Mortal Fire Page 13

  “Nothing. He said nothing more. Emma, was something wrong with the lunch?”

  “No, Elena, nothing; but I don’t want either you or Sam to think that anything else will happen – because it won’t.”

  She pulled a disappointed face. “Oh, da, OK.” She sucked her teeth, clearly toying with a question. I waited patiently until she looked up earnestly. “Sam said you had a bad relationship once and it is why you will not go out with him.”

  “It is part of the reason, yes.” It was her turn to wait. “But it’s more than that. I don’t want to get involved with anyone unless there is serious commitment – on both sides – and Sam, well, with Sam I get the feeling that his attachment is temporary.”

  She took her time thinking over what I said before finally giving a little sigh and saying, “But don’t forget you promised a girl-date because I will not and there is much to talk about, no?” Well, quite honestly, I didn’t think there was, but girl-talk, as Elena put it, was for her like pollen to a bee: both a necessity and a delight. She suddenly clapped her hands to her mouth.

  “I am an idiot; I forgot to tell you, Matias said the police are questioning a foreign man about the attack on the girl.”

  I hardly dared hope. “Staahl?”

  “No, not him – I do not know who it is. If it helps, I happen to know that Staahl’s taking his group to a play in Portland tomorrow; he will not be back until late.”

  Knowing there would be at least a few hours when I didn’t have to avoid his deadening presence was enough to lighten my mood perceptibly. I spent the rest of the day between the library and my tutor room, dividing my time between continuing to work on my legitimate research project, and gathering and annotating notes on the journal. I stayed longer in the library than strictly necessary because, I told myself, I wished to trace a particular book I needed for my work; but I wasn’t being entirely honest, because every time the library doors sighed open, I looked up, only to feel a waver of disappointment as an unfamiliar face filed through.

  I welcomed the distraction Monday brought, not least because of the visit Matthew promised to pay me. It was warmer again, and the sun played hide and seek with the clouds all morning until it ventured through my window at an angle that told me it neared lunchtime, and youthful voices rose up from the quad. I opened the window wide to catch the fragrant air from the nearby woods and leaned outside, feeling the sun on my face, and saw Matias strolling across the grass towards the faculty with something in his hand. He looked up, saw me and waved the object in the air, pointing first to it, then me: my newest posters from England.

  The posters sprang open when released from the confines of the tube and, once in place next to the others, they told their own story. Still early, I didn’t feel hungry enough to accept the invitation to join my friends for lunch. Besides, I felt like a spare wheel in their relationship when I saw the possibility of having one of my own. I adjusted the volume of my music, and continued selecting books for the shelves. Over the weekend, I found myself constantly thinking about Matthew, visualizing him as we talked, wondering what he thought of me, what impression I gave: whether I came across as too gauche, retiring, too boring or trite. His self-possession made me self-conscious. Other than lunch with Sam on Friday, I hadn’t been out alone with a man for a very long time, so I felt socially awkward and clumsy and unattractive, and I guessed it probably showed.

  By the time I answered his distinctive knock, I had all but persuaded myself Matthew only visited because he said he would; so when I opened the door to him, I barely met his eyes and the fluttering in my stomach related more to an agony of nerves than delightful anticipation.

  He saw my reticence at once and hesitated on the threshold of the room.

  “Dr D’Eresby, if this is inconvenient…”

  He must think I didn’t want him there.

  “No – no, not at all, please come in…” I rushed and then stopped and took a breath and tried to pace my words more intelligibly. “Please come in, I’ve been sorting out books for the case.”

  He followed me into the room, softly closing the door behind him. I sensed his eyes on my back and turned around, surprised instead to see he had a quizzical look on his face.

  “The Flute and Harp concerto?” he asked. It took me a moment to realize he must be able to hear my iPod left playing on top of the bookcase; I couldn’t hear a thing.

