Perfect Freedom (68 page)

“Is there anything I can—?” Robbie faltered.

“No, you've been through enough for tonight. Go to the house and see if there's anything there you want. Some of your things may've been moved. I'm leaving almost all my clothes here.” He waited while Robbie started down toward the main house and then he hitched the rope up onto his shoulder and went on up to Robbie's house.

He went in, squinting slightly as if that would prevent him from seeing clearly. The formless shape under the blanket made his stomach turn over. His first glance told him that there was a great deal of blood. Agnes would have to make of it what she would. He brought a handful of dishtowels from the kitchenette and threw them down onto the worst of it and pulled the body out of the way. Then he stumbled to the door and leaned against it, waiting for his stomach to settle.

When he had himself under control, he went back and gathered the dishtowels up into a ball and pushed them under a fold of the blanket. He knew the next step was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life but there was no avoiding it. Tugging at the blanket, trying not to see what it contained, he rolled the body and tied it into an untidy bundle.

Heaving and sweating, he dragged it out of the house. Again he was forced to wait while his stomach turned over and finally was quiet.

He stumbled with his load around the back of the house to the end of it. Even in the dark, he knew every inch of the way. He hadn't much farther to go. At the edge of the property, the land fell away in a short steep drop to a sort of hollow that was almost a cave. He dragged the bundle to the edge of the small cliff and with what strength was left him gave it a push. He heard it land with a thud. It was the best he could do. The body would be discovered. Perhaps soon, perhaps not for some time. In any case, he would be gone.

He mopped his face on the tail of his shirt as he made his way back to Robbie's house. He felt suddenly numb with exhaustion. He stopped long enough to go through the rooms and gather up Carl's papers and personal effects. He took Robbie's suitcase and snapped off the light and left. Robbie was waiting for him on the terrace when he returned to the big house.

“Come along,” he said, avoiding the boy's eyes. Robbie started toward him and Stuart glanced over his shoulder for a final glimpse of the place where he had spent the most important years of his life. For an instant, as his eyes moved over the statue and the row of columns, ruin seemed to hang over it all. He gazed at a vision of the future—all of it gone, all swept away, nothing left standing but one pink column against the blue and eternally tranquil sea.

He turned back to Robbie and put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on. We're going to sleep at Boldoni's. We want to get away first thing in the morning.”

They drove, speaking little, along the sea toward Toulon in the bright early morning. Stuart concentrated on precautions to be taken for the immediate future. It was most important that they should be at the frontier by evening.

“I hope we won't be getting your mother out of bed,” he said, glancing at his watch as they drove through a still-shuttered seaside resort.

“She's usually up pretty early,” Robbie said. He sat stiffly, looking straight ahead of him, suffering from delayed shock. He had awakened in the middle of the night drenched with sweat, the ghastly moment fixed in clear detail in his mind. It had kept repeating itself all through the rest of his fitful sleep—the shot, blood spurting as Carl's head seemed to explode, the crash of his body.

He scarcely knew the man at his side but was awed by him. He hadn't believed that there was steel and passion concealed in his father's faltering body. He made even the best in himself—his work—seem trivial. Did he have the strength to follow where his father led him?

Perhaps his mother wouldn't let him go. Perhaps losing him would be more than she could bear. He would make a show of holding out against her and let his father give in to her pleading.

“What are you going to say—I mean, are you going to tell her about Carl?” he ventured after they had driven another fifteen minutes in silence.

“Good God,” Stuart exclaimed. He swerved the car over to the side of the road and stopped with a squeal of tires. “Wait here a minute. Something I forgot. I'll be right back.” Robbie watched him with astonishment as he left the car and crossed the road.

He had forgotten to destroy Carl's papers. He had gone through them last night at Boldoni's before going to bed and found nothing of interest but there was a risk of leaving telltale traces if he destroyed the things in Boldoni's stove. He had kept them all together in his pocket, planning to get rid of them as soon as he was on the road.

