The Judas Tree (28 page)

As they came out of the restaurant they were met on the pavement by the usual outstretched hands – the match and paper flower sellers, the cripples, fake and genuine, the ragged old man with the wheezy accordion, the old women who now had nothing to sell but flattery. With the change from the bill he gave freely, indiscriminately, just to be rid of them; then, escaping towards the hotel, he was unexpectedly rewarded. She took his arm and of her own accord came close to him as they walked towards the Neuer Markt.

‘I'm so glad you did that. I'd have felt ashamed after that delicious, expensive meal if you hadn't. But then that's just you, David, to be so unsparingly kind and generous. And what a day you've given me. Everything so new and exciting. I can scarcely believe it all. When I think that only a few days ago I was washing dishes in Jeannie Lang's back kitchen, it's … it's like a dream.'

It was so good to see her relaxed, free of her inhibitions, actually gay. Listening in indulgent silence, he let her run on, aware that her one glass of honey-tasting Durnsteiner could not alone have induced this mood but that he was in the main responsible for it. And in a sudden flashback he remembered that with Mary he had shown the same talent, one might even say the power, of lifting her from her serious preoccupation to a new lightheartedness. It was an auspicious omen.

Only too soon they were at the hotel. Outside her room she turned to him to day goodnight.

‘Thank you for a most wonderful time, David. If you won't forget our day in Edinburgh, I can tell you I'll never forget this one here.'

He lingered a moment, unwilling to let her go.

‘Did you really enjoy it, Kathy?'

‘Terribly.'

‘Sure?'

‘Cross my heart.'

‘Then tell me, what did you like most of all?'

She paused in the act of closing her door, became suddenly serious, seemed to examine her thoughts. With averted head, not looking at him, she said very simply:

‘Being with you.' Then she was gone.

During the next three days the weather, though colder, remained brilliantly fine. Conditions could not have been more perfect for the pleasures and excitements of continued sightseeing. Varying his programme with commendable skill, Moray escorted her to the Hofburg and Hofgarten, to the Imperial Museum of Fine Arts, the Rathaus, the Belvedere, the Parliament. They took tea in Demel's, made the tour of the fashionable shops in the Graben, attended a performance at the Spanish Riding School – which, however, proved rather a disappointment since, although reserving comment, she had obviously disliked seeing the lovely white horses strained into unnatural circus attitudes. He had also accompanied her on a visit to Anna the chambermaid's four children, all lined up in a row and dressed in new warm clothes with strong winter boots, and this had been perhaps the most successful expedition of all. These were, Moray told himself, the happiest days he had ever known. She had brought joy and sweetness into his life, renewed his buoyant youth. The more he saw of her, the more he realised he could not do without her.

And yet at times she puzzled him, even caused him an odd concern. Was she truly entertained by all that he so engagingly displayed? Impossible to doubt; he had seen her eyes light up a score of times, fill with interest and animation. Nevertheless there had been occasions when, while willingly attentive, she seemed troubled, nervously disturbed. At one moment she drew near, very near to him, and the next suddenly drew back. She had a strange capacity for receding into herself and could surprise him by her constancy to her own point of view.

When in the Graben he had vainly used all the subtlety he possessed to induce her to accept a gift – a necklace, simple in design but set with emeralds – which, unthinkingly and with slight knowledge of the price, she had admired.

‘It's beautiful,' she had answered, with a shake of her head, ‘but it is not for me.'

And nothing would move her. Nevertheless, though as yet she remained unaware, he meant to have his way.

His greatest surprise lay in the realisation that his money counted for so little with her. She had not responded to the luxury of the hotel, rich and elaborate meals were becoming merely an embarrassment to her, and he sensed that she had preferred the little hired car to the silent comfort of his Rolls. Once, indeed, when he dropped a hint on the subject she had unexpectedly replied:

‘But, David, money can't buy any of the things that really matter.'

