The Saffron Gate (28 page)

^{My studio was damp and chilled, with an unused air about it. I hadn't painted in the last month; I had been too caught up in my new life and the thoughts of my future with Etienne.}

^{There was a stealthy movement behind me, and Cinnabar forced her way through my ankles, and then jumped on to the table holding my supplies. She lowered herself, tucking her front paws under her chest and staring at me with wide topaz eyes. I saw how old she had become, her haunches withering and her small spine a line of bumpy vertebrae. She had lost the rich copper hue of her fur; now she was a dull brown.}

^{The last paintings I had done were pinned up on the walls. They were careful and polite, executed with — as Etienne had once pointed out — a precise, unwavering hand, each small stroke thoughtful and certain.}

^{Suddenly I was impatient with the work, impatient with myself for being that woman, a woman who simply allowed life to happen to her. Who thought that such a tiny piece of land, less than a mere pinpoint on the earth's surface, was enough to sustain her for a lifetime.}

^{Cinnabar was falling asleep, her eyes half closed, her chin on her paws.}

^{And so here I am, I thought, watching the old cat. I was neither formally educated nor worldly. Although Etienne had called me beautiful, I had no misconceptions about my appearance. My face and body were lean, my eyes wide and curious under thick arched brows. My hair was curly and difficult to hold in place; impossible to attain the cultured, sophisticated look I saw on other women. Stubbornly, I had refused to bob it in the latest style.}

^{At thirty, I was no longer young. In fact, in some societies I would be considered old. In all probability those who knew me in Albany already viewed me as a spinster.}

^{I left my paintings and went into the bathroom, studying myself in the spotted mirror over the sink. My normally dark complexion had an ashy sheen, and my lips were an odd mauve hue, matching the half-moons under my eyes. There were a few strands of paler hair along my temples. Not as dramatic as grey or white, but it was as if the normally rich black gloss of my hair had faded. Had this been there before, or had I simply been unable to see it? As to what I saw in my own eyes: nothing. Their colour had faded to something wholly unremarkable. Mysterious, Etienne had once called them.
Your eyes are mysterious, Sidonie,
he had said.
Mysterious, and, like you, elusive as the early fog.}

^{Did I only imagine that he had once spoken to me so?}

^{'And now what?' I said, aloud, and behind me there was a sound. I turned; Cinnabar had followed me, and was standing in the doorway. She looked at me as if to ask,
Will you not sit still? Will you not settle in one place so that I can rest?}

^{I went to the living-room window. There was only darkness beyond the pane, and the quiet, persistent tapping of the linden branch. Tonight the tapping was nothing like dancing, as I had once thought; tonight it was the ticking of time, a bony finger on the shoulder. I was sick of my own predictability, and of my own small compass.}

^{Again I saw my reflection, this time in the glass of the window, shadowy and vague, as if I were a ghost of myself.}

^{I picked up my handbag from the sofa, where I'd dropped it the day before, and carried it into the kitchen. I took out everything I'd brought home from Etienne's rooms: his eyeglasses, the pill bottle, and the letter. I spread them out in front of me on the table and sat down, staring at them. I read the letter three more times; there, was no reason to read it again, as by then I knew the words by heart.}

^{Now I looked at the pill bottle, then rose and went to the bookcase in the living room, pulling out a thick medical journal from beside the dictionary and atlas. I took it back to the kitchen and turned to the index. There it was, this oxazolidinedione.}

^{It was a medication for neurological pathologies, I read, prescribed to help deter both epileptic conditions and palsy.}

^{But surely Etienne was not epileptic. He had never experienced a seizure in the times I was with him. And he didn't have any signs of palsy. He was occasionally slightly clumsy, stumbling against a piece of furniture or tripping on the edge of a rug. I remembered watching him carving a chicken I had cooked for our dinner, and how suddenly the knife appeared to jerk to one side. Etienne had dropped it, staring at it as if it were an unknown object, then turned from me, going to the sink and washing his hands, over and over. I hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now I also remembered how these seemingly inconsequential acts upset him, and how he reacted with uncharacteristic anger, muttering under his breath and tersely brushing off my enquiries or concerns.}

^{I didn't know what to make of the prescription. If Etienne had an illness, I would have known. Wouldn't I? I picked up the eyeglasses and again ran my fingers over and over them. I put them down and picked up the letter again.}

^{This woman, his sister Manon, was related to the secret: the secret Etienne felt he was unable to tell me. This was why he had left. But he didn't realise that I could accept anything he told me. He had to know that. He had to know that I loved him enough to not care what his past held. That it was our future that would cleanse him of what plagued him.}

^{But to find him . . . the only clues I had were the Christian name of his sister — a woman he had never mentioned — and the city where she lived. Where Etienne had grown up. I would go there. I would find him, in Marrakesh, and tell him this.}

^{Would this be a spontaneous and foolish act? Yes. Had I ever before acted on such an impulse? Yes, when I had allowed Etienne into my home, and my bed. Into my life.}

^{I had been a woman who previously had reacted with her head, with caution. My own past felt strangely distant, as if I were a character in a novel, a book I had put aside, half read, because that character held little interest for me.}

