Mazarine Page 8

  I composed a message in which I told Maya I’d found her last message strange and added that if she didn’t communicate again soon I would really start to worry. But then I hesitated, unsure, because we all knew, didn’t we, that our communications were recorded forever, and it might be unwise to reveal that I thought ‘something was wrong’. It was a disconcerting situation: a state of not knowing, on the defensive in case there was something to hide. I deleted the message without sending it.

  Mazarine knocked and said through the door, ‘Would you like to use the shower?’

  It was still quite early when I let the dog out and walked through the fruit trees towards the stream at the bottom of the garden, heading for the fence at the furthest possible distance from the hives, on which I could see the bees crowding and toppling over each other. The stream was clear and fast-running, fringed by bright strands of weed. The winter sun was shining and the air smelled of honey. Catching sight of the round-faced cat stalking through the grass, I got a thrill of pleasure in the bright light, the sharp air, the quaintness of the beehives on their ramshackle painted platforms.

  Mazarine offered me wholesome muesli, which we ate at the kitchen table, I embarrassed again by our eating together in silence, she seemingly at ease as she shook another helping out of the box and spooned up her breakfast, occasionally subjecting me to a glance that made me squirm in my seat, though her expression was neutral.

  I laid down my spoon and said, ‘I’ve looked online again this morning.’

  ‘So have I. No signs of life.’

  ‘What have you actually said to Joe?’

  ‘I emailed hello. How/where are you? What’s happening?’

  ‘So, you haven’t said you’re worried.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you asked Joe about, um, Mikail?’ I hoped I hadn’t made a face; I’d formed a negative feeling about the elder brother, saw him as threatening or at least unpleasant, with his religiosity and his anger.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you being deliberately casual?’

  ‘What do you mean, Frances?’

  ‘Online. Are you pretending you’re not worried because you don’t want anyone to know you’re worried?’

  She sat back and gave me a sharp, appraising look. ‘That sounds like paranoia.’

  ‘Well, I know, it sounds absurd. I’m not wanting to be dramatic, I’m just trying to understand. You told me not to go to the police …’

  ‘Only because it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Is it because it’s not necessary, or because you think there might be something you — we — don’t want the police to know?’

  She turned up her palms, a tiny shrug.

  ‘If I’m not going to ask for advice, you have to explain to me why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Do I.’

  ‘Christ.’ I stood up. The dog, always sensitive to my mood, swung his head around and gazed at me in alarm.

  She didn’t say anything, just went on looking at me with her maddening calm.

  I sat down. ‘Okay. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ve decided—’

  She put her hand on my arm. ‘Frances, wait. Let’s not talk about it now. Let’s take the dog for a walk.’ She crinkled her eyes at me, and began clearing the table while I, frustrated and annoyed, went to get my jacket and the leash from the hooks in the hall.

  Mazarine spent some time considering the weather, eyeing the rainclouds over the hills, before choosing an elaborate outfit: a raincoat, boots, a scarf and a Nike cap that she tried on, to comic effect, before stuffing it in her pocket just in case.

  While I waited, I looked at her bookshelves, which were crammed with crime thrillers. She came along the hallway in her rain gear.

  ‘Lot of books,’ I said.

  ‘I love buying them. Crime novels, especially. But they’re so expensive.’

  ‘Don’t you want a break from crime, what with your work?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, but crime thrillers are a break. Everything gets solved. Not like life.’

  We set off with the dog running in circles around us. Mazarine was taller and heavier but she was fit, and strode up the hill at a fast pace while I panted along beside her, troubled by the fact that despite the clouds in the west it was actually fine, and I’d left my sunglasses behind in the motel.

  Following a sheep track up the side of the mountain, we headed for the summit, which Mazarine said had been the site of an ancient Maori pa, the hillside cut into terraces and pitted with shallow middens full of discarded shells.

  We sat on a rock looking down at Mazarine’s roof, the two coloured squares that were the hives, the stream winding in a shimmering ribbon along the back of the orchard.

