A Tangled Web (21 page)

And art had been his business, too, for two decades, until last October. He had been perhaps the world's most successful smuggler, arranging for his people in Central and South America and the Middle East and Far East to rob museums, tombs and ancient temples—sometimes whole sections of the temples themselves, dismantled for shipment—and to smuggle them out of their countries and into Europe and America, where collectors willing to pay huge fees were waiting. He had been preeminently successful because he was far more than a businessman: like his clients, he knew the intrinsic value of what he was obtaining, and often they came to him for advice on filling out a collection or selling something they had tired of.

Now, as he looked down upon the woman in his bed, his rage was the same rage he would feel if one of those irreplaceable works of art had been damaged, not grossly, but enough to cast a pall over its perfection and reduce its value to anyone who might have wanted it.

Still, he felt a certain satisfaction in that: the scars on her face and her loss of memory made her less perfect and therefore more dependent on him. And he needed her dependence. His love for her had grown in the past months to an obsession, desire eating at him wherever he was, whatever he was doing, and he had known, through the
night just ended, that he had to possess her completely and permanently, and to receive from her a passion equal to his.

He was sure that would come, had already begun, and so when she came to his office after her nap, and he stood up and confidently took her in his arms, he was stunned and then infuriated by her instinctive withdrawal. His arms tightened. “Well?”

Stephanie saw the flat coldness in his eyes and her body went slack; she stood passively within his arms. “I don't know. I was just . . . surprised.”

“By your husband embracing you in the house you share after a night of making love.”

She did not answer. He made it sound absurd, but something in the way he had taken her to him, as if he had the right . . .

But didn't he have the right? She had married him. She lived with him. She had made love to him all night.

“Well?” he demanded again.

“I don't know.” She moved away from him, and he did not try to hold her. “I don't
know
you,” she burst out. “You never let me know who you are, inside.”

His eyebrows rose. “What would you like to know?”

“Oh . . . so many things. What you really want, what worries you, what makes you happy, what you're afraid of.”

“Are
you
afraid? Is that what's worrying you?”

“No, should I be? Of what? The explosion on the yacht? You won't tell me about it. Or everything you know about me—”

“Why do you think I haven't told you everything I know about you?”

“I don't know. I feel it.”

“The way you felt the living room was not harmonious?”

He was smiling, but Stephanie's face was somber. “Yes. Exactly. Something between us isn't harmonious, and there has to be a reason for that. And there are other
things I want to know. I think you're hiding something, and I want to know what it is and why you're doing it; I want to know if maybe you're not as absolutely sure of yourself as you pretend to be, if you're worried about not always being in control of things around you, of what happens to you.”

“I'm not afraid, I'm not worried, I'm not hiding anything,” he said flatly. “You know as much about me as anyone does, probably more. I don't show my feelings the way Robert does; you'll have to accept that. Now, that's enough; I don't fritter my time away speculating about motives. What would you like to do today?”

She thought of trying again to make him understand how important this was to her: that as long as she felt he was hiding things, as long as she felt they were not harmonious, she could not love him. Then, with a small gesture of resignation, she dropped it. Later, she thought, as she seemed to think so often with Max. Later she'd make him understand, and then, perhaps, she would love him.

“Could we go for a drive?” she asked. “I mean, would you come with me while I drive into Cavaillon? We could have lunch and I could see the town; I haven't seen it at all.”

“Whatever you'd like. Give me a few minutes to finish up here.”

He went to his desk and began to sort through papers spread out on the large blotter. Stephanie watched for a minute, trying to see from his face if he was angry, but he showed nothing but concentration, and after a moment she left and went to the kitchen. Madame Besset was opening and closing cabinets, a deep frown on her face. “Is something wrong?” Stephanie asked.

“No, madame, though I had my fears. Everything is exactly where it belongs and nothing is broken. I am very pleased.”

