floor. I swore wearily.
>
  “What is it?” she called through the opened door.

  “I dropped the milk,” I said, looking down as a river of white gulped its way across the tiles.

  “Never mind. I’ll have mine black.”

  I had to talk to J.T. But not here. My brain made a welcome return and took down the Out to Lunch sign. Not here. “It’s all right, I’ll go out and buy another pint. I want to get a newspaper anyway.”

  “The stall will be closed by now. Are you OK? You look a bit off-color.”

  “I’m fine. Sudden calcium deficiency, that’s all. You need anything?”

  “Blueberry cheesecake with fudge cream sauce and rum and pistachio ice cream.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just a fantasy. The milk will do.”

  Out on the street, I discovered I was shaking. What if J.T. wasn’t there? What then? I ran most of the way to the corner deli. Like exercising in a sauna. People stared at me as if I were dangerous. I gave the woman at the counter a twenty-dollar note and asked for five dollars in change. Clutching a fistful of quarters, I went in search of a phone, then had to wait five minutes while an old man with liver-spotted hands shouted what sounded like Polish abuse to someone who presumably understood the language. He slammed down the phone and shuffled past me muttering. The number was dancing in my brain. I punched the digits fast. There was a pause. A cheery automatic voice told me to deposit four dollars and twenty cents in change. I stuffed in the quarters. Somewhere in the system an electronic brain counted the cash. And put me through. The number rang. If he was out feeding the animals, would he hear it above their cackles?

  “Yep.” A voice like a fingersnap.

  “J.T.?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Marla. It’s me, Marla. Calling from New York.”

  “What is it?” Instant attention.

  “Lenny’s father’s had a heart attack. He was due to fly to London tomorrow. Elly is going in his place.”

  Silence. For so long I got cold feet. “J.T.?”

  “I’m here. You didn’t tell her?”

  “No, I … there was no point. She was leaving him anyway. It seemed better to—”

  “Well, it’s too late now. If she changes her mind at the last minute, he’ll know why.”

  Another silence. I was suddenly tired of all the things I didn’t need to know. “What’s happening, J.T.? You have to tell me.”

  I heard him make a sharp clicking noise in his throat, a kind of angry impatience. But he talked. “OK. Now listen to me. In the bag she’s taking to London are four sets of juggling balls, regular circus equipment, right? Each ball is maybe the size of a fist, covered in soft leather and pretty weighty. Four sets. That’s twenty balls in all. You have to take them out. Got that?”

  Now he said it, I realized I had probably known all along. Funny how everything has a point. I remembered back to a poster outside Golden Gate Park and Lenny’s sharp look as Elly chattered magpielike of things she knew nothing about. Of course, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I still knew everything and nothing. On the other end of the line, J.T. was talking.

  “… Marla, have you got that?”

  “Yes, I got it. What shall I do with them?”

  “Suit yourself. I don’t want to know.”

  Message understood. I was behind enemy lines, and HQ had no more advice to give. Some have greatness thrust upon them. It appeared to be my turn.

  “What about Lenny? What happens when he finds out?”

  Three thousand miles away, I thought I heard him smile. “Oh, Lenny. I would say he already knows.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about Lenny. Leave him to me. Where did you say he was supposed to be now?”

  “Rhode Island. He went last night. He’s with his mother.”

  “Like hell he is.” The laugh was loud and mirthless. “Lenny’s mother is in a Boston cemetery and has been for the last six years. And if his father really had had a heart attack, Lenny would be out celebrating.”

  The case for the prosecution rested. There was no more to be said. Thanks for the information, J.T. Remember me to the chickens.

  “Marla?”

  I brought the receiver back to my ear.

  “Put it somewhere no one else can find it, all right? It’s your insurance as well as hers.”

  Sure thing, J.T. Thanks for nothing. I put my finger down on the cradle switch and held it there. Men. Who could ever depend on them?

  “Hey yoon lady. You finish wid the phone?” Polish brown spots was back, no doubt with a few insults he’d forgotten. I handed him the receiver and walked home. I was halfway up in the lift when I realized I’d never picked up the paper from the counter. When I finally got in through the front door, I was shiny with sweat. Elly looked up from a half-full packing case.