  “Oh golly, I have it switched up too high again, haven’t I? I won’t have any eardrums left at this rate.” I picked up one of the earphones and put it to my ear.

  “Yes, Mozart,” I confirmed. I didn’t think it at all loud.

  I began to settle under his steadying influence and risked a glance at him; he looked startlingly handsome today. Although his clothes were tailored, modest, unadorned and expensive, on his wrist he wore an old gold-cased watch, its dial scratched and worn. He might have inherited it because it looked pre-war, and its shabby persona seemed at odds with its owner and I liked him even more for it. There appeared nothing obvious about this man – his cultured urbanity not assumed but natural.

  “I thought you might like to see this.” He held out a small, leather-bound volume – very old – the cover stained and worn by time. I took it, opening it respectfully because of its age.

  “It’s an early seventeenth-century Italian treatise on the treatment of heretics by religious courts – including their torture and subsequent death or recantation. I believe it will appeal to you.” I detected humour in his voice, then saw the first illustration and my introversion was instantly forgotten.

  “Wow! This is amazing – I’ve never seen anything like this before!”

  With great care, I opened the book at a woodcut picture of a torture scene, then another, then squinted at a page filled with tight, early, printed type. I instantly regretted dropping Italian in my first year as an undergraduate; it felt like being given a bar of fine chocolate and then being told you can’t eat it, but so much worse.

  “I can’t read medieval Italian,” I said in despair.

  A smile flashed across his face as he looked at mine. “But I can,” he answered. “Would you like me to translate it for you?”

  The chocolate came within reach again. “You can? Yes please! But only when – or if – you have time.”

  His smile faded. “I have plenty of that,” he said, only a shade off bitter.

  I looked down at the book in my hands and realized that – now a widower – he probably had more than enough time.

  “Do you mind if I keep it for a few days to have a look first?” I asked. His face softened and he looked pleased.

  “Yes, of course, it won’t take me long to translate.”

  “Where did you get it?” I turned it over. “It must be very rare.”

  “I’ve had it some time; I can’t remember exactly where or when I bought it – and I’ve never heard of another edition.”

  It was not something I would be likely to forget in a hurry, but then he wasn’t a historian, so perhaps it didn’t mean so much to him. To have a treasure like this and not remember the exact date and time of its acquisition, nonetheless seemed remarkable.

  “Perhaps you would like to bring it over to me at my office or to the med faculty, when you’re ready?” he suggested. I made the mistake of looking up at him and found myself caught in his direct gaze. “Dr D’Eresby?”

  “Mmm?” I had been distracted again. I blinked.

  “Emma – please, I’m Emma, Dr Lynes.”

  “Thank you, Emma, will you do that? Bring it over to me – or would you like me to collect it from you? And my name’s Matthew, by the way.”

  The floor swayed for a second.

  “I’ll… I’m not sure. No, I’ll bring it over to you – save you a journey.”

  “Yes, it’s a mighty way to go,” he said with good-humoured irony. I blushed; we stood so close, he must have seen it, but he looked away and caught sight of my newest purchases on the wall. He laughed softly,
the first time I heard him laugh since we met. I followed his gaze.

  “These are intriguing additions: Andrew Marvell and a photograph of a cabbage? Is there a connection?”

  I coloured under his scrutiny; intending the visual joke to be mine alone, I hadn’t anticipated anyone else noticing it.

  “Um… well, yes. Sort of.” He would think me bizarre. “Er, it’s a play on words based on one of his lines: ‘My vegetable Love should grow, vaster than Empires…’”

  “‘… and more slow,’” he finished and laughed again. “Very good. Do you like metaphysical poetry?”

  Astounded that he knew the line, I nodded.

  “Yes, I love it – well, much of it; it depends on the poet, of course, and the poems.”

  “So do you like Marvell in particular?” He studied the black-and-white print of the portrait of the young and serious-looking seventeenth-century English poet, whose receding hairline made him look older. I put my head on one side and considered it with him.