A grove of pines descended from the highway to rocks and the sea. Stuart hurried down through it until he was out of sight of the road and then squatted and began to empty his pockets, his hand trembling slightly at the sight of the incriminating documents. There were road controls all over the place. If he were stopped for any reason, what conclusions might be drawn if an extra set of identity papers were discovered on him?

He set a match to the papers and crouched over them with a stick, prodding them as they caught fire one after the other, watching as the flame leaped up, flickered, and went out. He ground the ashes into the earth with his foot.

“About Carl,” he said when they were once more on their way. “Will it be a blow for your mother? I mean, would it be kinder to tell her or should we let her find out later? Will she be worried if she doesn't hear from him soon?”

“I shouldn't think so,” Robbie said, hesitating as he grasped the implications of his father's words. Was this what death was like, this indifference, this nothingness? Yesterday he had seemed so irresistible. Being freed of him by death forced him to face the weakness that had made it impossible to escape him while he was alive. Maybe his father would give him strength. Maybe he would finally be worthy of Maurice. He went on, “I told you, there wasn't much—well, you know, I don't think it will be a great loss for her. She—well, she changed in prison. She rather expected to see him before we went back to Paris but if he doesn't turn up I don't think she'll wonder about it. I can say his plans changed.”

“I see. In that case, perhaps it'd be better not to go into it. You could write her later.” Silence fell between them again as Stuart went over Robbie's words in his mind. “Letters of passion” a year ago and resignation now. Poor Helene. The lawyer had suggested that the prison regime had been hard on her. Now Robbie spoke of a “change.” That she should have aged was understandable but had she been completely broken? The thought of seeing her again began to grate on his nerves. He felt he ought to prepare himself for a shock but he couldn't imagine her beauty being anything but dignified by age.

They reached a crossroad and, following Robbie's directions, turned off the Toulon highway onto a country lane. In a few minutes they were rolling through flat vineyards pierced by an occasional cypress. In the distance they caught glimpses of the sea.

“Here we are,” Robbie said, and Stuart turned the car into a dirt drive that ran through vines. Ahead of them a clump of trees partially concealed a house. Stuart's heart began to beat faster. He stopped the car under the trees and they got out and walked around the corner to the front of the house.

They found themselves before a white façade bathed in morning light. The house had the severe lines of a Provençal farmhouse but there were touches that gave it a prosperous look, a carved-stone cornice above the central door, a balustrade running around a paved terrace, freshly painted blue-black shutters at the windows. A huge tree cast its shadow across part of the terrace where a table was set for one with a china bowl and a checked napkin.

Stuart's first thought was that it looked restful and sane; there was none of the stage-decor look about it that their place had always had, even at the beginning when its very primitiveness had been a bit too idyllic. The door opened as they approached and a small gray-haired woman emerged, carrying a tray with a silver pot that flashed in the sun. She glanced at them as she set the tray on the table.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
,” she called. “Your mother will be down in a moment.”

“It's Angèle. She's been with us for some time,” Robbie explained. And then, “
Bonjour,
Angèle. You better bring some more cups.” They had reached the two wide steps that led up to the terrace when Helene's voice came to them from within.

“Is that you, darling?” Her voice was warm and welcoming. “Heavens, you
are
an early bird.” Shutters were thrown open with a clatter and Helene appeared at a window in the upper floor. “I didn't expect you so—” Her eyes met Stuart's and his heart seemed to stop. “Why, Stuart, what a nice surprise. I'll be right down.” She left the window and Stuart was able to breathe again.

He had caught a glimpse of two wings of gray hair brushed back softly over her ears, of the great eyes in a face that had strangely altered. How? He hadn't had time to take it in. He waited tensely on the edge of the terrace, his eyes on the door.

