Mortal Fire Page 12

  He didn’t answer. “And what about this one?” He looked at one of my new posters – the picture Elena disliked so much.

  “Well this one is quite different – the opposite, in fact. I chose this because it says everything about the sum of human fears, the reasons behind the actions that make history. I don’t like it, as such, but it serves the purpose for which it was made.”

  “Which was?”

  I framed my answer with care to avoid coming across as preachy.

  “To remind people of what lies at the end of the road of life – if they choose the wrong path in this case. But it doesn’t allow for God’s compassion; salvation is portrayed out of reach,” and I showed him the man’s fingers straining towards God’s hand, close but not touching; “which is why I prefer the other one.”

  Looking at the pictures like this made it less awkward being close to him and gave me something relevant to talk about. I hoped I didn’t waffle. From this angle I could study him without appearing to stare; he turned and faced me again and I reluctantly dropped my eyes in case he could read them.

  “And which path are you treading?”

  Briefly stunned by the directness of his question, I lifted my eyes to meet his and was shocked to see acres of loneliness. I took a step towards him without thinking – almost too close – but he didn’t move away.

  “Is not faith being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see? I want… no, I believe that I’m on the right path. I made a choice many years ago to follow Christ and I see no point to this life if I don’t abide by it.”

  He considered me solemnly for a moment, then sighed.

  “That’s a good path to follow, even if it’s not easy to do, or even if it’s impossible.”

  “No! It’s not impossible.” My vehemence took us both by surprise. “I mean, it can’t be impossible; it’s what we have been promised. There is hope of salvation every second we are alive, right up to our last dying breath…” I stopped suddenly, my eyes widening in horror at my crass insensitivity, then remembered that he wasn’t aware that I knew of his wife’s death.

  “Is something the matter?” He looked alarmed, but not angry, nor upset.

  “Nothing – sorry, it’s nothing. It just means a lot to me. I didn’t mean to be so melodramatic.” I recovered and fiddled with the edge of one of the prints trying to un-stick itself from the wall.

  “Having faith is nothing to apologize for.” He cast his eyes over the posters again, and not for the first time I had the impression that he was taking in every detail printed on them. “It is worth living for,” he said softly and then, as if gathering himself, “I have a book that you might find interesting; I’ll bring it over if you wish?”

  “When?” I said, a little quickly and mentally kicked myself for being too eager. If he noticed, he didn’t let it show.

  “Would Monday be convenient, at the same sort of time?”

  I didn’t need to check my diary; whatever I had on, I would cancel it.

  “Monday’s fine.”

  He looked me straight in the eyes and I felt it like a rod of lightning. “I look forward to it, Dr D’Eresby.” He inclined his head towards the door for a second as if listening, then back at me. “Until Monday, then.”

  By the time I drew breath he had gone, leaving only the sense of him behind.

  I sank onto a chair, not entirely certain if I imagined the last half hour, but the empty bookcase standing solidly between the windows persuaded me that, however dreamlike the conversation, it had been real. He seemed easy to talk to – perhaps too easy – because his questions were direct, searching, and when he looked at me, although not an entirely comfortable feeling, it couldn’t be ignored. Perhaps that is what Siggie referred to when she said people found him different; he was, but I liked it. I liked the way he went straight to the heart of the matter. I liked the fact that he showed interest in what I had to say. I liked the way he made me feel when he looked at me. Yes – it was strange, but strange was good.

  Barely a minute passed before another knock shook the door. I leapt up in the hope that Matthew remembered his coat – but it was Sam. He read my surprise all too clearly as he came into the room.

  “You forgot we had a lunch date, didn’t you?”

  “No, of course not,” I pretended, rearranging my expression so that it didn’t register disappointment. “I just didn’t expect you so early.”

  I gave him the best smile I could muster and turned around to pick up my bag. Sam consulted his watch.

  “It’s not that early, Freckles. Hey, nice bookcase, though I’m more of a minimalist myself; is it new?” He wandered over and patted it like a dog. I kept a straight face.

  “No, it’s an antique, actually.”

  He shook his head, his mouth readily curving into a smile. “You’ll kill me with that English sense of humour. You ready?”

  “Yup. Where are we going for our non-date lunch date?” I asked, reminding him that I didn’t forget the status of our rendezvous even if I had forgotten the arrangement itself.

  He raised an eyebrow mysteriously. “Not far; sure glad to see you have a jacket though, just in case.”

  I glanced down at Matthew’s coat on my chair, and picked it up. “Just in case of what?” I asked, more curious now – the looks Matias and Elena exchanged as they left me this morning suddenly making ominous sense. He grinned and didn’t answer, but opened the door, standing in such a way that I had to pass under his raised arm.

  At first, I thought we were going to his car, but when we crossed the staff car park, making our way through the trees that framed it, then along a path until we came to a rise overlooking the lake, all became clear. Once only a large, natural pond when Ebenezer Howard bought the land, he lengthened and landscaped it until it covered several acres and disappeared beyond a man-made islet towards one end. Reed-beds along the near-side shore provided cover for the ducks, and privacy from the casual passer-by. Beneath the canopy of a small tree alive with sparkling orange berries, Sam had spread a heather-coloured blanket on which he proceeded to lay the contents of a large picnic basket. He invited me to sit.

