Dead of Winter полностью

“I feel like I should be listening to ‘White Rabbit’ and stuffing towels under the door.”

She laughed. He felt so good, as if he were drifting in a warm ocean somewhere, surrounded by the smell of flowers. It was the patchouli and her perfume. She had moved closer to him, leaning back into the pillows, swirling the brandy in the glass.

“Well, I’m just an old hippie at heart,” she said.

“How old?”

“Thirty-five.”

He cocked a brow. “I’ve never been out with an older woman before.”

A black cat jumped up on the sofa and settled into Louis’s lap. Zoe reached to brush it away but Louis stopped her.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” he said. The cat began to knead his belly, stretching its paws and purring loudly.

“She likes you,” Zoe said.

Louis rubbed the cat’s head. “What’s her name?”

“Isolde.”

“Come again?”

“Isolde.” She pointed to a white cat cowering behind a chair. “That’s Tristan. You know, Wagner?”

Louis gave her a puzzled shrug.

“Tristan and Isolde. It’s an opera about two doomed lovers.” She paused, smiling. “Louis, don’t tell me you’ve never heard Wagner.”

“Sure. He wrote that music in “Apocalypse Now,” the part where Robert Duvall is in the helicopter talking about how much he loves the smell of napalm in the morning.” He sobered. For all he knew, her mother had been killed by some soldier in Korea.

But to his relief she didn’t seem to get it. She rose and went to the stereo, putting on a tape. Moments later, the music began, so softly he barely heard it. Zoe came back, fitting into the crook of his arm, laying her head back on his shoulder.

“This is Liebestod,” she said.

“Nice,” Louis said.

“It means ‘Love Death.’ It’s Isolde’s song of ecstasy, just as she’s getting ready to jump into the fire to meet Tristan in death.”

“Oh, those wacky Germans.”

Zoe closed her eyes. “Now, just listen to it. It starts out so slow, so sensual.”

Louis set the brandy aside and shut his eyes.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Hear how it builds?”

“Hmmm.”

“This part…listen to this. Louis? Are you listening?”

The music was growing louder. Zoe’s voice was at his ear. “Here,” she said. “The climax begins. It comes in waves, hear it?”

“Yes.”

“And now, just when you think it is over – ”

“Zoe.”

“It builds again.”

“Zoe…”

“Hang on, it’s only seven minutes long.”

“That’s not the problem.”

The music came to a crescendo then became quiet again, trailing off as it had begun. The only sound was the cat purring in his lap. Zoe kissed his cheek and he opened his eyes.

“I like opera,” he said.

“I knew you would.”

“But I don’t think I should stand up just yet.”

She laughed and went to put on another tape. It was Billie Holliday. He listened to “Trav’lin’ Light” and “Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer,” a small smile tipping his lips. Zoe was tapping out the tempo lightly on his thigh. It turned to a caress as Billie Holliday moved on to “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”

The next song began, “Strange Fruit.” Zoe’s hand stopped moving. They sat motionless through the images of magnolias and black bodies hanging from trees. Neither moved until the tape went on to the next cut.

“When I was living in Mississippi I started listening to her stuff a lot more,” Louis said. “But I couldn’t listen to that song.”

Zoe leaned in and kissed him, her hand cupping his cheek. She pulled back, her dark eyes locked on his.

He wanted suddenly to tell her. To tell her the truth about himself, about what he was. He wanted to tell her everything, about what happened down in Mississippi, about the bones of the black man he had found in that grave under the tree, about how he had felt when he finally found the man’s murderer. He wanted to tell her about the terror he had felt in that cell when Larry Cutter put that rope around his neck.

She kissed him again, more deeply. He returned her kiss then gently pushed away from her. He rose slowly and went toward the fireplace. He stared at the painting, unable to turn around and face her.

After a moment, she came up and put her arms around his waist, leaning into him.

“What would you like to do now?” she said softly.

What he wanted to do was make love. But he couldn’t look at her. Not just yet.

“Can I see your paintings?” he asked.

“All right,” she said. “They’re in the other room.”

He followed her into an adjoining room. She switched on a small lamp. In contrast to the living room this room was barren. There was no furniture except for a table and one old chair. The table was covered with tubes of paints and cans holding brushes. In one corner stood a large easel, which held a bare white canvas about four by three feet. The north wall of the room was given over entirely to two huge bare windows. Outside, in the moonlight, Louis could see that all the trees within ten yards of the cabin had been cut down. Zoe saw him staring at the stumps.

“I had to take them out. I needed the light,” she said. “You won’t arrest me or something, will you.”

He turned sharply then realized she was joking about his “job” with the forestry department. He shook his head.