Chapter 14
“WAIT,” MARKOV SAID TO Lindsay. “I promise you. This is the place Quest always comes. And she always eats late…”
“This late? It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”
“Trust me. One-fifteen—no later. You could set your watch by her. That’s what she’s like.”
“Markov, I know what she’s like. She doesn’t talk, for a start. About the most I’ve ever heard her say is ‘Hello’ and ‘Good night.’”
“She talks to me…If anyone knows anything about Maria Cazarès’s death, Quest will. She’s Jean Lazare’s favorite model. He found her. Come Wednesday, come the Cazarès show—”
“Which will be canceled. Come on, Markov.”
“—she’s due to be the star of the show. I’m telling you—she’ll know something. What’s the alternative? You want to sit around the hotel with a whole pack of airheads listening to rumors half the night? With Quest, we mainline, right? We tap right into the power source.” He paused; his dark glasses turned in Lindsay’s direction. “What’s the matter with you, Lindy? You’ve been as jumpy as a cat all night.”
“I’m upset. Shocked. That’s obvious, surely? Who wouldn’t be? I can’t believe she’s dead. It doesn’t seem possible.”
“And?”
“And I ought to call the hotel again. Markov, I told you. I need to talk to Rowland McGuire.”
“Lindy. You have tried five times this evening to reach McGuire.”
“He was out, Markov. He might be back now.”
“—And when you call him, Lindy, there’s these little signals I’m picking up. Like, serious agitation…”
“He’s my editor. I need to talk to him.”
“Sure.” Markov gave a huge yawn. “And editors edit. They sit at a desk—in London, in his case—and they edit away. Ring, ring, fax, fax, kill those Markov pictures, I don’t like waifs… I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, Lindy, but I seem to remember that around fifteen seconds ago it was war. I seem to remember you were going to wipe him out.”
“That was last week, Markov. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Just your mind, Lindy? And how about McGuire? I mean, how come he’s abandoned his desk, how come he’s suddenly on a plane, in Paris? I’m revising my ideas of this man, Lindy. Like I had the wrong angle before, the wrong aperture, wrong shutter speed, wrong film. What’s brought him hotfooting to Paris, Lindy, my love? Is it work? Is it a woman? Fill me in.”
“Don’t be so damn stupid, Markov. Of course it’s not a woman. I’ve no idea where you get these ideas.”
“Looking at you, sweetheart, that’s where I get them.”
“Well, if you knew McGuire better, you’d know you were wrong. It’s work, Markov—pure and simple. And I’m not sure why he’s here. His deputy is holding the fort in London. I spoke to Max, not Rowland.”
Lindsay hesitated. She had finally reached Max about an hour before, and Max had been in diplomat mode. According to him, someone now needed to be in Paris urgently, and since Gini was unavailable, it had been jointly decided by Max and Rowland that Rowland should go.
“What d’you mean, Gini’s unavailable?” Lindsay had said. “According to Pixie, she was flying here this evening—at least that was the plan.”
“Sorry, Lindsay. You’ll have to ask Rowland. My other line’s ringing. I have to go.”
When Max had mentioned Gini’s name, Lindsay had detected some froideur. With a sigh, and a glance at Markov’s maddening dark glasses, she rose.
“Look, Markov, let me try the hotel again. Rowland must be answering now.”
“Lindy. Lindy. Never chase them. It’s a very bad idea, you know.” Markov wagged a finger and gave her a look that might have been motherly.
“I’m not damn well chasing him.” Lindsay hesitated, then sat down again. “Get this straight, Markov. I work with him. I need to talk to him about work. About Maria Cazarès. That’s it. End of story. That’s all.”
“You can’t lie to me, Lindy. You never could. I see it all. I see the light in the eyes, the flush in the cheek. You know Aphrodite, the goddess of love? You know she had children? You know what those children were called?”
“No, I don’t. I never even knew she had children.”
