The Book of Evidence by John Banville Page B

Part of a couch can be seen, or maybe a bed, with a brocade cover. The darkness behind her is dense and yet mysteriously weightless. Her gaze is calm, inexpectant, though there is a trace of challenge, of hostility, even, in the set of her mouth. She does not want to be here, and yet cannot be elsewhere. T h e gold brooch that secures the wings of her wide collar is expensive and ugly. All this you have seen, all this you know. Yet I put it to you, gentle connoisseurs of the jury, that even knowing all this you still know 78

    nothing, n e x t t o n o t h i n g . Y o u d o not k n o w the fortitude and pathos o f her presence. Y o u h a v e not c o m e u p o n her suddenly in a g o l d e n r o o m on a s u m m e r eve, as I have.
    Y o u h a v e n o t held her in y o u r a r m s , y o u h a v e not seen her asprawl in a ditch. Y o u h a v e not — ah no! — y o u h a v e not killed for her.
    I s t o o d there, staring, for w h a t s e e m e d a l o n g time, and gradually a kind of e m b a r r a s s m e n t t o o k hold of m e , a hot, s h a m e f a c e d awareness of myself, as if s o m e h o w I, this soiled sack o f flesh, w e r e the o n e w h o w a s b e i n g scrutinised, w i t h careful, cold attention. It w a s not j u s t the w o m a n ' s painted stare that w a t c h e d m e . E v e r y t h i n g in the picture, that b r o o c h , those g l o v e s , the flocculent darkness at her b a c k , e v e r y spot on the canvas w a s an eye fixed on me u n b l i n k m g i y . I retreated a pace, faintly aghast. T h e silence w a s f r a y i n g at the edges. I heard c o w s l o w i n g , a car starting u p . I r e m e m b e r e d the taxi, and turned to g o . A m a i d w a s standing i n the o p e n french w i n d o w . S h e m u s t h a v e c o m e in j u s t then and seen me there and started b a c k in a l a r m . H e r eyes w e r e w i d e , and o n e knee w a s flexed and o n e hand lifted, as if to w a r d o f f a b l o w . For a m o m e n t neither of us stirred. B e h i n d her a sudden breeze burnished the grassy slope. W e did not speak. T h e n slowly, with her h a n d still raised, she stepped b a c k w a r d s carefully t h r o u g h the w i n d o w , teetering a little as her heels blindly s o u g h t the level of the p a v e d p a t h w a y outside. I felt an inexplicable, brief rush of a n n o y a n c e — a presentiment, perhaps, a stray z e p h y r sent ahead of the s t o r m that w a s to c o m e . A telephone w a s r i n g i n g s o m e w h e r e . I turned q u i c k l y and left the r o o m .
    T h e r e w a s n o o n e i n the hall. T h e telephone r a n g and rang, w i t h peevish insistence. I c o u l d still hear it g o i n g as I descended the front steps. T h e taxi had left, of course. 1
    s w o r e , and set o f f d o w n the drive, h o b b l i n g o v e r the stony 7 9

    ground in my thin-soled Spanish shoes. T h e low sun glared in my face. When I looked back at the house the windows were ablaze, and seemed to be laughing fatly in derision. I began to perspire, and that brought on the midges. I asked myself again what had possessed me to c o m e to Whitewater. I knew the answer, of course. It was the smell of m o n e y that had attracted me, as the smell of sweat was attracting these damned flies. I saw myself, as if from one of those sunstruck windows, skulking along here in the dust, hot, disgruntled, overweight, head b o w e d and fat back bent, my white suit rucked at the armpits and sagging in the arse, a figure of fun, the punchline of a bad joke, and at once I was awash with self-pity. Christ! was there no one w h o would help me? I halted, and cast a troubled glance around me, as if there might be a benefactor lurking a m o n g the trees. T h e silence had a sense of muffled gloating. I plunged on again, and heard the sound of engines, and presently an enormous black limousine came around the bend, followed by a sleek red sportscar. They, were going at a stately pace, the limousine