Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘We are good friends,’ was all he could think to say. She lifted her gaze to his face again and offered him a hesitant smile, a promise and a rebuke. ‘We are good friends, aren’t we?’ she said softly, inviting him to say more, her eyes sparkling like the sun on the sea. He wanted to please her, to reach for her hand and shape the words: Laura, I love you. He wanted to tell her, It’s true, I love you, and that is the truth.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘You look unhappy.’

‘No, how can I be?’ he lied, the knot in his chest twisting tighter. ‘I think I must be the luckiest man in the city.’

‘Just the city?’ she asked.

‘All right, the world,’ he heard himself say, and he tried to smile. He probably made a good fist of it after so many years’ practice.

‘Do you really think so, Jan?’

‘Yes. Don’t you believe me?’

She seemed younger and, for once, vulnerable as if she wished to speak of her feelings but was uncertain of the grammar.

‘Now, there’s something you said you wanted to discuss with me,’ he declared, trying to jolly them both. ‘New curtains? A dress? Shoes? Your best friend is considering a proposal of marriage from someone called Rockefeller? No — a part in Mr DeMille’s new picture — abducted by a bandit.’

‘You know me so well, Mr de Witt,’ she countered with a happier smile.

She was going to help a new campaigning group called the National Women’s Party, she said. Tired of being ignored by the President, they were going to picket the White House, and, if necessary, break the law. ‘Look at our sisters in England — they were prepared to go on hunger strike,’ she observed, the battle in her eyes again.

Wolff said he was glad she’d been able to dine at Sherry’s first. She laughed and said she wouldn’t speak to him if he was going to make fun of her. But he wasn’t, he assured her; he was full of admiration — always.

After dinner he suggested they visit a club but she wanted him to take her home. They sat very close in the taxicab although it wasn’t necessary, almost shoulder to shoulder, her thigh brushing against his at every corner, her hands resting lightly in her lap. She had used some more scent in the ladies’ room at the restaurant. They didn’t talk and he sensed she was excited and tense too. A few blocks from the apartment, she turned to look at him, her face so close he could feel her breath on his cheek.

‘Would you like to dance with me? I have a phonograph and some records,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘You are a most surprising woman.’

‘Isn’t that good?’ she asked, but not in a simpering voice.

‘It’s wonderful.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Wonderful.’

Their eyes met but her gaze fell almost at once, and to cover her confusion he asked: ‘Does your aunt dance well?’

It was her turn to laugh. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her dance.’ Her eyes flitted up to his again. ‘But she’s with friends — she’s visiting the Sisters at the Sacred Heart Covent.’ She began to giggle like a schoolgirl and soon he was shaking with laughter too, her head resting against his shoulder.

It was a handsome apartment, paid for by her father but furnished to her aunt’s taste with dark Victorian pieces, potted plants and bad portraits of Laura’s immediate family. They had been executed to burnish the McDonnell name, she said, oil on canvas to cover the stain of poverty and famine. The maid took their coats and brought Wolff a whisky. They sat opposite each other by the drawing-room fire, the spell broken for a time as Laura spoke of her aunt’s concerns and their routine at home. Her aunt was a prisoner of her upbringing, poorly educated, with no appetite for books and very religious. ‘The perfect chaperone for Father’s daughter,’ she quipped. ‘But she’s wise enough to recognise that at twenty-three I know my own mind. She won’t support votes for women but is happy to help raise money for Clan na Gael, and we’ve held meetings here in the apartment.’

He nodded and sipped his whisky.

‘Were you in Baltimore to see the Germans?’ she enquired suddenly. Her voice shook and he wondered if she was afraid of her thoughts and anxious not to let the conversation flag.

‘So you know there are Germans in Baltimore?’

She laughed — ‘A quarter of the city, I believe.’ She laughed a good deal; it was one of the things he loved about her, but this time it sounded brittle. ‘And Captain Hinsch is one of them,’ she said.

‘You know Hinsch?’

‘Sometimes he’s mentioned by members of the committee.’

‘Yes, I saw Hinsch. It wasn’t a very useful meeting.’

‘I’m glad. I think it’s too dangerous — after the Rintelen affair. No good will come of it.’

‘But you’re ready to break the law by chaining yourself to the railings of the White House.’

‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, her hands turning restlessly in her lap. For a few seconds neither of them spoke and she avoided his gaze, nipping the corner of her mouth uncertainly. ‘Would you like to dance?’ she asked at last.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Laura, of course. Shall I?’

‘No, the phonograph’s here.’ Rising quickly, she stepped over to a tall cabinet in the corner of the room.

‘Allow me.’

‘No, no, I can manage.’

‘Father says it’s a good one,’ she said, lifting the top. ‘A diamond disc — although I don’t know what that means.’ Her hands were shaking so much that it took quite a time to slip the record on the turntable: ‘Silly me.’ Then she turned the handle at the side of the cabinet and dropped the needle on the disc, wincing at the thump and crackle of protest. ‘Sorry.’

He had risen, and now he walked towards her. ‘A waltz, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not very good.’

‘Nor am I.’

He offered her his hand and she took it, her eyes fixed on his white tie. He stepped closer, placing his other hand at her waist: ‘one, two, three’ — and they were off, waltzing stiffly; one turn and two turns, and — three — and — four, and he could feel her relaxing and relief in the music — and growing elation in the warmth and their movement. They danced the length of the disc without speaking and when it was over he dropped his hands as he knew he should. She looked at him and smiled with more confidence. ‘You are good.’

‘So are you,’ he said.

‘Do you think you could manage…?’

‘Yes.’

So they danced again, closer, wearing away the hideous purple rug, dizzy with excitement, certain enough now to look each other in the eye; sweeping round in a cloud of perfume and to the rustle of her satin dress, the chandelier too bright but her hair lustrous in its light: drunk, cavalier, forgetful. This time when the music stopped he didn’t release her hand but bent to brush it with his lips.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She raised heavy-lidded eyes to his, a small frown at her brow: ‘You can kiss me, if you like’ — and he did.

When he finished, his forehead resting against hers, she smiled happily and whispered, ‘Don’t stop.’ And he bent to her again, holding her close, arm about her shoulders, her hair brushing his cheek, soft lips quivering with desire — with love.

In the corner of the room, the tissh , tissh spitting of the phonograph disc, like a limping timepiece.

‘I love you,’ he said when they broke apart.

‘Do you?’ she asked, her eyes glittering with a film of moisture.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad because I love you.’

They stood there, silent, content, her head against his cheek and his mind empty of anything more than his feelings for her. Then she said, ‘I’m so happy, Jan. So many good things have happened today;’ and he was suddenly afraid of something in her voice, the promise of a confidence. He kissed and stroked her hair but said nothing.