Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

The fellow was getting more impertinent by the minute. “I’m driving a rental car at the moment.”

“We undertake to pay part of the cost of that if your vehicle has been stolen.”

“No need. The company pays for the car.”

“That is”—he looked in his documents—“Moreany Publishing House?”

She wanted to poke the pen in his eye, but left it at a dry “Correct.”

“You’re renting the car from Avis.”

He smiled when he saw her surprise. “The rental car is insured with us as well. Your company”—he looked in his documents again—“Moreany Publishing House, has not received a rental agreement.”

Betty felt the blood shoot up her throat. He noticed that too, but stuck to the facts.

“I’ve spoken to accounts. Ms.”—he looked at his cursed documents for the third time.

“Eisendraht?”

“That’s right. She knows of no rental agreement in your name. But Ms. Eisendraht knows a Mr. Henry Hayden.”

Henry’s name fell like a sword. She felt suddenly dizzy. How on earth had this guy gotten onto Henry? The friendly gentleman from the insurance company studied her face, registered the increased frequency of her pulse, her twitching eyelid, the way she turned down the corner of her mouth and shifted the position of her feet. With increasing experience, he got more and more pleasure out of his job.

“You showed a Visa partner card as security. The amount will be debited from Mr. Hayden’s account.”

Betty tore the questionnaire out of the man’s hand. “OK. I’ll fill this in and send it to you. You don’t have to pay a thing. Oh and by the way, I’m going to terminate my insurance agreement.” Then she shut the door and leaned up against it. Her heart was pounding. She felt her hot cheeks with the back of her hand.

She hadn’t thought of that. Henry had given her the card for emergencies, so she could make transactions and purchases for him when they went on business journeys abroad together. Because she had of course presumed that Henry would pay for the rental car, she had used his card. Just the once. Now her connection with Henry was documented. She dressed hastily. In her hurry she tore a run in her tights. It was only in the mirrored wall of the elevator on the way up to Moreany’s office that she noticed that the rip had risen from calf to thigh like blood poisoning.

Ms. Eisendraht was at the window watering the dragon tree and didn’t turn around when Betty walked through the outer office into Moreany’s room without a word of greeting. Moreany was sitting pale and very quiet behind his desk and didn’t get up to give her his hand. Betty shut the office door.

“I’d like to clarify something, Claus,” she began, but before she could continue, Moreany motioned toward the Eames chair.

“Sit down, please.”

She sat down, crossing her legs to conceal the run. It might be something nice or something really awful, but there was no way it was the trifling matter of the car rental. She hadn’t put in an appearance at the office for two days, and a foreboding rose up in her that a number of events must have overlapped in the interim. Moreany took off his reading glasses and set them on his immaculate desk. It was never tidy — that wasn’t a good sign either.

“I’ve put you in a very awkward situation.” Moreany breathed deeply. He screwed up his eyes. The whole thing was obviously difficult for him. “Please accept my apologies and forgive me my — how should I put it? — passionate stupidity.”

Then he said no more. Betty waited until the silence was unbearable.

“What’s happened?”

Moreany slid open the drawer of his desk, took out an opened envelope, and held it out to Betty. She got up and accepted it after some hesitation.

“I only opened it because it was addressed to me.”

Betty felt the envelope and saw the stamp of her gynecological practice on the back. With two fingers she pulled out the CD with the ultrasound images of her baby stored on it.

“It’s a girl,” Moreany said gently. “The bill’s enclosed. Allow me to settle it for you.”

Back to the beginnings of humankind. A Cro-Magnon man returns exhausted but happy after a day’s hunting. In his comfortable cave in, let us say, present-day Apulia, he throws freshly killed game down next to the fire and looks around for his wife. He is tired, he is hungry, he wants to tell her about his hunting success. In the dark of the cave he hears her groaning. He takes up a burning piece of wood and goes to look for her. He finds her lying in a side passage, her newborn baby beside her. The bitten-off umbilical cord is still hanging out of her womb. The woman is clutching the baby, covering the fine small face with her hands. He tears it out of her arms; the baby begins to scream; he sniffs it and scrutinizes it. It’s a little Neanderthal. He knows at once that he is not the father of this bastard. He kills the child with one swipe against the rock wall and returns to the fire. The woman cowers in her corner of the cave, not knowing whether she’ll survive the night.

Since the Pleistocene, things have moved on, it is true, but the question of paternity remains a delicate one, even for women now. No matter who had sent the ultrasound images to Moreany, there was no way it was a misunderstanding and even less chance it was a wrong address. It was simply the work of a very bad person. Henry can be ruled out, thought Betty, as she stood at Moreany’s desk, taking stock, because it wouldn’t be in his interest. Henry’s never done anything that wasn’t in his interest. But no one except him could have known about her pregnancy. She hadn’t even told her mother. An obscure enemy had done it, invisible and yet very close. After this brief analysis, Betty sat back down in Moreany’s Eames chair and, by way of explanation, said the only sensible thing she could think of — nothing.

As Moreany, likewise speechless, sat at his desk looking at Betty, his heart was weeping. The last plan of his life had failed. His late-summer romance in Venice was to remain a foolish old man’s dream. The end would be lonely. There’s no more to be done, he thought, I’ve reached the end of my journey. He got up, walked a little unsteadily to the black ebony side table, poured cognac into two balloon glasses, and handed one to Betty.

“I’d like you to do something for me. Drive to Henry’s and discuss the novel with him. I can imagine that he needs you at present. Time’s running short; it’s almost too late for the book fair. He told me he’s only got twenty pages to go, but I can’t believe he’s able to write just now. It would be a real shame if he couldn’t finish the novel before I go on vacation, eh?”

Her mouth was so dry that her lips stuck together when she sipped the cognac. The alcohol burned in her throat. He doesn’t know, she realized all of a sudden. He doesn’t know it’s Henry’s. She got up, put the glass down on the table, and hugged Moreany. She pressed him tightly to her. Never had she been so close to him, or felt so grateful. What a noble man, what a wonderful man, she thought.

“I’ll call him now, Claus, I promise.”

Moreany nodded, a little tired. “Thanks. Don’t tell him anything about me if you can help it.”

If Moreany had asked for her hand just then, she would have said yes without hesitation.

“Of course I won’t, Claus.”

Honor took from her ear the glass she’d been using to eavesdrop at the dividing wall and quickly sat down at the computer. In a single gesture she slipped on her headphones and placed her fingers on the keyboard. Betty didn’t walk through the outer office in silence as she usually did, but stopped in front of Honor and rested her palms on the desk.