“I'm glad you're pleased,” Stephanie said gravely. “We didn't want you to think we'd invaded your kitchen.”

“An army invades, madame. Two people simply displace. I felt displaced. Do you anticipate that it will happen often?”

“As often as possible,” Stephanie said, more sharply than she intended. Everyone wanted to be in charge of something: Madame Besset wanted to be in charge of the kitchen; Robert wanted to be in charge of the school he headed and of their cooking lessons; Max wanted to be in charge of her and of the house. And I ought to be in charge of something, she thought. But I don't know what that would be. If I were really good at something—if I'd earned my living in some profession—wouldn't it have come back to me by now? Some hints, at least?

Well, maybe I did have a hint. I redesigned the living room and Max said I had a good eye. An excellent eye, he said.
You might have done it as a hobby.
But even if it was only a hobby, I still knew exactly how I wanted everything to look. And it looked just the way I'd hoped and I felt so happy doing it . . .

Maybe I could get a job. I could help people make their homes beautiful. I wouldn't even charge them; I'd do it just because it makes me happy. And because it would give me another name—interior designer—an identity. I'd know exactly who I am.

Maybe then, what I would be in charge of is myself.

She became aware of Madame Besset's scowl. “I'm sorry,” she said gently. “I meant, I enjoy learning from Father Chalon—you remember I told you he'd been a three-star chef?—and I hope he'll come often to give me lessons.”

“I know who he is, madame; Chalon's was famous everywhere. People mourned its disappearance. I would not have allowed anyone else in my kitchen.”

Oh, wouldn't you? Stephanie thought. This is my house and my kitchen and I'll decide who occupies it. I saved your job today.

But she heard Max walking down the gallery and knew it was not worth arguing about. She and Madame Besset
would get along most easily by skirting difficult issues, letting things slide into place almost as if arranged by someone else, and finding ways not to dwell on who really made the decisions in that house.

I wonder if that's how other people do it, she thought, and then Max was there and they were on their way to the garage. “If you could, we need flour for tonight,” Madame Besset called after them. “I thought I had more than enough, but for a pie, and bread—”

Max closed the door on her voice. “Shall we bring flour for our chef?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Stephanie said. “She needs to shine tonight, to outperform Robert. I predict a memorable dinner.”

“The battle of the foie gras.” Max opened the car door on the driver's side. “Well, let's see what you can do.”

Stephanie sat behind the wheel, momentarily frozen. She felt Max's eyes on her face and hands and she could not remember the first thing to do.

“The key,” he said.

“I know,” she retorted coldly, and then everything came back, and she was all right. She started the car, backed smoothly out of the garage, and drove through their gates to the street. “But I don't know how to get to Cavaillon.”

“Turn right just beyond the gateposts and follow the road down the hill.” He was amused, and Stephanie realized that her hands were gripping the steering wheel and she was gritting her teeth. I probably look like a warrior about to scale the ramparts, she thought. I'll feel better if I can pretend it's Madame Besset sitting beside me. A laugh broke from her.

“What is it?” Max asked.

“I was trying to pretend you're Madame Besset, but that was more than my imagination could manage.”

He chuckled. “I'm relieved to hear it.”

The exchange had relaxed her; now her hands lay lightly on the wheel and, for the first time, she let herself look at
the landscape. Her eyes darted to left and right, hungrily taking in scenes she had glimpsed only once, when Max brought her here from the hospital.

From their terrace, her view had been of Cavaillon from above: a jumble of orange tile roofs, a few concrete apartment buildings, a highway. Beyond lay a valley where small, neat fields of grapes and melons and potatoes nestled between Cavaillon and the gentle hills of the Lubéron range. Now she saw the town and the fields from the street: new shapes, new colors, a real town.

She slowed down as she drove into town and along its tree-lined streets. “Where shall I go?”

“Wherever you like.”

