“You’d think we were under siege, judging by that menu.”
Kate stroked the back of his hand. Gradually, they warmed to one another again: time-honoured reflexes of a long, shared life.
“Yes, as if it’s your turn to eat today and mine tomorrow.”
Kate laughed softly, and met his gaze at last.
“Perhaps they’ll make an exception for us, so we can both order?” Their warmth rose by a few more degrees.
She asked after his daily life in Berne, which he had barely mentioned in his letters, he asked after hers, which she had not mentioned at all. She told him about the Richmond, and what she did there as “head of subtle affairs”. And about the doctor who reminded her of Peter Henning.
“Peter Henning?”
“Don’t you remember that night in the bar of the Esplanade Hotel, when he and I had been to the Olympic Games?”
“And you looked like a schoolgirl with her first boyfriend – of course I remember. What has become of him, do you know?”
She did not know. She was amused by Oscar’s remark, and wondered whether she might have been a wee bit sweet on Peter after all.
And finally she told him about Matteous. How she had visited him, tentatively, taking two steps forward and one back in cautious progression. She described Matteous in unearthly terms. Oscar imagined someone who could have been her son, a black brother to Emma. Or, stranger still, a primordial loved one, ageless, non-existent except in her dreamed past. A selfless, undemanding love.
Kate’s voice was strong and clear. Oscar listened with close attention, now and then asking a question about the boy.
“All I want is to write a letter.” That was what he had said. The deepest wish of a refugee, of someone who had left home forever, only to return there in his nightmares. To write a letter. Letter-writing was so integral to Oscar’s existence that the enormity of that wish took a while to sink in. A letter as a weapon against the senselessness, against the devastation, against the oblivion, a letter as a rite of exorcism, as proof of life reclaimed.
Kate said nothing. The blackout curtains had now been drawn across the tall windows of the dining hall, and the tables were lit by sparse chandeliers. Two waiters glided through the décor, bearing trays with wine-filled glasses. Rationing did not extend to wine, apparently. Oscar registered the scene. He kept having to remind himself where he was, and why he was there, and that June 22 was almost upon them.
For heaven’s sake, Oscar, it’s not too late. Her exasperation still rang in his ears. He was shocked by Kate’s refusal to see his side of the argument, while feeling utterly disarmed by her account of Matteous.
“Do you ever think of Roy?” A loose cannon, a question out of the blue. Had he actually asked her that? He never mentioned Roy, and Kate never mentioned him either, Roy had become an irrelevance, a sunken corpse, rejected, pulverised, secreted. Where on earth did that question come from, who started this? It was against all their rules. Had she jumped to her feet and left, he would have understood, had she looked angry or sad, or ordered something from a passing waiter, or ignored him by asking a counter-question, had there been any such reaction, he would have understood. How idiotic to raise the subject now, at this hour, after so many years, when they should be discussing something so very different.
The past is never truly past, he thought.
But Kate remained seated, unfazed by Oscar’s question. Her whole life had been lived within a heartbeat of the answer.
The years with Roy, they were gone, but still on permanent standby, filtered, washed clean, as light as a feather, and of an extreme, unassailable tenderness. But what of it, there was no footstep light enough to tread the filmy foundation of happiness laid back then. Oscar, you are too heavy, my base cannot support your weight. That is why I never mentioned those days; it was not for your sake, but for my own. Yes, I do think of Roy sometimes, I never stopped thinking of him. But since meeting Matteous, when I lie awake in the early hours and the world’s still asleep, I’ve been back, back in Rome, back in his arms. That’s not being unfaithful, Oscar, it’s being faithful. It’s because of Matteous; it has to do with a feeling that has come over me lately, an almost animal sensation of caring about another person with reckless dedication. His skin, his eyes, the way he gropes for words – they blew me away. Roy in the shape of a black boy: what an extraordinary image to conjure up in middle age. Everything from the past repeats itself, only not ever in the same form. Roy is gone, though even that is open to interpretation. He’s still there, somewhere in my body. I can touch him in the small hours, or perhaps he touches me.
She was uncertain whether to answer him at all. Not one of the thoughts going through her mind would she be able to articulate.
“Yes, Oscar,” she said eventually. Her tone was reassuring, affirmative as in giving him her word. “Why do you ask?”