  Her arm and thigh were lightly pressed against mine. The silence and the physical closeness made me uncomfortable, and I fixed my eyes on the view and started talking.

  ‘I’ve decided to fly to London. Even if they turn up, which I know they will, I’m going to visit. Just this little bit of uncertainty’s enough to make me realise I want to check on Maya. I’ll go as soon as possible. I don’t want to go on living in my house, I never liked it, and the problem with Nick’s put me right off; I don’t think I could spend a night there knowing he can get in, even if everything’s locked.’

  She was patting the dog and gave no sign of hearing.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘who’s a good boy?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of money, I’ll find a place to stay, it’s horribly expensive in London but too bad, I’ll enjoy the trip. I’ll find an Airbnb. I’m going to tell everyone I’m doing research for a book. And when I find the kids, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll make a start on a novel set in London and Paris.’

  ‘You’re right, London accommodation’s expensive,’ she said, resting her hand on the dog’s head. ‘But I know a place, better than Airbnb.’

  ‘A hotel?’

  ‘It’s a flat you can rent short-term, cheaper than a hotel, and really private. It’s in halls of residence for Commonwealth graduates. Jasmine’s an academic, she and I have stayed there often. I go over to visit my aunt who lives in Amsterdam, Jasmine’s been to some conferences.’

  ‘I only need a room. And I’m not an academic.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re a graduate, I’m guessing, and you’re from the Commonwealth. When do you expect you’ll go?’

  I noted that she wasn’t arguing with me, or telling me what I was suggesting was ‘unnecessary’.

  ‘As soon as I can. I’ll have to go home and pack, and find someone to look after the dog.’

  ‘You need to do something about your ex.’

  I hesitated. ‘I don’t want to make a complaint. I can’t face it. The questions. It’s humiliating.’

  ‘You’re taking flight instead.’

  ‘I’m going to see my daughter. I’ve split up with Nick, my family think I’m crazy, Maya’s the only person I’ve got left.’

  ‘Why do your family think you’re crazy?’

  ‘Because I’ve questioned things — their reality.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mazarine stood up. ‘You know that big box of files I brought home? It’s a case I’m working on with a colleague. I need to do that, also shopping.’

  She waved a stick at the dog, who lunged for it. ‘I’ll give you the name of the place, you can ask about renting the flat. It’s near Russell Square. It’s central, cheap.’

  We walked through scrub to the stream, crossed a bridge and came to a lake, glassy water edged by tall stands of raupo.

  ‘It’s very scenic,’ I said.

  ‘Jasmine thought so.’ A slight eye roll, suggesting she’d had enough of scenery, thank you very much.

  Back at the house she collected a bunch of cloth bags and said she was going to a farmers’ market.

  ‘You still look tired,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you stay here and rest?’

  Her words had an unexpected effect; my eyes burned and I turned away.

  Whe
n she’d driven off, I stood in the silent kitchen, looking at the outsized furniture. The table was too long for its space, and beyond the kitchen a bookshelf protruded half an inch across the doorway. In a room off the hall I found a grand piano, of all things.

  From the windows, I could see the lake, which looked like a smaller version of Rimu Lake, where I was sent as a child to stay with my cousin Aria and uncle Tyson. Ancient memories: back then, Old Tyson’s wife’s way of dealing with us was to send us off for a week by ourselves. They were times of lawless freedom, during which Aria and I, two small girls, ran wild, roamed the countryside, nearly drowned ourselves. One time we were sent to camp by ourselves about half a kilometre from Old Tyson’s house. For days, we ranged around the shores of the lake, cooked our meals on a fire in the pines, floated in the dinghy for hours at a time; we had entered a strange dreamy limbo, full of threat and beauty, silence and water. That week a tall, mute teenage boy came down from one of the local farms, spied our tent, started hanging around bothering us, and one evening threatened to take our boat. He and Aria fought a tug of war over the anchor; he let go suddenly and the sharp end went into her forehead. I remembered her running, screaming, through the paddocks, covered in blood …

  Now, feeling criminal but hopelessly curious, I entered Mazarine’s study. The cardboard box had been unloaded and a pile of folders and papers covered the desk. I opened a folder and looked briefly at lists of documents, witness statements, police job sheets.