  “Wow, Sam – this is great,” I said, alarmed by the flash of expectation in his eyes. I sat down and curled my legs to one side, glad I wore trousers. He sat down beside me, his rangy body appearing longer now that it stretched across the rug as he settled himself into a position where he continued unloading the basket.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  I looked around us. We were in a sheltered spot where the wind was filtered by the reeds on one side, and the trees and shrubs on the other. Sunlight danced uncertainly through the shivering leaves, casting restless shadows on the ground. Despite the sun, the air still carried the promise of the winter to come.

  He handed me a small china plate, a fork and a long-stemmed glass. He delved into the basket again and brought out some covered bowls and proceeded to take off the lids.

  “Saw Lynes leaving the humanities building this morning,” he said casually, offering me a selection of tiny canapés.

  “Thanks. Did you?” I said, taking one and balancing it on my plate then taking the bowl and holding it for him while he took several. He licked his fingers.

  “Don’t often see him out of his own department,” he observed, picking up a bowl of pasta and putting a short-handled spoon in it for me to help myself.

  “Really?” I feigned indifference. “This is a marvellous spread, Sam, for a non-date. You didn’t make it, did you?”

  “Sure, OK – I’ve got the message. Gee, you sure make it hard for a guy to impress you and yeah, I did, as a matter of fact.”

  I was genuinely surprised to hear that. “Do I?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you do.”

  I hurriedly changed the subject onto safer ground.

  “You know, I’ve still no idea what you do at the college.”

  He reached into the basket, but st
opped, his hand on the neck of a bottle. “You mean you didn’t ask Elena or Matias yet?”

  Blow, should I have done? I suppose I should; after all, I asked Elena about Matthew and it’s one of those basic questions considered to be courteous in academic circles, especially if you’re supposed to be interested in a person on any level.

  “I wanted you to tell me, Sam.”

  He appeared mollified and lifted a long-necked bottle from the basket. It looked like champagne. Why did it have to be champagne? By now I had a small pile of food on my plate that looked as if it had taken a long time and much effort to prepare; this looked more and more like a date to me. He sat up and began to uncork the bottle, oblivious to my increasing unease.

  “Well, I’m a mathematician,” he began. “Ever heard of metamathematics?” He took one look at my face and grinned. The cork popped and he grabbed my glass before the bubbles exploded all over me and I could refuse.

  “Right, better drink that before I explain – it’ll make more sense.”

  He waited for the foam to subside so that he could fill my glass to the top but I took it from him, pretending to admire the bubbles as they fizzed and popped at the surface, and balanced it on the rug behind me when I thought he wasn’t looking. I began to eat my food.

  “Go on,” I prompted, “you were saying?”

  He topped up his glass and drank a quarter of it before answering.

  “Metamathematics, put simply, is the study of mathematics for the sake of it, using mathematical methods.”

  I must have looked nonplussed because he shook his head, his brown eyes laughing at me.

  “Now, this study of mathematics produces metatheories – in other words, mathematical theories about mathematical theories.”

  I bit into the canapé. “Why?”

  Sam finished a mouthful of salad with bits of something interesting in it.

  “Why what?”

  “Why study the study of mathematics?”

  He looked at me sideways. “It’s immensely sexy, for one thing.”

  A wave of hair had fallen into my eyes and I brushed it back without thinking.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It sure is from where I’m sitting.” His eyes took on a languid appearance and I noticed he had stopped eating. Picking up a bowl, I offered him some more canapés as a distraction; he took three and ate them without looking.

  “You know, you’re looking… mmm, de-lec-table,” he hummed almost to himself. “There’s this thing about you I can’t describe. When you smile you’ve got all this life about you – you fizz with it – you get under my skin.” His hand caressed a fold of the rug uncomfortably close to my thigh. It was precisely what I didn’t want to hear. I curled my legs further out of reach.

  “You were telling me about maths, Sam, but I’m still none the wiser. Can’t you give me an example or something?”

  He sighed, and stretched out along the full length of the rug with his hands behind his head, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders in his dark leather jacket.

  “It’s related to mathematical logic – intimately related,” he emphasized. “It’s like Gödel’s ‘incompleteness theorem’ which says that, given any finite number of axioms for Peano arithmetic, there will be true statements about that arithmetic that cannot be proved from those axioms,” he grinned again. “See, I told you – numbers are pure sex. Strawberry?” he offered, managing to make it sound salacious without trying.

  I took one without meeting his eyes and stared towards the lake instead.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said primly.

  “I can prove it,” he suggested, sitting upright and lifting a wisp of my hair and holding it up so that the sunlight could tease the colour from it. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

  I took possession of my hair. “Sam…” I warned, “this is just lunch, remember?”

  He fell back onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he surveyed me.

  “What are you afraid of, Emma?”

