Forever (67 page)

And then he yanked her forward and she was
cartwheeling through the air and belly-flopping gracelessly into
the water. When she surfaced, gasping and cursing, she spat a
stream of water, smoothed her hair back with her hands, stuck her
tongue out at him, and quickly ducked back under, swimming below
the surface to the far end, Eduardo in hot pursuit.

Laughing and shrieking, she evaded him by
feinting one way and then the other, crisscrossing the pool with
quick even strokes.

'Ready to give up?' she shouted,
breathless.

'Never!' he swore, and dived back under.
When he came up too far away, she hooted with laughter and he
ducked under like a porpoise again.

Abruptly she stopped swimming and looked
around. He had disappeared. Where was he? She turned a circle,
treading water, looking to see whether he had climbed out.

And then she felt him - sliding obscenely
between her legs and crashing to the surface from directly below
her. Grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Abruptly she lunged for the edge of the pool
and climbed out. 'Well?' she taunted, water sluicing off her. 'What
are you swimming around for?' She turned and ran towards the
cabanas.

In three seconds flat he was out of the
water, dashing after her.

Is there anything under the sun quite as
earthshaking as sex in the afternoon? Stephanie wondered happily as
she breezed into the
Sala de Hercules
a full fifteen minutes
early.

Now, humming to herself, she drifted around
the sala, admiring this and inspecting that. As elsewhere in the
house, the furnishings were a tasteful mixture of the palatial and
the colonial, mixing European grandeur with relaxed tropical
comfort - much like Eduardo embodied both the most patrician
gentleman and the earthiest commoner, she thought with a secret
smile.

Stephanie admired the intricate,
shoulder-high tiles depicting the labours of Hercules even as she
sighed at the pleasant carnal memory which lingered fresh in her
mind; though she'd showered, she imagined she could still actually
smell the potent, aphrodisiacal combination of chlorine and sweat
and sex. Oh, yes. The afternoon had left her feeling deliciously
drained, marvellously complaisant.

Hearing a familiar soft whirr, Stephanie
turned around. Zaza, regal as ever, was riding in through the
doorway in her motorised wheelchair. Her head was bare, her grey
hair carefully coiffed, and she was dressed in Queen Mother
lavender. Her five-strand necklace was of sixteen-millimetre pearls
- genuine, not cultured - and teardrop pearls dangled from her
ears. Rolling to a halt, she held out her arms, enveloping
Stephanie in an invisible cloud of old-fashioned powders and sweet
toilet water. 'Monica.'

Stephanie bent down and hugged her warmly.
'Zaza.'

The old lady held her at arm's length and
raised her head. 'I must confess I am quite upset with you.' Her
voice was gently reproving. 'You should have visited sooner. You
cannot know how I've yearned to see you in this boring place.'

Stephanie laughed. 'Oh, I'm sure you made
do. I remember on the yacht, you were always quietly riding by . .
. always watching.' A hint of a frown crossed her face. 'That's
what's different about you! You don't have your binoculars.'

Zaza waved a hand. 'I tired of them
,
Liebling
. Besides, I decided I really don't need them any more.
You see, as old as I am, people are beginning to get careless
around me with their secrets. Thinking I am gaga, or half-blind, or
not paying attention, they let down their guard. Truly, it becomes
quite tiresome to see and overhear things one doesn't want to know
. . . so why compound it with spying on people?' Then she smiled.
'But enough of that. Come. Let us go over to the light so I can
really see you.'

Stephanie followed her chair over to an open
French door, where Zaza parked it neatly so that she faced into the
room. She looked up at Stephanie. 'Ah yes. Beautiful as ever.' Then
she looked a little concerned. 'But you have got somewhat paler, I
think?'

Stephanie stared at her in astonishment,
surprised that she would notice. 'To tell you the truth,' she said,
'I haven't been able to take much advantage of the sun yet.'

'Then you must learn to make the time! I see
I shall have to speak to Eduardo: he is obviously keeping you far
too busy. Life, you know, is too short to spend it all
working.'

Stephanie smiled. 'Don't worry so much, I've
plenty of time ahead of me.'

'Ah,' Zaza said wistfully, 'to be young
again! To have the whole future ahead of one! Really, growing old
is disgraceful - disgraceful!' Suddenly her voice dropped to a
whisper. 'But there is worse.' She nodded sagely and sighed. 'Far
worse.'