  “I like some of his work and the way he handles verse, especially the way he combines objectivity with passion; but I prefer Donne and Herbert overall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… well, I like Donne’s struggle with humanity and Herbert’s piety, but Marvell makes me laugh, and there were no prints available of the others, so…”

  “Here he is in juxtaposition with a brassica. How very apt; he would like that – it would appeal to his wit.”

  He made it sound as if he knew a great deal more about the poet than I did.

  “So you like metaphysical poetry, too?” I ventured.

  Matthew continued to look at the picture for a minute longer, fingering the ring on his little finger next to the wedding band; then he breathed out and turned away.

  “Yes, I do.”

  If ever his own portrait were painted, I imagined it would be in varying shades of dark blue reflecting his calm exterior and the depth of loneliness that pervaded the air around him. And something else – something with which he wrestled, perhaps; something beyond the grief. He seemed to be listening again.

  “I don’t recognize this piece; it’s very poignant, what is it?”

  I shook my head, marvelling at his acute hearing, and picked up the earphone, smiling in recognition of one of my favourite pieces of music.

  “It’s from The Last Samurai; have you seen it?”

  “It’s a film? No I haven’t. What is it about?”

  I tried to think of a way of summing it up, made more difficult because I hadn’t seen it for ages.

  “Well, from what I can remember, it’s about a lonely, jaded man who’s seen too much death, and about his rehabilitation despite the betrayal of time in the face of a changing world, or along those lines.”

  I might as well have slapped him across the face; he blanched and turned away.

  What on earth had I said?

  “I’m s… sorry,” I stammered. He swivelled back to face me as if nothing happened.

  “It’s the music; it’s surprisingly… touching.” He smiled, but a tight line formed around his mouth that hadn’t been there earlier.

  A sudden, expectant rap broke through the lapse in our conversation, but I wasn’t glad of the intrusion; I didn’t want our meeting to end this way.

  “Who…?” I started to say.

  “You were expecting someone?”

  “No, not unless I forgot,” I said, with undeserved irritation for whoever was on the other side of the door. It shook as someone rattled on it impatiently.

  Matthew looked quickly at me. “Would you like me to answer that?”

  I grimaced and shook my head, making for the door. I opened it and Sam nearly fell in, hand raised to knock again. A grin lit up his face when he saw me.

  “Hello, Freckles, I thought I would look in on you after our date.”

  He was halfway in the room when he saw Matthew standing by the window, one arm resting on the bookcase, very still. The grin dropped off Sam’s face. He looked at me and back at Matthew who didn’t move a muscle in the awkward silence that followed. Matthew broke it first.

  “I must be getting back; I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

  He moved smoothly across the room – lithely, like an athlete. I held the door for him.

  “Thank you for the book. Oh, and…” I reached over to the chair where it lay, “… for lending me your coat.”

  I handed it to him, acutely aware that Sam picked up on every nuance of interest I attempted to hide, but at the same time silently calling, “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.” Matthew took the coat, his hand accidentally brushing my arm as he did so. My pulse stampeded. He looked towards Sam shifting morosely from foot to foot, then at me, his eyes darker and more compelling than before, so I couldn’t drag my gaze away.

  “I will see you again soon, Emma.”

  It sounded like a promise and, if I didn’t know better, if I were less level-headed and more romantically inclined, I would swear that he staked his claim.

  The door shut quietly behind him and I turned reluctantly to face Sam. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, he stood in front of the same window where Matthew had been minutes before. An undercurrent of resentment ran through him I had never seen before and it took me aback.

  “I’m sorry, Sam…” I began but he didn’t let me continue my attempt to placate.

  “Sorry – why? Because you’ve already forgotten about our date or because you would rather be with Lynes and I interrupted you?”

  His accurate supposition rankled, but I fought to control my irritation.

  “I haven’t forgotten about Friday, of course not, but I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “That’s obvious,” he said, rising tension in the set of his shoulders.