  “What took you so long? Did they send you out to milk the cow?”

  I shook my head, gulping in air to disguise my panting. “No, I went for a walk.”

  “In this weather? You could die of dehydration. You didn’t get a paper?”

  I stared down at the carton of milk. “… er … no, I couldn’t find a stall.”

  “Here, give me the milk. Now sit down. You look terrible. I’ll make the tea.”

  I did as I was told, squatting glumly on the edge of a chair filled with books. And as I perched there, in a kind of daze, my eyes alighted on the two smart leather suitcases by the door. And so I made my plan.

  The first part was easy. After the packing was done, she took a shower. I didn’t need to suggest that. As the bathroom door closed behind her, I hit the living room. The suitcases were locked. Naturally. I checked the desk drawers and all available surfaces for keys. No sign. I tried the bedroom. Dressing table, coat pocket. Nothing. They had to be in her bag. I fumbled around and pulled out a large leather satchel from under the bedclothes. Inside was a microcosm of Elly’s life: colorful and cluttered. I kept my eye on the bathroom door as I dug through loose change, spare Tampaxes, handfuls of pens, and crumpled bits of paper. And finally a bunch of keys. My hand closed over them, and I lifted them out and turned them over in my palm. There they were—two small shiny metal creatures. It would take no time at all to slip them off the ring and into my pocket. From behind the bathroom door, I heard the shower switch off. No time was exactly what I had. I dropped the other keys back and returned the bag to the chaos of the unmade bed. Seconds later, as Elly emerged, dripping onto the carpet, I was standing in the doorway, a casual visitor who just happened to be passing.

  “I’ve decided,” she said, shaking her hair like a dog. “We’re going out for the evening. If there’s any news, Lenny will call later. We deserve a last supper.”

  I’ve always wondered how Judas felt, sitting there knocking back the bread and the wine, listening to the speeches, knowing what he knew. Who knows? Maybe he genuinely thought it was all for the best, that it was just a flash in the pan and everyone would thank him in the end. Poor old Judas. History really had it in for him.

  As for Elly and me, well, we did our best given the circumstances. But the circumstances prevailed. We were fighting too many things. The statements of leaving were everywhere: the last walk across a certain intersection, the smell of an all-night bakery, the final meal in a city that had once been home. There were so many black holes between us, the things we couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about, and it seemed to take all our energy avoiding them. So many times I almost told her. So many times when the conversation lay fallow and my imagination ran riot through customs halls and circuses. But I didn’t know where to begin. Or worse, where the beginning would end. I suppose I was afraid of what I would unleash, afraid of losing her so soon after I had won her back. Or maybe it was pride. That I should be the one to save her. I have thought about it all until I can think no more. Only the facts remain. And the fact is I did not tell her. Instead, when the pauses grew into silence, I plugged them with inconsequential chatter
of Boston, of Paris, and of the London to come. And although it did not really help, it served to keep my mind off other things. Such as smuggling and burglary.

  It was almost midnight when we got home. The apartment was cool and empty. I remembered that very first evening, when we had talked through the night. Not now. Now we were exhausted and the world was full of things that couldn’t be said.

  “God, Marla, I’m out of it.” She propped herself against the wall and yawned. “What do you say to an early night?”

  “You don’t want a nightcap?” I did. Very much. She must have registered my need. She pulled herself up and smiled. “Sure. What’s it to be. Scotch?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll get it,” I said firmly. “This time you sit down.”

  In the kitchen I practiced white magic. Into a tall glass I tipped the fifteen milligrams of crushed Valium, pulverized with loving care. Then a spoonful of coffee and sugar, and a hefty slug of whiskey followed by a river of boiling water. And finally some cream, sliding over the back of the spoon onto the surface like a white oil slick. A garnish of cinnamon to confuse the taste and it was done.

  She was duly impressed by the offering. “You have to drink it all.” I presented it with both hands, like a loving cup. “It brings good luck on the eve of a journey.”

  “Bullshit,” she retorted affectionately, settling herself in a chair and cradling the glass. “Since when did you know anything about folklore?”

  “You’re talking to a professional historian here, remember? The Ionan monks used to drink this every night before retiring. Just in case there should be a journey of the soul in front of them.”