'Oh. And what would that be?'

'Why, not growing old, of course!' Zaza
said, her watery eyes widening. 'Stopping time. Keeping it standing
still. What else
could
be worse?'

Ilha da Borboleta, Brazil

Stephanie was still digesting Zaza's comment
when Joana entered carrying a tray with an elaborate antique silver
tea service. Now that the air had cooled, the housekeeper had
changed her diaphanous purple shawl for a black crocheted one held
together in the front with a filigreed silver brooch. She looked
over at Stephanie and Zaza as she put the tray down and smiled
brightly. 'Here you are! Would you like me to pour?'

Zaza waved a hand in disgust. 'We are quite
capable of doing it ourselves, thank you,' she said crisply.

Joana smiled pleasantly and left.

'You see?' Zaza said, her eyes fixed on
Stephanie's. 'What did I tell you? I don't know why people think if
one is confined to a wheelchair one must also be totally helpless!
Come, Liebling. You may do the honours and pour.'

Zaza put the chair into gear and rode across
the room to the tea table, Stephanie walking beside her.

'Sit there, on that chair,' Zaza commanded,
pointing to a yellow tufted armchair. 'The sofa is too
uncomfortable, and a chair can be easily moved about. Now go on. Do
pour.'

As she poured, Stephanie reflected that it
wasn't tea on that tray so much as a meal: finger sandwiches, fruit
muffins, pastries, slices of torte, nut-sprinkled cookies, and
petit fours. The china was delicate: cups and saucers and plates so
thin they were almost translucent. And the sterling seemed to weigh
a ton.

They sipped their tea and indulged in idle
conversation, and after a while, Zaza said, it is so quiet here.
Why don't you put on some nice music? The stereo is over there, on
that low bookcase.'

Stephanie put her cup down, got up, and went
across the room to the CD player. The shelves beneath it were
filled with CDs, but she saw a stack of clear plastic cases beside
the player. She picked them up and as she flipped hurriedly through
them, felt a momentary shock.
Schneider a Paris . . . Schneider
Recital I.. . Lili Schneider Airs d'Operas Romantiques
. . .
She flipped faster, as though driven by the Furies.
Schneider
Opernarien . . . Lili Schneider Singt Lieder A us Operetten . . .
Lili Schneider Sings Mozart. . . Lili Schneider/Schubert Lieder
. . .

Schneider, Schneider, and more Schneider!
Stephanie thought. If we wanted, we could listen to Lili morning,
noon, and night! 'Zaza?' she called across the room. 'I don't know
what to put on. What would you like to hear?'

'Anything,
Liebling
. It does not
matter.'

Stephanie fanned out the Schneider cases and
said, 'Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.' She put on the fourth one,
Opernarien
, and fiddled with the volume button. After a
moment, the chords of a piano rang out, so startlingly rich and
resonant that it was hard to believe the pianist was not actually
in the room, playing live. And then came that voice, that
unmatched, heavenly sweet voice which could only belong to one
person -

'No!' Zaza cried out.'No, no, no, no, no!
Turn that off at once! For heaven's sake, put on something
else!'

Startled, Stephanie hit the OFF button and
ejected the disc. She looked over at her. 'What should I put
on?'

'How about some Brahms. I love Brahms.'

Stephanie rolled her eyes. Then why didn't
you say so in the first place? she almost blurted, but checked
herself in time. Her irritation at Zaza was, she realised, merely a
reaction to her startling discovery of all the Schneider CDs.
'Brahms coming right up,' she called in what she hoped was a
cheerful voice.

Crouching down, she scanned the CDs in the
bookcase; they were all shelved in alphabetical order. Good, she
thought. Good?

She popped back up. 'Zaza! There must be
fifty Brahms recordings here!'

Zaza held out a hand. 'Come here,
Liebchen
."

Stephanie went back over to her. 'Yes?' she
said.

Zaza took Stephanie's smooth soft hand
between her own gnarled, dry fingers and pulled her closer. 'Now
listen,
Liebling
,' she whispered, her grip tightening, 'and
listen very, very carefully!'

The old lady's face underwent a sudden
transformation. Gone was the watery sweetness in her eyes. Triumph,
urgency, and a strange wild kind of excitement suddenly blazed from
them instead.