“Well, she did. As a result of an adulterous affair with Ares—the god of war. She had five children by him, Lindy. You know what they were called?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You bet I am. They were called Eros and Anteros—that’s love, and reciprocal love; Harmonia—that’s easy enough to understand. And then there were two others. Their names were Deimus and Phobus.”
“Meaning?”
“Terror and fear.”
Markov gave her one of his small, sad, flickering smiles. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Worth remembering, yes? The children of love. I think about that particular union from time to time. I think about the offspring of that union. Terror and fear.”
“Are you giving me a warning, Markov?”
“Sure. Oh, sure. You won’t listen, no one ever does. So, I’m just kind of sliding in a little reminder. On account of the fact that I can’t stand most women, but I’m pretty fond of you. Also, you’re unhappy, aren’t you?”
There was a silence. Lindsay considered Markov. It did not surprise her that he should be so well acquainted with Greek myth. It would not altogether have surprised her had Markov leaned across the table and begun speaking Greek. Markov might go to extreme lengths, both in his appearance and in his manner of speech, to suggest he was a fool, a gadfly, a fashion victim: in reality, he was none of these things. Markov was astute, sensitive, gifted, and intelligent, also both resilient and brave. His long-term partner had died of AIDS two years before; Markov had nursed him through the final stages of his illness. Markov was indeed in a position to understand why terror and fear should be the offspring of love.
Watching her now, as the minutes ticked by, he was wearing his habitual disguise. Black clothes, head to foot, black sunglasses despite the fact that this restaurant allegedly favored by Quest was a small, dingy neighborhood place on a Montmartre back street, with lighting rather worse than that of most cellars. On his head, as usual, was a hat—Markov was rarely seen without one, and this, Lindsay thought, was a particularly ridiculous example, wide-brimmed, velvety, a fin-de-siècle hat, an Oscar Wilde hat. From beneath it escaped long, fair, wavy tresses. The final touches were two silver crucifix earrings and a fistful of silver rings. Markov, who hailed from Los Angeles but claimed to have been born on a jumbo jet, had been, since the death of his lover, rootless. He spent his life moving around the world, from shoot to shoot. He could make any woman he photographed look ten times more beautiful than she actually was. Some of his pictures, transcending fashion, haunted Lindsay, who considered him the best fashion photographer in the world—not a view that was widely shared, for Markov’s work was too subversive, too strange for many tastes. In Lindsay’s view, as man and photographer, Markov was a kind of enchanter. Looking at him now, she realized with a sense of surprise that not only was he almost certainly her closest friend, but that she wanted to talk.
“Oh, very well. You’re right,” she said, giving Markov a troubled look. “I like Rowland. Maybe more than like him. The other day—I went to his house. I was just talking to him, and—something happened. You know, Markov. One of those little rebellions of the heart.”
“Sure. I know those. Go on.”
“There is nothing more. I thought I’d cured myself—it’s been years, Markov, years since that happened. I’m not a child. I’m not a fool. I’m almost thirty-nine years old. I have a son who’s seventeen. I have stretch marks, Markov. If I go to bed with someone, I make sure the lights are turned down low.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lindy…”
“It’s true. I know it’s stupid. I tell myself, it doesn’t matter, there must be someone out there who doesn’t care about a
ll that. Someone who won’t mind about the lines on my face, because he’s not looking at my face, or my bottom, or my breasts, he’s looking at me, at the person inside.”
Lindsay stopped; she could feel distress inches away, and she despised herself for that. She gave an angry gesture. “You don’t want to hear this. I can feel self-pity coming on.”
“I do want to hear it. I understand.”
“Well, I don’t meet them, that’s all. If they exist, these miraculous men, I never get an introduction. The men I meet fall into three categories: they’re already married; they’re liars; or they’re bores. It’s my age, Markov. Only the rejects and the walking wounded are left. At least that’s what I thought. And then I met Rowland McGuire.”
“The dark, tall, and handsome McGuire?” Markov smiled.
“Yes. But that’s not the reason. I hope it’s not the reason…”
“So give me a few others.”
“He’s intelligent—very. I think he’s kind. He’s amusing. He has an edge to him.”
