Jonathan Raban - Surveillance - A Novel

Maddening, since Lucy had expected the new photo to either convict or acquit at a glance. Her feeling was that both pictures were of Augie, taken a few minutes apart, but there were just enough differences to allow — no, to enforce — a wedge-shaped sliver of doubt.

She thought of showing them to Tad, who was interested in photography and might know more than she did about boys, but of course he’d confidently place Augie on the chicken farm and delight in seeing his book trashed by the world.

She turned to the letter. Marjorie’s notepaper was embossed with a letterhead printed in red— Mrs. Peregrine Tillman, 3, The Broadwalk, followed by her phone number and e-mail address, where, rather surprisingly, she was informally marjiet@ somewhere or other. Peregrine, how quaint! Peregrine must have died, though, since everything about Mrs. Tillman suggested a widow with too much time on her hands.

“Dear Miss Bengstrom,” it began, the women’s movement having apparently bypassed Thetford, Norfolk. The neat lines of immaculately legible writing ran on and on, peppered with words like “liar,” “ungrateful,” “deceitful,” and “cad.” Mrs. Tillman’s sea-blue fountain-penmanship uncannily conveyed her speaking voice — precise, imperial, and loud. She appeared to have the memory of an elephant: sentences would start “In early April 1944…” and “Sometime around the 15th of February 1945…” Perhaps she’d worked from her schoolgirl diaries. Lucy didn’t doubt her facts, but whether they were facts about Juris Abeltins or August Vanags she simply couldn’t tell. She learned more than she’d ever wanted to know about the symptoms of coeliac, and was in a position to draw a detailed map of Major Vickers’—Mrs. Tillman’s father’s — farm in all its hundred and fifty superior acres. The tone of the letter was of one conspirator to another: Marjie T. and Lucy B. had the author of Boy 381 pinned squarely to the ground. All that remained was to disembowel him in public.

The letter ended:

I am most grateful for your assistance in this matter, and will be happy to supply you with further information as required. Please do not hesitate to phone or write. When your magazine article appears, I would much appreciate it if you could send me a dozen copies at the above address, preferably by your “Federal Express” service. This nonsense has gone on for far too long.

Yours very sincerely,

Marjie Tillman

“SEIZE THE DAY!” was a phrase he’d glommed onto from his audio books. Seize the day!

All morning, Charles O had ridden around town in his pickup, practicing his lines. Driving from parking lot to parking lot, he felt a mounting certainty and masterfulness. Today was the day to seize; if he left it till tomorrow, his confidence in his own power might falter.

Banking $3,461 in cash at United Savings and Loan on Jackson, he said to the teller, “You beat the virus, huh?”

The teller, looking puzzled, said, “Yes, I had the flu a couple of weeks ago.”

“Never mind,” he said, stuffing the receipt in his wallet.

He climbed into the truck and drove on to the Acropolis. Each time he saw the building, he liked it more: spend $50,000 on minor refurbishments and it would be a palace. Repoint the bricks, freshen up the stucco. A gang of Mexicans could work wonders in a week. Possession of the big, old, stately building had mysteriously enlarged Charles O’s own character; its air of permanence in the world was now his. Just looking at it made him feel bigger, older, grander. After parking across the street, he spent five minutes sitting in the truck, window down, drinking in the sight. Swollen with feelings he found impossible to name, he walked over and took the creaky elevator to the seventh floor.

Lucy was in. Dressed in tight jeans and a black silk blouse, she looked flustered.

“Look, Mr. Lee — about the video thing, I’ve been thinking, and—”

He held up his hand commandingly and said, “No video! Must ask you something!”

She crossed the room, sat down at her desk — a litter of papers, books, and pictures. “Yes?”

He remained standing. He needed the advantage of height.

“Maybe this come as big surprise but—”

“If it’s our l-l-l-lease—”

“No!” She mustn’t interrupt, or he’d lose his thread. “First time I see you in this apartment, I know you’re smart. You a writer — good writer. I read what you write about Bill, you got him all figured out. You a born American — know stuff I don’t. So I gotta ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Washington is community property state. You know community property?”

“Precious little, I’m afraid.”

“I got book about it. Means all assets and property acquired after marriage belong to man and wife, fifty-fifty. Book say that. Like I get married, make a million dollars, spouse get five hundred K. I buy parking lot, apartment building, spouse own half. Big money!”

He had her attention now. She was interested, smiling.

“Spouse get rich — assets and property commingled ! Word in book, I looked it up. ‘Commingled.’”

“I can see how that might be a problem.”

“No problem! See, guy like me, guy with property, need spouse. Time to marry! Need good homemaker. Like entertaining, I got business associates, dinner party, reception, all kinda stuff. See? I need wife. Look at Bill — him and Melinda. Sam and Helen. Time is come. Lucky this is community property state, huh?”

“Well, depending on how you look at it, I suppose.”

“I think lucky.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

She was really smiling now. She’d got his drift. No more fluster, she was listening keenly.

“Not generous. Make good sense. Spouse be nice to big guy from like New York, D.C., whatever — more money in bank! Fifty-fifty, like I said.”

“So who are you planning to marry, Mr. Lee?”

“Lucy, moment I see you, voice inside me say ‘She the one.’”

“Mr. Lee! Please! D-D-D-D-Don’t—”

“Stop! I finish !” He shouted her down. She sat tensely on her chair, smile frozen on her face, staring. “You old — no problem. You little big — no problem. You got Alida — great. Smart kid like that, I pay for Harvard College. Fifty-fifty, Lucy. Commingled.”

“Mr. Lee!” Her voice was a shriek.

“Come like shock, huh? Big decisions I always sleep on like overnight. Time to think, right? I give you time to think. Lucy?”

Her hand was at her mouth, her shoulders shaking. She was overcome with emotion — of course she would be, hearing it for the first time like that. Charles O knew from movies what to do. He stepped across to her, was about to put his hands on her shoulders and draw her close, when he saw she wasn’t crying. She was laughing.

“OH GOD,” Lucy said to Tad in his apartment, five minutes later. “It was word for word out of that scene in Pride and Prejudice when the ghastly Reverend Collins proposes to Elizabeth Bennett.”

“Or Titania and Bottom, except the other way around, if you see what I mean. Remember my Bottom, at the Rep?”

“I was in hysterics. It was like, oh Jesus! we’re really fucked now — at least Alida and me. The guy’s Chinese. I swear I read somewhere that to laugh at a Chinese man is practically punishable by death. I couldn’t have insulted the poor bastard more. He slammed the door so hard I thought he’d ripped it off the hinges. Then running down the stairs like a fucking avalanche. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! My stupid fucking fault. I just couldn’t control myself.”

Tad had his arms around her. “Everybody corpses sometimes. And it’s always the worst time. Love scenes and death scenes are the ones that bring it on. I corpsed once in the middle of Juliet talking sweet nothings about Romeo — I was the nurse, in drag. Just couldn’t help myself. It was terrible : I was in purdah for weeks.”