noticed grains of sand on Betty’s right heel. His gaze lingered on the little veins on her ankle.
“Give him a ring, Betty. Maybe he needs help.”
She shrugged.
“I can try, but who can help Beethoven with the Ninth, eh?”
Moreany laughed. Be my wife this instant! he wanted to shout. Let me kiss your feet, touch your breasts, comb your golden hair! But he didn’t speak. Betty stubbed out her unfinished cigarette in the brass ashtray that Moreany had put on his desk especially for her. He didn’t smoke himself. So far she hadn’t noticed.
“What’s the matter with your car?”
“It wouldn’t start this morning. Maybe I left the lights on.”
“Do you have time to accompany me to Venice?”
She didn’t seem overjoyed by the idea.
“When?”
The telephone on his desk began to buzz. The white light flashed. Honor was trying to put a call through. Moreany ignored it.
“What’s the matter with your car?”
“You just asked me that. It wouldn’t start, that’s all. Don’t you want to take the call?”
Venice then.
Moreany picked up the receiver. “Put him through, Honor.” He signaled to Betty that Henry was on the line, but she already knew.
“Henry, old boy, how are you?”
Moreany listened for a while; Betty saw his expression darken. She could hear Henry’s deep voice; he was speaking slowly.
“I’ll come over at once.”
Moreany hung up slowly, looking at the floor as if searching for a lost answer.
“What’s happened?”
“Henry’s wife has drowned.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“That’s not possible.”
“She’s drowned. He just told me. Just now.”
“In the night? Last night?”
Moreany looked up from the floor. “I must go to him straightaway.”
Betty handed Moreany his coat, wondering whether Henry had already known Martha was dead when she’d returned Martha’s car. Would he have run up to her room to look, if he had?
Honor Eisendraht came into the office and sat down ashen-faced in the Eames chair.
“You must have heard everything, Honor. Please cancel my appointments, for tomorrow too. Betty . . .”
“Yes?”
“We’ll have to postpone Venice. Would you accompany me, please?”
From the window, Honor saw the two of them in the parking lot, getting into Moreany’s dark green Jaguar. He opened Betty’s door and let her get in first. Honor took her pack of tarot cards out of her handbag and shuffled them thoroughly. It was the Tower. A singularly inauspicious card.
During the hour-long drive neither spoke a word. Moreany drove fast, concentrating. Decades ago he had come second in the Mille Miglia and was still an excellent driver. The car was quiet; only the turn signal ticked when he turned a corner. Betty felt a wave of nausea and wondered whether it was fear or just a symptom of pregnancy. Martha’s unexpected call had not been a goodwill visit. “You ought to know,” she had said even before she was inside, “that I don’t hate you. The man we both love is in a serious crisis. He can’t finish his novel; I see him suffering.” Martha had been so touchingly cheerful as she had sat with her on the sofa. She had spoken of the friendship that comes from love, of good times and of urgently required changes. It is well known that people in despair grow calm once they have decided to take the final step, their spirits soothed at the prospect of the sweet release of death.
Betty lowered the car window. Why hadn’t Martha jumped into the sea before last night if she’d known everything for so long? Maybe it was revenge after all. She wanted to destroy our happiness by committing suicide, Betty thought. It was quite possible that Henry would blame her for Martha’s death. How would Moreany react when he found out about it all? Venice would be just the ticket now. Far enough away to think things over, but near enough to get back to Henry in three hours. Again the violent twinge in her womb. His child. It was inside her, growing,
“Give him a ring, Betty. Maybe he needs help.”
She shrugged.
“I can try, but who can help Beethoven with the Ninth, eh?”
Moreany laughed. Be my wife this instant! he wanted to shout. Let me kiss your feet, touch your breasts, comb your golden hair! But he didn’t speak. Betty stubbed out her unfinished cigarette in the brass ashtray that Moreany had put on his desk especially for her. He didn’t smoke himself. So far she hadn’t noticed.
“What’s the matter with your car?”
“It wouldn’t start this morning. Maybe I left the lights on.”
“Do you have time to accompany me to Venice?”
She didn’t seem overjoyed by the idea.
“When?”
The telephone on his desk began to buzz. The white light flashed. Honor was trying to put a call through. Moreany ignored it.
“What’s the matter with your car?”
“You just asked me that. It wouldn’t start, that’s all. Don’t you want to take the call?”
Venice then.
Moreany picked up the receiver. “Put him through, Honor.” He signaled to Betty that Henry was on the line, but she already knew.
“Henry, old boy, how are you?”
Moreany listened for a while; Betty saw his expression darken. She could hear Henry’s deep voice; he was speaking slowly.
“I’ll come over at once.”
Moreany hung up slowly, looking at the floor as if searching for a lost answer.
“What’s happened?”
“Henry’s wife has drowned.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“That’s not possible.”
“She’s drowned. He just told me. Just now.”
“In the night? Last night?”
Moreany looked up from the floor. “I must go to him straightaway.”
Betty handed Moreany his coat, wondering whether Henry had already known Martha was dead when she’d returned Martha’s car. Would he have run up to her room to look, if he had?
Honor Eisendraht came into the office and sat down ashen-faced in the Eames chair.
“You must have heard everything, Honor. Please cancel my appointments, for tomorrow too. Betty . . .”
“Yes?”
“We’ll have to postpone Venice. Would you accompany me, please?”
From the window, Honor saw the two of them in the parking lot, getting into Moreany’s dark green Jaguar. He opened Betty’s door and let her get in first. Honor took her pack of tarot cards out of her handbag and shuffled them thoroughly. It was the Tower. A singularly inauspicious card.
During the hour-long drive neither spoke a word. Moreany drove fast, concentrating. Decades ago he had come second in the Mille Miglia and was still an excellent driver. The car was quiet; only the turn signal ticked when he turned a corner. Betty felt a wave of nausea and wondered whether it was fear or just a symptom of pregnancy. Martha’s unexpected call had not been a goodwill visit. “You ought to know,” she had said even before she was inside, “that I don’t hate you. The man we both love is in a serious crisis. He can’t finish his novel; I see him suffering.” Martha had been so touchingly cheerful as she had sat with her on the sofa. She had spoken of the friendship that comes from love, of good times and of urgently required changes. It is well known that people in despair grow calm once they have decided to take the final step, their spirits soothed at the prospect of the sweet release of death.
Betty lowered the car window. Why hadn’t Martha jumped into the sea before last night if she’d known everything for so long? Maybe it was revenge after all. She wanted to destroy our happiness by committing suicide, Betty thought. It was quite possible that Henry would blame her for Martha’s death. How would Moreany react when he found out about it all? Venice would be just the ticket now. Far enough away to think things over, but near enough to get back to Henry in three hours. Again the violent twinge in her womb. His child. It was inside her, growing,
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