The Tiger in the Tiger Pit (16 page)

Sergei stopped pacing, waited like a bow pulled taut.

Following directions found in a note left at Théâtre

Port-Royal, police have found the body of Pierre Laporte.

The text of the note reads as follows:

“Faced with the arrogance of the federal government and its valet Bourassa, faced with obvious bad faith, the FLQ has decided to act. Pierre Laporte, Minister of Unemployment and Assimilation, was executed at 6:18 tonight by the Dieppe Cell (Royal 22nd). You will find the body in the trunk of the green Chevrolet 9J-2420 at the St Hubert Base.
Nous vaincrom.
FLQ.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Sergei cried. “And that is the nobility of the revolutionaries! That is the new order of justice. Animals, mere animals!”

“Horrible.” Emily could barely whisper. “Horrible.”

Now he will go, she thought with inner panic. Now that the world is turning savage he will leave me and go to Sasha, to restrain him, to reason with him, to comfort him. She began to cry helplessly, propping her face in her hand, her elbow resting on the table, her hair falling in a curtain so that he would not notice.

“Emily, are you crying?” He took her in his arms. “Civilisation has survived worse. One has to believe.”

He began kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her lips, he buried his face in her hair and with his fingertips explored her face, the curve of her throat, her breasts.

“Oh Sergei, Sergei.” She was practically sobbing with relief, tearing at her clothes, when he lifted her up as lightly as though she were the child abandoned at dawn, and carried her into her own bedroom.

In Emily's mind the next two and a half years passed like a blink of her eyelid. For such a passionate time, her days were strangely celibate. She might have been a novice in some order dedicated to excellence: the solitary arduous mornings of practice, the afternoon rehearsals, the evenings again with only violin and hard work for company.

There were countless lunches, but never dinners, with Sergei. He would not disappoint Anna, he considered Emily's practising inviolable. Around eleven each night he would arrive — from whatever corporate affairs or social engagements involved him — bearing usually a rose or a bunch of narcissus or daffodils. They would sip wine and talk and listen to music and make love. Somewhere between two and three in the morning he would go home to Anna.

At first Emily would beg: “Don't leave me.” But she came to accept the pattern of their love. She felt married.

At the not-so-little chamber concerts, she dazzled. Always Anna commented on her progress, her piercing eyes approving and mocking, her wide mobile mouth, it seemed to Emily intimating words other than those spoken. Once she said cryptically: “You are almost ready to graduate.”

Emily was bewildered. “From the concerts?”

But Anna simply smiled as though all knowledge had already passed between them. Sasha, like an attendant lord, led her to a window-seat.

“You look like alabaster,” he said, “with the moon locked inside. You have the world at your feet. Not to mention the reviewers.”

Reviews, indeed, had spilled as from a jewel box, lavish, exotic, glittering with superlatives.

She said self-deprecatingly: “It doesn't hurt, I'm sure, to be the protégée of a newspaper magnate.”

“But the other papers too,” he said. “They're all under your spell. As I am.”

“Sasha.” She touched his hand fondly. As a sister. A rival sibling for Sergei's love. He drew it away irritably.

“I don't want your pity. Besides” — there was an edge of urgency in his voice — “I'm worried about you. It's that blooming look — you're expecting more than you can possibly have. I know you'll think this is spite, but it can't last, you know. It simply won't be allowed. You won't do anything silly will you?”

“Silly?”

“He goes through these stages. I can see it coming on. I hope you'll be sensible.”

It was later that week that she woke one morning to find Sergei still in bed with her.

“
Merde
!” he laughed. “I fell asleep!” And they made love as the morning sun gilded them.

They agreed it was enchanting, and she brought coffee and French toast. She cautioned herself not to become addicted.

A few nights later it happened again. This could, they told each other, become a habit.

Shortly after he had left on the morning of the fourth occurrence — so that her practice would not be interfered with — Emily received a hand-delivered note from Anna inviting her to be present within the hour at morning tea in Westmount. It did not seem to be the kind of invitation that could be declined.

“Child,” Anna said. “I want you to understand that I find you utterly charming and therefore I hope, quite sincerely, that you will not be hurt. Since you are also intelligent, I am confident that things will work out well. You must understand that a certain point has been reached. It is quite over now.”

“I can't give him up, you know. I love him.”

Anna shrugged. “We all love him, child. Now, I have three possibilities for you, each excellent. You are aware that your musicality has reached a pitch that will not go unremarked in the world. Very quickly you will become famous and will forget all about us. You have offers from the orchestras of Dallas, Minneapolis, and Sydney, Australia. The auditions, of course, took place at our little concerts. Now, which one do you choose?”

With infinite care, Emily set down her china teacup in its saucer and said coldly: “I believe I will go now.”

“When you are ready to send your telegram of acceptance, Sasha will come and help with the necessary arrangements.”

Emily left for rehearsal. That night Sergei did not come and at lunch the next day, he was abstracted. A flicker, like the shadow of a small swiftly flying bird, passed over Emily's confidence.

“Sergei, is something the matter?”

“My love, it is too distressing. I cannot come again tonight. Another of our little concerts, a fledgling performer, rather tedious I'm afraid. Which is why I spare you from coming. You need rest and practice.”

For a week, though the lunches and nocturnal visits grew erratic, she felt no anxiety. It was a major decision and she knew who would win. When, during the second week, she saw him scarcely at all, she had difficulty eating and her sleep and playing were affected. Nothing, he assured her, was wrong. In the third week, during which he neither came nor telephoned, she became ill and missed two rehearsals. By the fourth week, she was frantic.