She smiled and drove at random, turning wherever it pleased her. She passed the Grand Marché supermarket, its parking lot filled with cars, and the trailer park behind it, some with added porches and tiny gardens; she passed small shops and bistros, homes and apartments, and then saw the shops change: their windows sparkled; they displayed elegant gowns and shoes, jewelry and kitchenware. Then Cavaillon's main square opened up before them, with its fountain topped with a sculpture of metal spikes like the rays of the sun. Trying to see everything, Stephanie drove more slowly, barely crawling, and soon other drivers were honking angrily, shouting at her, throwing up their hands in Gallic frustration and telling her in various ways where she should go and what she should do with herself.

“Ignore them,” Max said, and she nodded, but in fact she barely heard him or the shouts of the other drivers; she was in her own small shell, trembling with the rapture of discovery. Oh, the people, so many people, old and young, skinny and fat, strolling or striding purposefully along the sidewalks, pulling off jackets and coats in the March sun to reveal a kaleidoscope of patterned shirts and plaid pants like flashes of light amid sober business suits and casual dresses. And so many cars crazily swerving around her, the drivers gesticulating when her eyes met
theirs; and so many cyclists weaving casually and cheerfully through the treacherous traffic; and the shop windows beckoning with bright displays, and sidewalk cafés with white-aproned waiters holding trays high as they slid sideways between crammed tables where people sat reading the newspaper or talking, their heads close together, striking the table to make an important point . . . how wonderful it all was, how noisy and alive and
busy
after the silence of the stone house on the hill.

Stephanie was buoyant, as if she had broken free and had just been born into this wonderful world.
I love it; I love being part of the world, I love being alive and being me, here, now . . . whoever I am.

Joyous, growing confident, she drove more easily, speeding up to join the movement of traffic. She turned into the main shopping areas of town, no longer fearful that she would scrape the sides of parked cars or run over curbs when she turned corners. By the time she turned onto the cours Gambetta, she was allowing herself swift glances into the windows of the shops on both sides of the wide street. And then she looked, and looked again, into the windows of a shop in the middle of the block and stepped on the brake. “Max, I have to stop; where can I park?”

“Nowhere,” he said dryly, looking up and down the street. “Well, perhaps over there. Have you ever parked anywhere but in our garage?”

“Not really. Would you do it? I'll wait for you in that shop.”

He followed her glance. It was the largest shop on the street, its slightly dusty windows flanking a wide door beneath the name Jacqueline en Provence spelled out in tall gold decorative letters. In the windows Max saw furniture and ceramics, floor pillows, dishes, draperies and tall glass hurricane lamps crammed together. “For refurnishing our house?”

“Oh. Yes, if there's anything . . .” She opened the door and stepped from the car. She had not thought of
furnishings for their house; she had not thought of anything except seeing what was inside the shop. It fascinated her, and she did not even hear Max's grunt of annoyance as he circled the car and sat in the driver's seat.

“Wait for me there,” he said. “Don't wander off.”

“Yes.” She was already crossing the sidewalk, heading for the door.

Just inside, she stopped and looked around. There was barely room to move: antique sideboards and hutches held displays of old translucent china and vases; antique sofas, chairs and rockers were grouped around tables and desks mellowed by age, set with silver and glass bowls filled with old marbles, napkin rings, candle snuffers, salt cellars. Wherever a few inches of space had been found on the floor there were baskets holding folded tablecloths and sets of place mats and napkins. Everything in the shop contained something which contained something else; the floor was carpeted, the walls were hung with draperies and tapestries, chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The air smelled of silk and wool and freshly ironed cotton, the lemony scent of furniture polish, and the sweet, slightly musty scent of old velvet and tapestries and faded rugs. Like someone's attic, Stephanie thought, and she knew that this was the most wonderful place in the world and that she felt she had come home.

“Yes, madame.” A tall, slender woman, austerely beautiful, had come from another room. She wore a gray silk dress, perfect in its simplicity, and her ash blond hair was held loosely back from her face. “What may I show you?”