Marcel Theroux - The Paperchase

‘What was he up to?’ I asked her.

‘I think he was doing a little painting, more writing.’

‘Any idea what? Not the dreaded dictionary?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t talk about it.’

The screen door creaked open and then slapped shut. Nathan Fernshaw called out from the kitchen, ‘I’m going home for lunch.’ His head poked round the door of the library ‘I’ll finish the lawn when I get back. Hello, Mrs Delamitri.’

‘Hi, Nathan. How’s your sister?’

‘She’s good.’

‘You two know each other?’ I said.

‘Oh, sure,’ said Mrs Delamitri. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we, Nathan?’

Nathan’s bicycle was parked beside the front porch, so I unlocked the front door to let him out. Mrs Delamitri was looking more composed when I got back. She’d tethered up her crispy blond hair and applied a lick of lipstick.

‘One of the reasons I came, Damien, is that I have some things of yours. Patrick left them with me, but I’m sure he wanted you to have them.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. This seemed very odd to me, it wasn’t like Patrick to let anything out of his sight.

We went out to her sporty, powder-blue convertible and she opened the trunk. In it were eight green box files of the kind that had disappeared from Patrick’s study.

‘Any idea what’s in them?’ I asked, trying to sound breezy, though I felt puzzled and suddenly suspicious.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Letters, I think.’

Carrying the boxes back to the house, I was dry-mouthed with anticipation. I wanted to open them, but not in front of this nutty woman. I was torn between my eagerness to see what was in them and a fear that the contents would disappoint me. I was sure they were the files that had disappeared from Patrick’s desk.

We stacked them in the library.

‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Delamitri.’ This definitely seemed like the right place to end her visit. ‘I hope this didn’t take you too much out of your way.’

‘Oh no, I’m staying with one of my girlfriends up at War Bonnet.’ She took a long, valedictory look over the bookshelves. ‘I’ve just had a crazy idea,’ she said suddenly. ‘Why don’t you let me buy you lunch?’

I hesitated. I was trying to cook up an excuse to stay behind and look at the files in privacy, but I couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse.

‘Please. It would mean a lot to me.’

‘That would be nice,’ I said, half hoping I sounded lukewarm enough to make her rescind the invitation. I didn’t.

We drove to a fancy upscale place on the other side of the island. It was in a beautiful position, set back from a cliff top. The maître d’ treated Mrs Delamitri with an un-American deference. This, and the fact that she seemed to have booked a table, made me think there was something more calculated about our excursion than she let on. But since she was buying me lunch, it seemed a bit rude to accuse her of boosting my uncle’s papers.

I said I preferred to eat outside, and the waiter showed us to a table with a fantastic view of the sea. Mrs Delamitri pressed me to order whatever I wanted and chose an expensive white Burgundy from the wine list. I had to restrain myself from glugging it down. I told her the flavour reminded me of English strawberries.

‘Life’s too short to drink cheap wine, Damien,’ she said. ‘Now tell me about you.’

I explained as much as I thought was tactful about coming to Ionia and how I felt that, all in all, it would be good to get back to England. I told her I’d been marooned for a while by the burglary.

‘That’s such a shame,’ she said.

She was skilful at turning the conversation away from herself, and appeared so genuinely interested in everything I had to say that I started to worry I was talking too much. I gathered she visited her friend on Ionia a couple of times a summer. But about herself, and her life in Boston, she wouldn’t be drawn.

We drank that whole bottle of wine and most of a second. She pressed me to have dessert and ordered me a glass of sweet French wine to drink with it. It tasted of nuts and cream and God knows what else, and must have cost roughly what I spent on food in a week. She just seemed pleased that I was enjoying myself. During a pause after the dessert, I had a moment of inspiration. ‘Did you ever come here with Patrick?’ I said.

She looked down at her hand. Her painted nails were tracing lines along the tablecloth. She seemed to be struggling with a couple of contradictory impulses.

‘I have a confession to make,’ she said, touching her sunglasses nervously. ‘Patrick and I were …’ Her voice dropped as she added, almost in parentheses, ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Damien.’ She made an impatient little gesture with her fingers. ‘… More than good friends.’

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

‘I’m married, Damien.’

I nodded and tried to look soberly non-judgemental.

She went on. ‘I did something rather silly. I wrote Patrick a number of letters. They were just … letters. Maybe a little bit explicit. Whatever. Within the context of our relationship, it seemed entirely appropriate. It’s just …’ She rolled her glass between her palms. ‘My husband’s a decent man.’

Phrases were coming back to me from the bundle of letters I had found in the drawer, in particular something rather outlandish Patrick’s correspondent had suggested doing with a colander.

‘Mrs Delamitri, you’re welcome to have them back. I don’t want your letters. I can’t say I know where they’ll be, but I’ll be happy to return them.’ I had that drunkard’s expansive confidence that everyone’s problems are soluble.

‘Actually, that’s not the problem I have. I already got them back. I … panicked slightly. I mean, I had no idea who was going to come and live at the house. I hope you understand. I truly felt I had no alternative.’

I couldn’t tell if she was sweating slightly, or if her make-up was melting in the sunshine.

‘Alternative to what?’

She rummaged in her handbag. I had the feeling that she was going to pull out a gun and shoot me. Instead, she produced her handkerchief, which she pressed against her temple. It smelled faintly of cologne. ‘The sun’s awfully strong.’ She took another sip of wine and her rings clinked against the glass. I had the cruel thought that, however young she managed to keep her face, the backs of her hands still looked like the skin on a roast chicken.

‘I had someone break into the house and take them,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not mad at me.’

‘Mad at you?’ The truth was I didn’t know what I felt about it. ‘Why? If you’d asked, I would have given you your letters.’

‘I know you would’ve. Now that I’ve met you, I’m just so sorry about everything. But you must see that not everybody is as nice as you are. I had a lot to lose.’

‘So Mr Delamitri has no idea about you and my uncle?’

‘Mr O’Brien,’ she said. ‘Delamitri is my maiden name. And no, he doesn’t.’

I said nothing. I was befuddled.

‘I came to apologise,’ said Mrs Delamitri. ‘These things can be very upsetting. Believe me, I know. The last thing in the world I wanted was for you to feel unsafe in your home. I hope this will put your mind at rest.’

‘So what did you do? You just looked under “Burglar” in the Yellow Pages and someone broke down my door?’

‘It’s not quite that simple, but if you have money, most things can be arranged.’

‘What if I’d interrupted these guys?’

‘These men are professionals, Damien. They wouldn’t have harmed you in any way.’

‘Well, while they were getting your letters, they also took the opportunity to steal my money, and passports, and my air ticket out of here.’ I was counting out my losses loudly on my fingers and she tried to silence me with a discreet Shush. ‘Did you pay them to do that or was it freelance work?’