  In her bedroom I opened the wardrobe, inspecting the shoes lined up, the hanging clothes. How oddly affecting a person’s belongings can be, when viewed like this. The memory returned: Inez crossing in front of my car, not knowing she was seen. How would Inez Bravo Sinclair have reacted to Mazarine Libard, with her degrees and her solemn pronouncements and her gayness? Inez, who was homophobic because of prudishness, and whose hackles tended to rise especially in the company of women much younger and more educated than herself, would have fizzed with hostility, perhaps would have noted the cheapness of Mazarine’s shoes and jewellery, the homeliness of her scruffy jeans, the corniness of the self-help manual on mindfulness by the bed, would have wanted to scorn and dismiss and belittle, since on every measure Mazarine was of a different scale.

  A movement in the hall startled me, but it was only the dog, his claws clicking on the wooden floor, the sound of him noisily draining the cat’s water bowl.

  On the bedside table, next to a pile of crime thrillers, was a family photo: Mazarine, a dark-haired man and two boys, one recognisable as Joe, the other very like him, with curls, heavy black eyebrows and pale skin, both boys happy, the adults unsmiling, the man’s hand on her shoulder.

  I ran my eye over the bookshelf: law texts, classic novels, titles on meditation, yoga, diet, but mainly crime thrillers, whole collections of them.

  There was a framed photo lying on top of the books, a picture of a young Mazarine, sitting on a canvas chair and leaning forward to rest her hand on the back of a small, squat dog, her gaze directed straight at the camera. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and was slim although not thin, with large eyes, thick wavy hair, a strong, well-contoured face, and a mild expression. I looked closer: her cheeks were dimpled. She hadn’t yet acquired her authority and toughness; she looked sensitive, clear-eyed, highly intelligent.

  Edging open the drawer of the bedside cupboard I found vitamin supplements and a French magazine, its pages folded open at a report on the November terrorist attacks in Paris, with maps, timelines, colour photos of scenes and suspects. I looked at the pictures: the Chinese-style Bataclan theatre, the Stade de France, soldiers in the streets, a bullet hole in a wall forensically marked in chalk with the number 38.

  I left the room, straightening the rug, hoping I’d left no sign that I’d been there.

  NINE

  I checked out of the motel and spent the weekend with Mazarine, before driving Mark’s station wagon back to Auckland, where I found myself even more resistant than I’d expected to the idea of staying in the house. There was no sign of Nick when I returned the car next door and started putting things in order. I hadn’t answered his email in which he said we needed to talk. I kept pausing to peer from the windows, hoping he wouldn’t turn up in the cul-de-sac.

  Moving fast, I packed, sorted out the house, made bookings, and awaited the arrival of my young second cousin Max, who was working on a PhD in sociology, and who’d been gratifyingly pleased when I rang him from Mazarine’s and offered him my house while I was away. It was an arrangement he and I had come to before, and it suited him, since it gave him a break from living with his mother out west, where there was a long commute and the public transport was unreliable. The deal was, I paid the rent and he looked after the cat, dog and house. He was a strapping young man, and wouldn’t be unnerved if Nick turned up, and he was admirably versatile, unbothered by the suddenness of my offer. He’d responded as I’d hoped, by saying, ‘Great, totally, I’ll throw some stuff in a bag and come over.’

  Even better, he loved the dog.

  It was only after I’d checked into a motel, having thrust the keys into Max’s hands, said goodbye to the dog and driven off in a taxi, that I remembered it was the Judge’s birthday, and I was expected to meet the family that night for dinner.

  At the restaurant, having bought a bottle of the Judge’s favourite whiskey as a present and arrived late, I told them I’d decided to fly to London to see Maya and to research my first novel, leaving Max to look after the house.

  The Judge smoothed his great head of wavy silver hair and eyed Frank, who was making an intense inventory of the cutlery.

  ‘Max,’ he said. ‘Is he the younger one or the married one?’