It was such a radical change that Stephanie
felt herself breaking out in goosebumps. And not only that. For the
first time since meeting Zaza, she felt fear. Genuine fear. She
took an instinctive step backwards, but Zaza's fingers tightened
like a vice. 'You do not need to be frightened. I would never try
to hurt you. Never!'

'No, of course you wouldn't.' Stephanie's
voice sounded high-pitched, unnatural to her own ears; she
attempted a smile, but it faltered.

Zaza said, 'All I ask is that you
listen.'

And against her will, Stephanie found
herself being pulled even closer, with the oid lady sitting up so
straight and tall that Stephanie could actually feel her breath on
her face.

Like a teacher hammering home a point, Zaza
said very slowly: 'My own favourite Brahms recording is Opus 60 in
C-minor, Quartet number 3.' Her eyes flared like icy blue flames,
and she repeated: 'My own favourite Brahms recording is Opus 60 in
C-minor, Quartet number 3.'

The gnarled fingers squeezed even harder,
and Stephanie clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

'Do you think you can remember that?'

Stephanie watched the old lady's eyes. 'Opus
60, C-minor, Quartet number 3,' she repeated with a tremor in her
voice.

Zaza nodded. 'Good. Now promise me you will
never forget that.' Her crazed blue eyes wildly searched
Stephanie's.'Promise me!' she hissed.

Stephanie wanted to wrench her hand away and
flee, but for some inexplicable reason, she found herself unable to
move. Outside a cloud slid across the sun and the room went
abruptly dim, and ghastly shadows caused Zaza's cheek hollows to
sink deeper and deeper, until her face looked like a skull.

'Repeat it!' the old lady insisted.

Stephanie's voice trembled. 'Opus 60,
C-minor, Quartet number 3. But why is it so important?'

Zaza loosened her hand from Stephanie's.
Almost expres- sionlessly, she said, 'Who says it is important? Now
go. Put it on.'

Stephanie headed across the room, massaging
feeling back into her hand as she walked. Then Zaza's voice stopped
her.

'Monica!'

Stephanie thought, Now what? and turned
around.

'Forget the Brahms,' Zaza said wearily. 'Put
on Vivaldi. The Four Seasons.'

'But

'Don't ask questions! Just do as I say!
Please!

Stephanie found the Vivaldi and put it
on.

When she turned around, Zarah and Ernesto
were coming into the sala. He in the black slacks and the
puffy-sleeved tight-waisted white silk shirt of the grand seigneur.
She in retro-sixties, all Pucci-ed up: silk blouse worn out over
helanca leggings - both in far-out pink and yellow Op-Art patterns.
Hair braided and intertwined with lengths of orange, pink, and
yellow wool. Pink silk taffeta pumps covered with giant yellow,
blue, green, and red faux jewels.

Now the sudden switch from Brahms to Vivaldi
made sense to Stephanie. Zaza is seated facing the open door, she
thought. She must have seen them coming down the hall. For some
reason, she doesn't want them alerted to what she's told me. Which
raised some other questions for Stephanie: What did she tell me?
And why?

'Hello, Mother.' Zarah floated towards Zaza,
leaned down, and kissed her forehead perfunctorily. 'You don't mind
if we join you for tea, do you?'

The old lady didn't look at all pleased. 'In
that case,' she said cantankerously, 'you had better ring Joana to
bring another tray.'

As Stephanie approached, Zarah was curling
herself up, catlike, on the couch. Sighing and saying, 'Oh,
darling. The Four Seasons has become such a cliche. Don't you
agree, Ms Williams?'

And for the next hour, the conversation was
stiff and formal.

It was stiff and formal again at dinner
later that night. Dr Vassiltchikov joined them, and at ten o'clock,
the six of them sat down around the lace-draped table. The dining
room had the ubiquitous blue-and-white tiled dado, but the upper
walls were white stucco hung with priceless tapestries, and there
were baroque-framed overdoor paintings. Mirrors, strategically hung
at opposite ends of the room, reflected the Venetian chandelier and
its glowing tapers to infinity.

Ernesto presided from the head of the table
and Zarah from the foot. Stephanie and Eduardo sat side by side,
she across from Zaza, he from Dr Vassiltchikov.