  “Sam, I’m sorry, Matthew…”

  “Matthew,” he almost spat and I felt a glow of anger; I reined it in, trying to keep calm. There was no reason why I should have to explain myself to him, but the part of me that wanted to tell him to mind his own business and get lost, vied with the part that wanted to keep the peace and, at the moment, peace and reason prevailed.

  “Yes, Matthew – he dropped in to see me and…”

  He cut short my explanation as if my mentioning his name unleashed something in him.

  “Right, sure, he just dropped in on the off chance, did he? Well, that’s all very nice and dandy but what was he doing here?” His venom tipped the balance of the conversation. Simmering anger boiled out of me. I rounded on him.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  If he had harboured any illusions about my preference, he didn’t now.

  “It’s like that, is it?”

  “Like what?” I glared at him. “Like what, Sam, what do you think happened?”

  “Don’t tell me there’s nothing going on between you – it’s obvious,” he said, flatly.

  Was it? I knew how I felt but I thought there was still plenty of room for doubt on Matthew’s side. Wasn’t there? My heart sang, anger held in suspension for a brief moment.

  “There’s nothing going on. He brought me a bookcase, and a book he thought might be useful. That’s all.”

  “And a coat,” he added sulkily.

  “It was raining – he lent it to me,” I said reasonably.

  “Either you are blind, Emma, or very, very stupid if you can’t see what’s happening here.” His incriminations stung and blood rushed to my face.

  “That’s not fair. It’s not as if there was – is – anything between us.”

  He didn’t miss my slip and his expression soured.

  “Isn’t there? Not for you, obviously.”

  We scowled at each other across the room.

  “I told you the first time we met not to make assumptions about me. I warned you not to take me for granted, didn’t I, Sam? I thought I made it clear I want nothing more than to be friends. Anything else is entirely down to your imagination.” />
  He looked at me as if something just occurred to him.

  “How could I be so dumb?” He hit the heel of his hand hard against his forehead as if trying to beat some sense into it. “That first night – at the reception party – I should have known then when I saw you with him; you’d already fallen for him, hadn’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I tried to sound scathing but I wasn’t so sure. I slumped into the chair behind my desk, misery clouding my judgment. Sam found another chair and pulled it under him, sitting heavily into the fabric upholstery. It sighed in complaint.

  “I suppose I should have known,” he repeated. I didn’t reply, thinking over what he said a moment before. “I just thought that since we’d gotten on so well…” he raised his hands in defeat and let them drop onto the arms of the chair. I didn’t like his vitriol, but I liked his self-pity even less.

  I cast a brief look at him; he looked utterly miserable. “Sam, you don’t even know me…”

  “Oh, and Lynes does?”

  I ignored the comment. “You assumed something that wasn’t there; it was too much, too fast. Anyway, I told you on Friday: I didn’t come to the US looking for a relationship.” I knew I should have chosen my words more carefully, because a sneer crossed his face.

  “So you say. But you fancy you’ve got one with Lynes, is that right? Hey, Emma – you and half the women on this campus. Don’t think you’re the only one mooning over him, or hadn’t you noticed that?”

  No, I hadn’t. I felt my face drain of colour. A look of triumph entered his eyes and he went in for the kill.

  “You didn’t know, did you? Lynes’ Kittens – all mewling for his attention, all wanting a little of what he’s got. And now you too…”

  “Shut up! Stop it, Sam! I don’t believe you.” All the fight went out of me and Sam saw he’d hit his mark. He chewed at his thumbnail ferociously then whacked the arm of his chair and stood up, coming over to my desk.

  “Look, Emma…” he began, but I didn’t let him continue.

  “You’ve made your point, Sam, just go.” Inside I became a hollow ball, devoid of feeling; I couldn’t look at him. He leaned over and put his hand on mine as it lay on the desk. There was a note of regret in his voice.