Disappointed and somewhat chagrined by this lack of appreciation, he was nevertheless comforted by the thought that he would be loved or, as he now dared to hope, was being loved for himself alone. And since the simplicities of life so obviously pleased her, he decided to divert her attention towards Switzerland and the restful quiet she would find there. Vienna had not been a mistake; not only had he got to know her better, he had made progress, great progress, in these last few days. Intimacy had been positively established, a current of vibrations now passed between them. Though she herself might still be unaware, he knew from her sudden changes of colour, the touch of her hand, the brightening of her eye when he appeared, that she was passing the point of no return. Every instinct told him so. And to see and feel this shy, intense young girl gradually expanding under the novel compulsions of love was the most delicious experience of his life.

On Saturday morning, when they had finished breakfast, he remarked lightly, but with an undertone of consideration:

‘It begins to look as though we've had enough of the city for the time being. Would you like to leave tomorrow for Schwansee? If this cold continues we'll undoubtedly have snow in the Oberland and that's something you shouldn't miss.'

The warmth of her response gave immediate confirmation of his intuition.

‘I'd like it better than anything – that is, if it suits you to go. I do so love the country. Not,' she added quickly, ‘that I am not happy to be here.'

‘Then that's settled! We'll take the Sunday afternoon plane. I'll send Arturo on ahead today – the journey by road across the Arlberg would be much too trying for you at this time of year. But before we leave,' he paused and smiled, ‘there is just one more hurdle for you to clear, I think you'll find it a pleasure and not a penance.'

‘Yes?' she queried rather uncertainly.

‘There is a gala at the Opera House tonight –
Madame Butterfly
… but a quite exceptional performance, since Tebaldi is singing. And the décor is by Benois. It's been practically impossible to get tickets but I've succeeded by a stroke of luck. As I'm sure you'll enjoy this particular opera, will you come?'

‘Yes, David,' she answered with only a scarcely perceptible hesitation. ‘But I'm worried at the way you keep putting yourself about for me.'

‘Don't give it a thought.' He did not tell her that only by the payment of an enormous premium, effected through the concierge, had he been able at this late date to secure a loge. ‘By the way, we'll take it easy today so that you'll be fresh for tonight.'

Both were glad of the rest, especially since the sky had become overcast and a keen wind blowing down from Semmering made passage through the streets a chilly business. However, after giving Arturo his instructions to leave for home he was out and about in the afternoon, on some affair of his own. At his suggestion they had an early dinner in the sitting-room: no more than a cup of strong turtle soup, omelette fines herbes with pommes pont neuf, pêche melba and coffee: by design a light meal, but good.

When they had finished he stood up.

‘It's a nuisance, my dear little Puritan, but we have to dress up a bit for this affair. Luckily I knew your size, so you'll find something in your room. I had your nice Anna lay it out for you.' He put a comradely arm about her shoulder, bent forward close to her in his most winning manner. ‘Please wear it – for my sake.'

Humming a snatch of the love duet from
Butterfly
under his breath, he changed in leisurely manner: first the electric razor until the smoothness of his cheek satisfied him, then a hot bath followed by a tepid shower, a good rub down, and a dust of plain talcum. The hotel valet had already put out his evening clothes, with the onyx and diamond links and studs in the fresh frilled starched shirt, the black silk socks half folded over, the patent shoes, trees removed and tongues turned back, set nearly by the armchair. Arturo could not have done better, he must remember to tip the man. At last he was ready. A touch of Eau de Muget and a brisk drill with his monogrammed ivory-backed, military brushes – thank God he had kept his hair – completed the picture. He studied himself in the glass. He had always looked well in white tie and tails – no one could touch Caraceni, in the Boncompagni, for perfection of cut – and tonight, in all modesty, he knew unquestionably that he made a handsome, distinguished, and amazingly youthful figure. In a spirit of some anticipation he switched off the light – the habit persisted from his youth – and went into the sitting-room.

She did not keep him waiting. Presently the door opened and slowly she came out wearing the green dress he had chosen for her and, to his delight, the thin necklet of emeralds that so exactly matched it. Literally, he held his breath as, still slowly, with lowered eyes and cheeks faintly flushed, she advanced and stood before him. If he had thought her ravishing in the lovat suit, now there was no word to fit the case.

‘Kathy,' he said in a low voice, ‘you will not like me to say this, but I must. You look enchantingly and unutterably lovely.'