He was vaguely conscious of Robbie stirring about beside the table. Then the door opened and Helene swept out, crossing the terrace first to Robbie, whom she gathered into her arms in a quick embrace with a murmured, “Darling,” and then advancing to Stuart with lifted hands which she placed on his shoulders as she kissed him lightly on both cheeks. Somehow she had managed it, somehow she had swept away the years of estrangement, somehow she had made it seem natural for him to be here.

“How nice of you to come,” she said. “I was going to write you.”

Stuart could see her now. She was thin. That was all. Why all the talk of “aging” and “change”? She was superb. Her ample body had been fined down, her face was pure beauty of line and coloring. Her gray hair was enormously becoming. And, oh, the unquestioning acceptance of her greeting, the blessed satisfaction of feeling no barrier between them. She turned back to Robbie, putting her hand on Stuart's arm, and started toward the table. She faltered suddenly as if she had tripped and lifted her hand to her eyes, steadying herself against Stuart.

“Oh, dear, here we are all together again.” She uttered a tight strangled laugh that threatened to break into tears. She raised her head and shook it and took a deep breath and moved with strong easy strides to the door. She was wearing a long dressing gown of dark red silk that clung to her startlingly spare frame.

“Angèle,” she called from the door. “Bring lots of bread and butter and another pot of milk and—and preserves.” She turned back to them, looking from Robbie to Stuart, and lifted her arms as if to embrace them. “Come. We'll have an enormous breakfast. I'm still not quite used to having all I want to eat.” They gathered around the table where Robbie had placed two more chairs. As they seated themselves, Helene made a quick, discreet appraisal of Stuart. He was looking much better than he had last winter. There was no longer the wounded look in his eyes. He moved as if he had a firm grip on himself. She could meet him now without resisting him, without fighting him. She remembered and understood her reaction to him when he had come to the prison offering help, without experiencing any of the same emotions now. She had met her supreme test with only her own resources. She had proved herself and was whole. There was nothing in him or in herself that she feared.

Angèle brought a big basket of grapes in addition to the things Helene had ordered and Helene occupied herself with serving them. Robbie was acutely embarrassed by this reunion and amazed at the easy understanding that seemed to exist immediately between his parents and he kept his face averted over his bowl of coffee, waiting for his father to get around to an explanation of why they were here.

“Actually, we have very little time,” Stuart said, breaking the ice. They were the first words he had spoken. He dreaded telling her of Robbie's decision. No matter how superb she looked, she must have suffered terribly, mentally and physically. The loss of Robbie might be the one blow from which she couldn't recover. In that case, had he the right to take him from her? “You see, this isn't exactly a casual visit,” he explained.

“Oh?” Helene said, offering him sugar. “Are you taking Robbie back to Paris? Have Carl's plans changed?” Stuart glanced at Robbie, who kept his head bowed over his coffee.

“We're not going to Paris,” he said. “It's time I did something about the war. I've just been waiting—well, I wanted to be sure that you and Robbie would be all right.” Helene looked up at him and their eyes met and she looked suddenly grave. She put out her hand and touched his sleeve briefly.

“I'm afraid I haven't thanked you for all you did,” she said. “You've been very good. At first, it was hard for me to—to admit I needed help, I suppose. I've thought about it since.”

“You know I didn't expect to be thanked,” he said, dropping his eyes. How different from what he had feared. Thank God, he had come. Thank God, he could leave here with this picture of her in his mind, this feeling in his heart. He plodded on with his explanations. “Anyway, it's time I did something. I'm going over into Spain. From there, I'll go to England—to the States if it's easier but eventually to England. That's where the war is.”

“And Robbie?” she asked.

Stuart could feel her eyes burning into him. He looked at the table. “Robbie,” he said, “would you like to explain?”

“I've told him I'd go with him,” Robbie blurted. If she was going to protest, he hoped she would do so effectively enough to override all opposition. He couldn't bear to leave her in tears. There was a moment of silence. Helene rose slowly. Stuart watched her as she took a couple of paces around the table, with her hands clasped in front of her. She stopped in back of Robbie's chair and put her hands on his shoulders.