“Very good. And the main reason?”
“Oh, all right. He’s been hurt. Something’s happened to him, and I don’t know what it is, but I can sense it. He needs love. He deserves love. He needs the right woman, Markov, the right partner.”
“Don’t we all?”
Markov glanced down at his watch; Quest, late now, if she was ever coming, had still not appeared.
“So why shouldn’t you be the right partner?” Markov removed his dark glasses and met her eyes. He gave her one of his quick, squirrelly looks, then replaced the glasses. “You’re smart. You’re kind. I like the way you look. Plenty of people like the way you look. You look—boyish, peppy, you’ve got these really honest eyes. You’re funny—you make me laugh. You’ve got this sunny nature, you don’t sulk, you don’t have moods, you give a lift to the day. You’re interested in other people, you’re not some fucking egomaniac like most people I know. You’re generous, Lindsay, you’re not tight, you’re not mean—and I’m not talking about money, right? You give. I remember. You gave a whole lot to me two years ago.”
Lindsay was touched by this. She took the hand Markov held out to her and squeezed it. “Thanks, Markov. That’s the nicest testimonial anyone’s ever given me. Maybe you should pass it on to McGuire.”
“If he’s what you say he is, he wouldn’t need a testimonial. He’d just have to use his eyes.”
“No.” Lindsay shook her head and looked away. “I wish that were true, but I’m afraid it isn’t, Markov. Things don’t work that way. And anyway, I’m not right for him.”
“Why not? And don’t mention stretch marks again.”
“Because I’m not—oh—difficult enough, maybe. If he had me, he’d always be chasing something more. He’d want—something I could never provide.”
“I see.” Markov sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You mean he’s that type?”
“I told you he had an edge, Markov. Think, dark side of the moon.”
“Sexually?” Markov said.
“Almost certainly. Emotionally as well. Intellectually too. Forget it, Markov. I’ve had time to think about this. I’ve been thinking about it for most of the day. Rowland and I—it would be like mixing wine and milk.”
“It might be fun…” Markov gave another of his sad, flickering smiles. “With that kind, it might be a whole lot of fun for a while.”
“Excitement, sure. Also heartbreak. I don’t want to know, Markov. I’ve been down that road once or twice.”
“Me too.”
“And he’d take me too far. Those would be his terms. Either that, or I’d get dropped off at the first turn. I’m nearly thirty-nine, Markov. Approaching forty! I don’t want that now. I want—” She broke off, then smiled. “Peace. Security. Tranquillity. Harmony, if you like…”
“And McGuire wouldn’t provide those?”
“Not for me. No.”
“Come on, Lindy. You’re not convincing yourself. You’re not convincing me. I can see this little ray of hope way back there in the eyes.”
“The hell you can. With those damn glasses, I doubt you can see me at all. I’ll test you. Who came in about two minutes ago?”
“Quest did,” Markov replied, despite the fact that he had not turned his head once during the conversation. “And the magnificent one is now at her usual table, table five, right behind me in the corner. She’s just got her usual waiter to bring her usual carafe of vin ordinaire, and she’s just lit the first of the many Gauloises she will smoke throughout her meal. Excuse me, Liebling. I have work to do…”
Lindsay watched as Markov rose and crossed to the table Quest occupied, in the darkest corner of this dark bistro. Lindsay did not expect Quest to acknowledge her own presence, although they knew each other. She was correct. As Markov rose, Quest turned her beautiful blind stare in their direction, then looked away. As Markov, uninvited, sat down opposite her, and—being Markov—at once drank some of her wine, and lit one of her cigarettes for himself, Quest yawned. In her guttural voice, and in an affectionate tone, she said, “Markov, piss off.”