  ‘The younger one,’ I said. ‘It’s his brother who has a wife. Who’s had some kind of surgery recently, I think?’

  ‘She’s got Graves’ disease,’ Inez said. ‘And no tits.’

  ‘Really?’ The Judge signalled to the waiter.

  I crossed my arms against my chest.

  ‘She had breast cancer,’ Inez said, squeezing her eyes shut and going off into tipsy giggles. I looked at her across the table, refusing to join in where once I would have obligingly tittered (bad word). Oh Inez, what a wowser I’ve become.

  I thought of Mazarine, who’d got talkative, just before I left, when I’d asked about her criminal clients. She’d spoken about the women in particular, their psychological traumas, hard lives blighted by domestic violence and poverty. Frowning and earnest, balancing herself with a hand on the Don Quixote letterbox, she had used words Inez would have condemned as corny: healing, nurture, counselling, care.

  She’d used those soft words, and yet when I’d put the dog in the car and turned to say goodbye she was all business, shaking my hand, her expression cool, grey eyes flinty. Softness and hardness, it reminded me of someone, Patrick perhaps, yes that was it, Patrick was hearty, tough and loud, and yet he was warm and could read people; he was sensitive. That quality, of yin and yang: Maya had inherited it. My girl took after her father, thank god.

  I’d thanked Mazarine for her hospitality, and for the advice about where to stay in London, knowing I’d likely never see her again.

  ‘No tits,’ the Judge echoed tolerantly, setting Inez off again. Little heaves of mirth, tee hee.

  I looked down at the menu, my mind on the journey ahead, already travelling. Inez was now wiping the tears from her eyes, registering my refusal to laugh at poor old No Tits, and totting it up as another black mark against me.

  Odd to be found wanting on such grounds. Well, families are infinitely strange, aren’t they?

  I’d booked a seat on a flight through Singapore and headed for the airport early, the sky breaking into patches of blue after the storms, the bus sending up a wall of spray as it ploughed along the puddled highway, water shot through with rainbows.

  Queuing to board, my mind kept returning to the first novel I’d planned to write, a story set in London and Paris. I’d d
escribed it to editor Harry as my Tale of Two Cities, although I’d conceived it as a subtle meditation on disconnection in the connected world rather than something as plot-driven and racy as Dickens’s brilliant novel, which was one of my favourites, with its spies and secrets and revolutionaries. As the plane rose over Auckland, I’d entered that dreaming state brought on by travel, my head full of engine noise and half-remembered phrases, and now the ideas I’d set out to Harry seemed pretentious and anodyne when I thought of Dickens and his energy, the way his novels pulsed with life and blood and salty humour. The opening of A Tale of Two Cities ran like a mantra in my mind, steadying me during a bout of serious turbulence that suspended the drinks service and sent a flight attendant lurching against my seat, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, and by the time the attendants had smilingly unbuckled themselves and the meal had been served with its rubbery cubes of food, and I’d got through two thimbles of bright yellow wine, I was in a trance, the words all muddled, until the screams of a small child roused me and made me think of Maya, who had been torture to travel with as a toddler because she was so restless, and yet Patrick and I had never let that stop us, we’d travelled as much as we could after she was born, wrestling our tiny screaming girl through railway stations, on and off planes, peeling her small kicking form off airport floors, perching her king of the castle on top of luggage trolleys, bedding down with her in cheap hotels; we’d been proud of the way we’d let her see the world, had hoped it would make her fearless, and it had.

  Fourteen hours later, Singapore was heading into equatorial night, the onward flight delayed, and I roamed the vast concourses of Changi Airport, gazing out the smeared windows, strange plants pressed against the glass as though the city beyond was a giant terrarium, shrouded in mist. There was the usual smell of steamy vegetation and rotting carpet; nothing could keep out the humidity. I went up to the cactus garden on the roof and rested on a bench between spiky plants, the planes roaring overhead, the heat pressing as close as a blanket, the red points of cigarette ends glowing as smokers wandered through the dark paths.