Mark Lee - The Canal House

“It’s that way for some people.”

“I’d like Julia to become executive director of Hand-to-Hand. She’d supervise fund-raising and run the office in London. Perhaps you could put in a good word for me. It’s a step forward, really. She can’t spend the rest of her life acting like a refugee.”

Back in my room, I had a long bath, soaking in the hot water until my fingers got all wrinkled. Someone had left a bottle of cologne and a terry-cloth robe on the bathroom shelf. When I returned to the bedroom, Daniel was sitting in the easy chair, looking out at the rain.

“How’s it going, Nicky?”

“I’m all right.”

“Kill a lot of pheasants?”

“There were some ducks, too.” I explained what had happened during the shoot.

“That doesn’t surprise me. It’s just like Billy said, Richard takes care of the details.”

“So how was your day?”

“I borrowed a motorcycle from the garage and started riding around the estate. I bumped into Julia and we went on a tour together.”

I could see Daniel’s profile as he leaned back in the chair. The absentminded, distracted behavior he had shown on the train had completely disappeared. Now he reminded me of an athlete about to play some sort of game. His body was relaxed, but you could tell that he was ready to jump up and run forward.

“Together—on the same motorcycle?”

“That’s usually the way people ride.”

“Don’t forget, she’s Richard’s girlfriend.”

A bottle of Irish whiskey was on the side table; it was the same brand I had requested before dinner on Thursday night. Daniel stood up and poured himself a glass.

“You’re too sensitive, Nicky.”

“No one’s ever accused me of that before.”

Daniel poured me a glass of whiskey. The rain kept falling outside, splattering on the windowsill, and a cold damp smell filled the room. Whatever spirits had clung to the furniture from that house in Kilkenny asserted themselves, and I was aware of several generations of people reading a book in the chair or making love on the bed.

“Julia took me to a cemetery in the village. Lots of old gravestones.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“We talked until it started raining.”

“What about?”

“Her work. My work.”

“You talk about Richard?”

“No. Not really.”

“Maybe we should get out of here. Go back to London.”

He raised his glass and we clicked them together. “Don’t worry, Nicky. Nothing’s going to happen.”

BECAUSE OF THE RAIN we had our evening cocktails in the library. The shelves were packed with old books and there were leather club chairs next to reading lamps. It all appeared very solid and thoughtful until you checked out the book titles. Richard Seaton was interested in lots of things, but I doubt if he spent his evenings reading British Grain Diseases or the 1928 Parliamentary Debates .

I studied the painting by J. M. W. Turner over the fireplace. A brass label said it was titled Venice Sunset, 1843 , and you could make out the domes of St. Mark’s Cathedral. All Turner cared about was light and color, a swirling haze of rose and dark yellow that appeared to glow with its own energy. After my second drink, I wanted to carry it around for inspiration.

George Riverton cornered me near a couch and gave me his theory about the Atlantic Alliance. He believed that America was like classical Rome and that Britain was like Greece. It sounded like he admired the United States, until I started to understand what he was saying. As far as George was concerned, Britain was art and theater and philosophy while America had a large army and good plumbing.

I was placed next to Julia at dinner while Daniel sat at the opposite end of the table between Richard and Digran Petrosyan. Digran didn’t talk to anyone. Whenever the servants brought out a new course, he stared at the food as if this was one more wall to climb over. We ate a fairly good pheasant stew, but the vegetables were awful. Some Brussels sprouts must have humiliated the chef when he was a child because he was determined to boil their descendents to a mushy pulp.

Julia wore a pearl necklace and a green silk dress. Malcolm Barthorp was sitting on her left and he told her about a recent by-election in Winchester. He had campaigned there for his party’s candidate and now a whole new group of people invited him to their parties. According to Malcolm, politics was about getting the right kind of exposure and playing larger roles; he sounded like a young actor who had just come to Los Angeles to get into movies. Then Malcolm and Jax began to discuss the sexual preferences of a female cabinet minister. Was she gay or straight or just a drab little nun? Julia turned away from them and I stopped buttering a roll.

“How was the shooting, Nicky?”

“Loud. Bloody.”

“But you liked it?”

“I’ve done it once. Now I don’t have to do it again.”

“Richard was talking about you before we came downstairs. He said you were very perceptive. I’m always on my guard when Richard praises anyone. That means they’re part of some plan.”

“Richard wants you to become the executive director of Hand-to-Hand. I’m supposed to tell you that it’s a good idea.”

“Is that what you actually believe?”

“I think it’s a waste of time to give advice to other people.”

“That’s never stopped anyone before.”

“What do you want to do, Julia?”

“Ever since I finished my training, I’ve gone from one emergency to another. I’d like to step back and take a break for a while, but not by sitting in an office and writing grant proposals.”

One of the candles went out and a thread of smoke disappeared up into the gloom. They served some port and Julia asked me about the farm in Bracciano. How did I like staying there? What was planted in the garden? Somehow I felt like I was revealing personal details about Daniel’s life.

“I went to Italy a few times when I was a student,” Julia said. “Then a few months ago Richard took me to Rome on a business trip.”

“Bet you stayed at a nice hotel.”

“No. Richard hates hotels, so he rented someone’s villa.” Julia glanced down length of the table. Everyone was listening to Richard talk about terrorism and oil supplies. “Every morning I’d wake up and find my schedule slipped beneath the door. I’d say that I wanted to go to the Vatican and the next day it would be arranged—driver and guide. The Italians would tell Billy what I did, Billy would tell Richard. When I met him for dinner, he’d know what paintings I liked at the museums.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a driver and guide,” I said. “In fact, I’d like two assistants to carry my cameras and open all the doors.”

“That’s what I thought,” Julia said. “It’s quite pleasant in the beginning. Then you start to feel like a child with a lot of anxious nannies. When they’re around it’s difficult just to buy some ice cream, wander down the street, go into a boutique and try on something silly that you know you’ll never buy. They’re always watching you.”

“Why didn’t you rip up the schedule and go off on your own?”

“I tried that. It was a complete disaster. I left early one morning and took a train down to Naples. Richard decided that I had been kidnapped by the Mafia. They were talking to the carabinieri when I returned.”

Billy appeared and gave Richard a fax. Apparently there was some kind of business emergency because they both left immediately. Without the host, dinner ended abruptly and everyone left the table. I saw Daniel glance back at Julia, but he didn’t approach her.

“I’ll tell Richard that you argued passionately that I should become executive director,” Julia said. “He’ll be very pleased.”