Markov looked delighted at this reception. He leaned closer and began to talk; Quest responded, inaudibly to Lindsay. Lindsay watched her with fascination. Her real name was Russian, and unpronounceable. She had been born in Smolensk, the daughter of a steelworker and a factory hand. She had come to the West four years before; she was over six feet tall, thin, and big-boned for a model. She was Garboesque in that her build was mannish, with wide shoulders, long legs, narrow hips, and large hands and feet. She had the most haunting face Lindsay had ever seen, with gaunt high cheekbones, strong vivid brows, and huge angry eyes of a brown so dark it caused lighting difficulties in the studio, for her eyes photographed too black, too deep. It was for this reason that despite her discovery by Lazare, and despite the use Cazarès made of her as their star runway model, magazines had been slow to use her.
It was Markov who had seen her possibilities. Quest obeyed none of the rules—which had interested Markov from the first. She was solitary, gruff, profoundly indifferent to money, fame, and—it was rumored—either sex. She was without the plasticity usual in most successful models; she never attempted to act or to adapt. She simply turned up, on time, allowed herself to be dressed, coiffed, made up with an air of sublime indifference, then she stood towering in front of the camera and glowered at the lens. She had one expression only, of distrustful and magnificent contempt. Markov adored her. He said, in his more extravagant moments, that she was half man, half woman, a female for the twenty-first century. “When she’s milked the decadent West of enough money,” he’d said with delight, “she’ll go back to Smolensk. She wants a farm. She wants to keep sheep and cows. Seriously. She’s astonishing. She knows exactly who she is, what she wants, and how to get it. I love her. I learn from her. I worship at her shrine.”
His regard was, Lindsay knew, returned. And his promise that Quest would talk to him but no one else seemed now to be confirmed. Lindsay could not hear what Quest was saying, but she was speaking rapidly, with emphasis.
Lindsay hoped she was coming up with some useful information, since the quest for Quest had used up an entire evening. She and Markov had begun by canceling the Grand Vefour—the headwaiter had not been amused. Then they had chased around Paris, visiting what Markov claimed were Quest’s favorite evening haunts. Lindsay had followed Markov up and down a particularly lonely stretch of the Seine; she had shivered in the medieval streets of the Île St. Louis, and shivered again in some tiny Russian Orthodox church, where Quest—according to Markov—came every evening to pray.
“What does she pray for, Markov?” Lindsay had asked.
“Don’t know.” Markov lit a candle—for Maria Cazarès, he claimed. “Spiritual enlightenment? Cows?”
“For heaven’s sake, Markov. I’m freezing. Can we go? I’m giving up on Quest. She’s not going to know anything anyway.”
“She will. You should get to know h
er better, Lindy. You’d like her. You could learn from her too.”
“Learn what?” Lindsay started moving off to the door.
“How to be alone. That’s valuable.”
Lindsay had not replied; she eased back the huge door of the church, and the wind gusted. Behind her, pyramids of candles guttered, the gold of icons burned. Lindsay could smell incense, that tang of religion; she was not a churchgoer, and she occasionally found Markov too Californian.
“Hurry up,” she said, making for the street and the city air. That church had been their penultimate port of call. Then they had come here, to this back-street restaurant, high on the hill of Montmartre, down an alleyway, with a slanting view up to the floodlit white dome of Sacré-Coeur.
The visitations, the delays, seemed to have been fruitful. Lindsay could feel the odd journey they had made, five hours plus of searching, working in her mind; she could feel Markov’s earlier comments too, bubbling away like yeast. He was returning to her table now, his face bright with discoveries evidently made.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking Lindsay’s arm. “You’re not going to believe this. I’ll drive you back to the hotel. We can talk in the car.”
In the car, the CD kicked in as soon as he started the engine. “My Foolish Heart” had been rejected, it seemed, in favor of an old Annie Lennox number, a great Annie Lennox number: Lindsay heard that love was a stranger in an open car. She leaned forward and switched off the sound.
“That isn’t a message I want to hear right now,” she said.
“Why not? Great song. Great singer. Great lyrics. The essential impetuosity of l’amour. I feel it speaking to me, Lindy…”
“So do I. That’s the problem. Anyway, I want you to talk. Come on—what did she say?”
“She said… some very interesting things.” Markov, who drove fast and well, and who could provide information fast and well when he chose to do so, accelerated.