She telephoned Anna and raved in a manner she would never have believed possible: “Where is he? What lies have you told him? You are monstrous and evil! You are a witch!”

She could hear Anna's sigh. “I do wish you would not be so hurt. I did explain.”

She phoned his newspaper, the florist, his apartment buildings, his broker, the waiters at restaurants they had frequented. If she could just
speak
to him. He was never available. He had always just left.

In the sixth week, Sasha called.

“Do you wish to see my father?”

“Oh Sasha,” she sobbed. “Please.”

“I'll come and get you.”

In Sasha's car they drove to a section of Old Montreal, a section of cobbles and restaurants with tiny courtyards.

“We'll go round the back way. You must promise you will be discreet.”

Numbly she followed and through a crevice in an ivy-covered stone wall saw the courtyard, the intimate tête-à-tête Sergei leaning across a table toward a willowy young woman in white. She saw Sergei's eyes, smoky with obsession.

“Mother found her at the Sorbonne,” Sasha said. “A cellist, winner of various prizes in Paris and of a Europe-wide contest. A few weeks ago she played at one of our little chamber concerts. Enormous promise, everyone thinks. Father wants her for the orchestra. Have you seen enough?”

Emily half turned to him, brushing her hand across her eyes as though for some pain or dizziness, and fainted. When she came to, she was in a doctor's office. She was, he told her, pregnant.

Afterwards she could never be sure if she had changed from the pill to less certain methods because she had read an article warning of dire side effects or because Sergei had stayed for breakfast and she had begun to crave more than a shadow life.

Driving her home, Sasha demanded: “Well, what did the doctor say?”

“Exhaustion and shock, that's all. He said I need rest. I want to get away.”

“Dallas or Minneapolis?”

“Sydney.”

At her door Sasha said: “When you're ready, I'll help with the packing and everything. I'll take you to the airport.”

Tentatively he touched her arm. “I do adore you, Emily. I will probably always be faithful to you.”

For days she slept and cried. She did not want to eat but feared for the baby and forced herself. She was often sick. Sometimes she thought she might never have emerged from her apartment, never have opened her violin case again, never have left for Australia, if Victoria had not arrived as mysteriously and alarmingly as the priestess Pythia from a cave at Delphi, mouthing oracular predictions.

“Who is it?” Emily demanded of the silence in the receiver. She had never deluded herself that Sergei would call, having seen his eyes on
la celliste ravissante
. “Is it Anna? Are you waiting for a formal surrender?”

Silence. Heavy breathing.

She felt a spasm of unease because Anna would never …

“Emily, there's a man watching me. I can't leave the phone booth.”

“What? Who is this?”

“It's Tory, Emily. Help me!”

“Tory?” Roaming confusedly through Montreal acquaintances, her memory took several seconds to alight on her sister. “My god, Tory! Where are you?”

“At the airport. There's a man watching me.”

“
Which
airport?”

“Here. In Montreal. Dorval, is it? He followed me from Boston. Should I speak to him? Perhaps he likes me. But it might be for rape. I'm scared.”

“Tory, darling Tory. I won't let anyone harm you. Stay right where you are and I'll come and get you. Now tell me, exactly where in the airport?”

“Eastern Airlines. I'm at the Eastern Airlines terminal.”

“It will take me half an hour at least, Tory. You mustn't worry. I'll get there as fast as I can.” Emily pressed her thumping heart, striving to impart calm. “But I promise nothing will happen to you. That's a
promise
, okay? Just stay right where you are.”

She called Sasha, and while she waited for him to come, called Jason.

“Thank God,” Jason said. “She's been missing since early this morning. She seemed perfectly calm last night and when they went to her room this morning she was gone.”

“Why didn't anyone call me?”

“How could we expect it would involve you? It's incredible that she could have got into Boston and got a plane by herself. But we knew she had money. Took it from Father's desk.”

“Father's desk?”

“She's been at home for a month. You don't exactly keep in touch, do you? We thought she was doing extremely well; something happened with Father no doubt. I didn't like the arrangement in the first place, it never works out, but he keeps trying to atone, you know. And Mother hopes for so much. A disaster.”

“What should I do?”

“I'll come up tomorrow and bring her back. Oh god. Poor Tory. But you won't find her difficult. She's pathetically docile, writes letters to us constantly, and poetry incessantly. That's where her rage goes. Haven't you had any?”

“No. She wouldn't have my address.” Then, puzzled: “But she must …”

“May have just got it from home. Must have been what gave her the idea. Could she stay for a while?”

Emily reeled with panic and nausea.

“Jason, no! I mean, I'd like to. But I leave for Australia in a few days.”

“Australia?!”

“Sydney Symphony. I've been offered a position.”

“Good grief! Is something the matter?”

“What kind of question is that? It's an offer I can't refuse. About Tory. How's Mother taking this?”

“Distraught. Father's fit to be tied. The guiltier he feels, the worse he behaves, as usual.”

“Oh god.”

“Stupid mistake to have Tory back home. Mustn't happen again.”

“No. And yet institutions … when she's doing well. What a mess.”

They were silent, both miserable with guilt, knowing they were not equal to … Some time in my life, Emily promised herself, when I am not pregnant and falling apart at the seams, I will have Tory live with me. I will make her happy. Some time.

“Here's my car,” she said. “I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Incongruously as she got into Sashas car, she remembered Tory lifting her into a wheelbarrow and trundling her around the garden. Shrieks of pleasure. More, Tory, more, she was calling. Don't stop!