He had never in his life spoken such absolute truth. So young, so fresh, and with that warm complexion and reddish gold hair, green undoubtedly was her colour. What he would make of her when he took her to Dior or Balenciaga! But was she trembling? She moistened her lips.

‘It is the most beautiful dress,' she said haltingly. ‘And, after all, you bought me the necklace.'

‘Just to go with your frock,' he said gaily, determined to lighten her mood. ‘A few green beads.'

‘No. Anna was admiring them. She says they are cabochon emeralds.'

‘Ah, well! I only hope your escort looks good enough to go with them.'

She looked at him, then looked away.

‘I never knew there could be anyone like you.' He saw that she was seeking a phrase; it came with unusual awkwardness, ‘You're… you're just out of this world.'

‘I hope I won't be for some time.' He laughed. ‘And now let's be off. It will delight your democratic spirit – since Arturo is away, we must take a taxi.'

‘Am I to wear these gloves?' she asked nervously, on the way down. ‘They seem so long.'

‘Wear them or carry them, as you please, dearest Kathy, it makes no difference. You can't improve upon perfection.'

The concierge, though shocked that in such splendour they should be denied their usual conveyance, bowed them into a respectable cab. In a few minutes they arrived at the Opera House, passed through the crowded foyer and were shown to the loge he had secured in the second circle. Here, in the privacy of the snug, red-carpeted little box, which was all their own, he felt her relax. Free of her nervousness, she gazed out upon the brilliant scene with increasing interest and excitement while he, seated close behind, looking over her shoulder through his opera glasses, had the delightful consciousness of reproducing that incomparable Renoir on the same theme, not, alas, his own, but one he had always admired.

‘This is new, of course, rebuilt since the war,' he explained. ‘A little too white and glittering perhaps – the Viennese tend to overdo their crystal – but still quite charming.'

‘Oh, it is,' she agreed unreservedly.

‘And as you see, everyone in their best bib and tucker for Tebaldi. Incidentally, as she'll be singing in Italian I ought to give you an idea of what it's all about It opens at Nagasaki in Japan where Pinkerton, an officer in the United States navy, has arranged through a broker to marry a sweet little Japanese girl, Cho-Cho-San …'. Concisely he ran through the main points of the story, concluding: ‘It's very sentimental, as you see, one of Puccini's lighter offerings, far from being grand opera, but nevertheless delightfully moving and poignant.'

He had no sooner concluded than a burst of applause announced the appearance of the conductor, Karajan. The lights dimmed, the overture began, then slowly the curtain went up, revealing a Japanese interior of exquisite delicacy.

Moray had already seen this opera twice at the Metropolitan in New York, where he had been for years a season-ticket holder, and where, in fact, he had several times heard Tebaldi sing. Once he had assured himself that the great diva was in voice, he was able to devote himself to the reactions of his companion, and unobserved, with a strange and secret expectation, he watched the changing expressions that lit then shadowed her intent young face.

At first she seemed confused by the novelty of the experience and the oriental strangeness of the scene. But gradually she became absorbed. The handsome Pinkerton, whom he had always found insufferable, obviously repelled her. He could sense her rising sympathy for Cho-Cho-San and a worried precognition of impending disaster. When the curtain fell at the end of the first act she was quite carried away.

‘Oh, what a despicable man,' she exclaimed, turning to him with flushed cheeks. ‘One knows from the beginning that he is worthless.'

‘Vain and self-indulgent, perhaps,' he agreed. ‘But why do you dislike him so much?'

She lowered her eyes as though reflecting, then said:

‘To me, it's the worst thing – never to think of others, but only of oneself.'

The second act, opening on a note of tender sadness, sustained by an undertone of hope deferred, would, he knew, affect her more acutely than the first. As it proceeded, he did not look at her, feeling it an intrusion to observe such unaffected swelling of the heart. But towards the end of the scene, as the lights dimmed upon the stage and Cho-Cho-San lit her lantern by the doorway to begin her nightly vigil, while the haunting melody of the aria ‘Un bel di' swelled then faded from the darkening room, he took one swift glance at his companion. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.