^{But perhaps it was more important to think about the woman I thought I was now: a woman who acted on an urge, listening to her heart. I thought of my heart, seeing it, formerly, as a lumpy, liver-coloured affair, beating dully. But then Etienne had come, and in a short while it had changed into a rich bowl of scarlet blossoms, pumping with bright heat.}

^{I feared that without some understanding of what had happened to Etienne, my heart was in danger of returning to what it had been, of withering back to that organ, as calm and undemanding as the subjects in my watercolours.}

^{And, more importantly, now there was another beating heart — so tiny — to consider.}

^{'I'm going abroad, Mrs Barlow,' I told her, standing in her kitchen. 'I'm going to . . .' I stopped. I didn't want to say
look for Dr Duverger,
or
try to find him.
It would be too difficult to explain to her that I knew with certainty he wanted to be with me. It was up to me to tell him it was all right. I would love him, no matter what. 'I'm going abroad,' I repeated, rather lamely.}

^{'Abroad?' Mrs Barlow said, her eyebrows lifting. 'How will you do that?'}

^{I swallowed. It had been over a week since I had made my decision, and in that time I had been planning and acting. I had already done what was necessary to obtain a passport. I had taken the stack of money from the sale of the Silver Ghost to the bank, changing most of it into francs. I had also withdrawn almost everything but a few dollars from my bank account, and had gone into the travel offices on Drake Street and purchased a ticket for a ship leaving from New York to Marseilles in two weeks. By that time I would have my passport. I had bought two suitcases. 'It's all organised,' I said now.}

^{'And when will you return?'}

^{'I don't know yet,' I told her. 'But could you and Mr Barlow watch the house while I'm gone? And Cinnabar. Could you keep Cinnabar for me?'}

^{Mrs Barlow's mouth closed in on itself. 'Now, Sidonie. You're not the type to go off and spend all your money on a hare-brained holiday. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I get the sense this
is something to do
with that missing doctor of yours.'}

^{I didn't answer. I studied the painting of three snipes on the wall behind her head. I had given it to her and Mr Barlow last year.}

^{'Because if you're off to try and convince that man to come back . . . well, you can't make a man do what he doesn't want to do, Sidonie. If he doesn't want to be here with you, then going to the other side of the world to persuade him to come back won't make it right.' Her voice was unfamiliar: disapproving, and a tone louder than usual. 'Wouldn't it be easier to just let it be, and go on with your life? There's really no arguing with a man once he's got his mind set. I know.'}

^{'But something's happened to him, Mrs Barlow. I need to tell him . . . I need . . .' I stopped, unsure of how to go on. 'I just need to go and speak to him, Mrs Barlow.'}

^{'What's happened to him?'}

^{I smoothed my hair back. 'There's been an emergency, of sorts. With his family.'}

^{'But . . . why didn't you just speak to him while he was still here? Or can you not phone him? They have telephones wherever he is, don't they? I don't understand, Sidonie.'}

^{Of course she didn't understand. I couldn't imagine Mrs Barlow ever feeling about Mr Barlow the way I felt about Etienne. Or if she once had, she wouldn't remember it after all these years.}

^{'Mrs Barlow, please. I just have to go.'}

^{'Is it France you're off to, then?'}

^{I nodded. It wasn't entirely a lie; I was first going to Marseilles. And I felt an overwhelming need to not talk about it too much. If I said I was travelling on to Morocco, she'd question why I was going there. Then I'd have to tell her about the letter from the woman named Manon.}

^{Suddenly my lips and chin trembled. I put my hand over my mouth and turned aside.}

^{'Besides. There's your . . . state to consider.'}

^{I looked back at her.}

^{She nodded, her eyes dropping to my middle.}

^{I took my hand from my mouth. 'How do you know?'}

^{She cocked her head to one side. 'A woman can see the signs, if she's looking. And I imagine that it won't be too long until you're showing. So how will you travel about, a woman alone, with no ring on her finger and her belly a flag for all to see? For all to know what kind of woman she is?'}

^{Mrs Barlow had never before spoken to me like this. I cleared my throat.'I don't care what anyone thinks of me. You know that. I've never cared.'}

^{Her eyelids lowered, just the slightest. 'Perhaps it would have been a better thing if you had cared, Sidonie. Perhaps then you wouldn't find yourself in the condition you do. Why, if your mother could see you, bringing a man into the house, carrying on—'}

^{'Berating me now will do no good, Mrs Barlow,' I said, my tone as hard and loud as hers. 'My mother is long dead. And it's not your business.'}

^{Mrs Barlow drew back as if I'd slapped her face, and I knew I'd hurt her. But I was angry with her because what she said was true.}

^{'I'm sorry, Mrs Barlow,' I said quickly. 'You've always been so good to us. To me.' I didn't want to think about the fact that I hadn't paid Mr Barlow any rent for months, as he'd told me after my father died. I didn't know whether Mrs Barlow knew this fact. 'It's just that I . . . I love him, Mrs Barlow. And he loves me too. I know he does.'}