  Wind stirred the bulrushes, hissing through the tall stems, causing some of the cotton-white seed-heads to briefly take flight before skimming the ink-blue surface of the lake, where they floated like marooned clouds.

  “I told you, I only came to the States to work. I don’t do casual relationships, Sam.”

  I heard him readjust his posture but didn’t look around.

  “Who said anything about casual?”

  I glanced at him sharply; he was sitting up now, one arm draped around his knees, the other hand plucking at a long piece of grass by the edge of the rug.

  “Any relationship, then. I’m not here for any relationship – casual or not.”

  He decapitated the head of the grass and picked the individual seeds off it before giving it to the wind.

  “What happens if you meet someone you like?”

  That was a good question and one I continually asked myself, no more so than now. An ant explored the blanket edge tentatively.

  “I won’t.”

  “You sound very sure about that.”

  The ant climbed onto the rug, struggling over the long fibres of wool, intent on a crumb four times its size.

  “Emma?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t say.”

  “No, I didn’t.” The ant managed to heave the crumb of food onto its back, but the fibres made its progress painfully slow. I picked a broad, flat leaf from the sward and placed it in front of the creature. It investigated the leaf with its antennae flicking backwards and forwards over the surface and carefully climbed on.

  “Emma, c’mon, give me a break here!”

  I looked at him over my shoulder, his brooding, smoky-brown eyes sincere and genuinely interested. Gingerly, I lifted the leaf and put it on the grass. The ant climbed off with its precious cargo and disappeared into the green jungle.

  “Once bitten, twice shy, Sam.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, thought it might be something like that. You gonna tell me or do I have to guess? No? Well, don’t let it put you off; look at me – twice bitten, still not shy.”

  The engaging grin was back. He had a knack of being intimate without touching and sexuality flowed as naturally from him as water from a tap, that he could no more switch off than I could forget my past.

  “Yes, exactly – look at you, Sam.”

  He considered me for a moment and, for a second, I thought he took offence, but his sensual mouth lifted into a smile and his eyes opened wide.

  “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take no for an answer.”

  “I wouldn’t hold out much hope, if I were you,” I said. “I can’t say it any clearer than that. I’m sorry if I gave you any other impression, Sam, but I didn’t mean to and I only want to be friends, nothing more.”

  He drained his glass and lay on his back again, squinting at the sun as it fell towards the lake. “Sure, Freckles, but you know the saying: ‘Where there’s life…’ And I always live in hope.” For a fleeting moment I remembered another conversation not so very long ago in an entirely different context, and I wondered whether, if he were here instead of Sam, would I prove to be so resistant?

  It became cooler; the breeze stiffening and the dark water matting in tiny waves that lapped against the reed beds in little slap-slapping sounds. I hugged my arms around my legs to keep warm. Sam picked up Matthew’s jacket and put it around my shoulders, leaving his hand resting lightly against my neck.

  “Thanks,” I said, and drew the collar of the coat up around my chin, displacing his hand.

  “Blue suits you,” he said. “You should wear it more often.”

  I didn’t reply so he began to pack the basket and I swivelled around to help him. After a minute, he peered up curiously.

  “By the way, what happened to the dog?”

  I had forgotten my reference to being bitten.

  “The dog…? Oh, the dog. What happens to all dogs that bite, I suppose; he was muzzled.”<
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  He raised his dark eyebrows but didn’t ask for an explanation and I didn’t offer him one. In this case I thought it better to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Chapter 7

  Besieged

  I WELCOMED A LIE-IN ON SATURDAY, and again on Sunday because, while awake, the conversations in which I had engaged echoed eternally around my waking mind until they whipped into a frenzy of anxiety. While I slept, I did not dream, and found some respite from them.

  On Friday evening, I contrived a headache as an excuse not to discuss the lunch, and Elena reluctantly left me to sleep it off, promising – or threatening – to be back in the morning.

  On Saturday, I pretended to be out and buried my head under my pillow until she stopped knocking, and I lay fretting at my deceit. I then spent the rest of the day exhuming my old notes on the journal as an attempt to distract myself until it was so late, and I was so tired, that I fell asleep at the little table that served as a desk.

  By the time Elena tried again on Sunday, I succeeded in gathering my thoughts into something resembling order and could face the inevitable interrogation.

  “So, what happened?” she asked, before even stepping through the door.

  I kept it brief.

  “We had lunch; Sam made a very great effort; the food was lovely; I came back.”

  “Alone?”

  I pulled a face, askance at the suggestion. “Yes, alone.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell a little. Then she perked up again. “Did he kiss you at least?”

  “Elena…” I drew my hand tiredly over my eyes; “no, he didn’t kiss me.”

  “He didn’t want to kiss you?”

  “Look, I don’t know; probably, but I didn’t want to kiss him. I didn’t go there for any other reason than to have lunch; I thought I made that clear.”

  She jiggled up and down like a small child wanting the lavatory.

  “Yes, you did, but Sam said…”

  I groaned. “You’ve spoken to Sam?”

  “Yes, of course. Sam said that it went well.”

  “Did he now. What else did he say?”

  She pulled her brow into a series of tight little furrows.