Samedi the Deafness (22 page)

He got up and went to the door.

—I never should have, he said again.

—James, she said, and her words came in gasps: He's lying. I don't know why. He's lying. You . . . you've got to believe me.

James slammed the door and went off down the hall.

That was when he saw Grieve, dusting a table. He came up beside her and pretended to be looking at a painting on the wall.

—They've been tricking me, he whispered. You were right. They can't be trusted.

—We shouldn't talk here, she said. Too many people are around.

—All right, he whispered. If I need to tell you something, how do I contact you?

—You remember the maids' room? she asked. Where you came that time? In front of the door, there's a part where the carpet peels up. Put a note there for me.

She hurried away.

James stood now, actually looking at the painting. It was a portrait of a man holding a fowling piece, standing in the foreground of what looked like an Italian landscape. His face was very shrewd.

You've been in on it, too, haven't you? thought James. You should have warned me.

Just then a man came up.

—Excuse me, he whispered.

James looked at him. He recognized the servant as a man he did not like. The man had brought drinks when James had been playing rovnin, and had laughed when James made a bad move. Both of them had laughed, the man James was playing against and the servant.

He must be in on it, too, thought James.

—What do you want? he asked suspiciously.

—I just think you should know, said the man, be careful whom you talk to. That maid, Grieve, she's not to be trusted. She's not on your side. I've seen her talking to Stark and the others. They planted her so they could know what you're up to.

James couldn't believe his ears. How transparent. It was just like them to try to make him distrust the one person who had been true to him.

—I won't listen to this, said James. Your little trick hasn't worked.

Go tell your master, whoever he is, whoever she is, that I'm on to you.

He stormed off down the hall.

James walked in his anger out onto the lawn. He stood in the bright sun and felt how miserable he was. It was no good trusting anyone, he thought. What a fool they must think him. And he had been a fool.

He sat down in the grass and drew breath.

All this time he had been so sure something was going on. They'd just been fooling him. He would have to come up with a new plan for himself. It was no good being here. He would have to leave the country. Could he go to his firm for help? He wondered how far they would extend themselves for him. After all, they had a lot to lose by helping an accused criminal. The business ran on its reputation alone. No, they would not help him. He felt sure of it.

I could try to leave by myself, he thought. But who would drive the car? He wished that Grieve had not cheated on him. She had been so wonderful. He remembered what she had said about leaving the country together. How fine that would have been. He pulled the grass up with his fingers. The autumn had already yellowed it. The grass was all dying, all withering.

He stood up again. He would stay here as long as he had to. But he would have nothing to do with Grieve.

He went back into the house. Down the hall, he saw her. She must have come looking for him. She turned. She saw him too. He ducked down another hall. The last thing he wanted was to speak with her now.

Down this hall was the room where they played rovnin. He could hear voices. He opened the door and went in.

The young James undertook then a description of his own circumstances.

I am young, he wrote.

My youth is still before me. I live in a fine house among genial, indeed kindly, outspoken hills and dales. My mother is perished. My father as well. Did I have a brother? I did, but he was drowned by a felon. Who keeps me? An old couple, claiming to be my grandparents. I do not understand what this means, and so I cannot examine for myself the truth of their claims. Instead I go silent at supper or stare mornings through glassed windows and thinly paneled doors.

On bright days I go to play in the fields. If it is early and the sun is convincing, I go to the woods, where a darker watch is kept and mosses conspire with badgers' wakes and the tresses of muskrats. Believe me, I tell them, and they do. How many times I have been admitted to their companionship only to wake at the wood's edge with dusk laying a street over the hills, a street like a Roman road, stone for centuries, and myself beneath the hills, spurred by the touch of strange cloth.

And Cecily, and sometimes Cecily. Sometime-Cecily, sometimes she comes in and out the trees from that far house. We never arrange to meet, and never speak as though we've seen each other ever before. She holds my hands and I hold hers and we climb the climbingest trees and lie out upon thick branches. She says small things in small ways and talks mostly of the season and the coming night. She draws with her thin hands on the surface of water, and I swear to her—she makes me swear—that I can see the things she draws, though she never asks me what, and I would never say.

McHale and Graham were playing. James came over. They nodded to him. He sat. It was soon clear that they were both very skillful. The first man had not been lying about James having a miserable standing in the house. The whole thing was very surprising. He hadn't even met anyone in years who knew what the game was, and now he was in the midst of a slew of experts. Had they all been playing together for years? He supposed that it was so, and lost himself in the game, watching as move by move they interlaced their objectives, their assaults, defenses. Clearly McHale was the better of the two, but Graham was allowing nothing. There was a knock at the door, three knocks.

—Come in, said Graham.

The door opened. Grieve was standing there. Her face was covered in tears.

—James, she said. Come talk with me.

James turned his back on her.

—James, she said.

Graham and McHale had turned to stare at them.

—Come with me. Come talk with me.

—I won't, said James. Leave me alone.

Grieve burst out crying again and ran out of the room.

Graham and McHale exchanged glances. McHale got up.

—We can finish later, he said.

He gave James a disapproving look, and hurried off after Grieve.

Graham and James were left then together in the room.

—What was that? asked Graham.

James rubbed his forehead.

—I caught her cheating on me this morning, in bed with some man, someone from the hospital.

Graham's face had a puzzled look.

—I saw Carlyle earlier, he said carefully. He told me about this. He said he'd told you it wasn't Grieve; it was her sister.

He too seemed disapproving.

—You have to be gentle with Grieve, he said. She's very attached to you. You can't go doing this to her.

—It wasn't her sister, said James. Her sister is six years older and looks nothing like her; that's what Stark said.

Graham narrowed his eyes.

—Stark said that to you?

—Yes, said James. He also told me you've all been trying to trick me into thinking you're part of the conspiracy Estrainger was part of.

Graham drummed his fingers on the table and thought for a moment.