‘The two?’
‘Maybe twelve if you wanted the two. More for an exhibition.’
She turned to me. ‘You are shocked.’
‘I’m only shocked that you want me to be shocked,’ I said.
She bit her lip and turned on to the Sebastopol and speeded out of the district. It was three minutes before she spoke again. ‘You are good for me,’ she said.
I wasn’t sure she was right but I didn’t argue.
That early in the morning the street in which Maria lived was little different from any other street in Paris; the shutters were slammed tight and not a glint of glass or ruffle of curtain was visible anywhere. The walls were colourless and expressionless as though every house in the street was mourning a family death. The ancient crumbling streets of Paris were distinguished socially only by the motor cars parked along the gutters. Here the R4s, corrugated deux chevaux and dented Dauphines were outnumbered by shiny new Jags, Buicks and Mercs.
Inside, the carpets were deep, the hangings lush, the fittings shiny and the chairs soft. And there was that symbol of status and influence: a phone. I bathed in hot perfumed water and sipped aromatic broth, I was tucked into crisp sheets, my memories faded and I slept a long dreamless sleep.
When I awoke the radio was playing Françoise Hardy in the next room and Maria was sitting on the bed. She looked at me as I stirred. She had changed into a pink cotton dress and was wearing little or no make-up. Her hair was loose and combed to a simple parting in that messy way that takes a couple of hours of hairdressing expertise. Her face was kind but had the sort of wrinkles that come when you have smiled cynically about ten million times. Her mouth was small and slightly open like a doll, or like a woman expecting a kiss.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s past midnight,’ she said. ‘You’ve slept the clock round.’
‘Get this bed on the road. What’s wrong, have we run out of feathers?’
‘We ran out of bedclothes; they are all around you.’
‘Fill her up with bedclothes mister and if we forget to check the electric blanket you get a bolster free.’
‘I’m busy making coffee. I’ve no time to play your games.’
She made coffee and brought it. She waited for me to ask questions and then she answered deftly, telling me as much as she wished without seeming evasive.
‘I had a nightmare and awoke in a medieval dungeon.’
‘You did,’ said Maria.
‘You’d better tell me all about it,’ I said.
‘Datt was terrified that you were spying on him. He said you have documents he wants. He said you had been making inquiries so he had to know.’
‘What did he do to me?’
‘He injected you with Amytal and LSD (it’s the LSD that takes time to wear off). I questioned you. Then you went into a deep sleep and awoke in the cellars of the house. I brought you here.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Don’t worry. None of those people speak English. I’m the only one that does. Your secrets are safe with me. Datt usually thinks of everything, but he was disconcerted when you babbled away in English. I translated.’
So that was why I’d heard her say everything twice. ‘What did I say?’
‘Relax. It didn’t interest me but I satisfied Datt.’
I said, ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but why should you do that for me?’
‘Datt is a hateful man. I would never help him, and anyway, I took you to that house, I felt responsible for you.’
‘And …?’
‘If I had told him what you really said he would have undoubtedly used amphetamine on you, to discover more and more. Amphetamine is dangerous stuff, horrible. I wouldn’t have enjoyed watching that.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I reached towards her, took her hand, and she lay down on the bed at my side. She did it without suspicion or arch looks, it was a friendly, rather than a sexual gesture. She lit a cigarette and gave me the packet and matches. ‘Light it yourself,’ she said. ‘It will give you something to do with your hands.’
‘What did I say?’ I asked casually. ‘What did I say that you didn’t translate into French for Datt?’
‘Nothing,’ Maria said immediately. ‘Not because you said nothing, but because I didn’t hear it. Understand? I’m not interested in what you are or how you earn your living. If you are doing something that’s illegal or dangerous, that’s your worry. Just for the moment I feel a little responsible for you, but I’ve nearly worked off that feeling. Tomorrow you can start telling your own lies and I’m sure you will do it remarkably well.’
‘Is that a brush-off?’
She turned to me. ‘No,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed me.
‘You smell delicious,’ I said. ‘What is it you’re wearing?’
‘Agony,’ she said. ‘It’s an expensive perfume, but there are few humans not attracted to it.’
I tried to decide whether she was geeing me up, but I couldn’t tell. She wasn’t the sort of girl who’d help you by smiling, either.
She got off the bed and smoothed her dress over her hips.
‘Do you like this dress?’ she asked.
‘It’s great,’ I said.
‘What sort of clothes do you like to see women in?’
‘Aprons,’ I said. ‘Fingers a-shine with those marks you get from handling hot dishes.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she said. She stubbed out her cigarette.
‘I’ll help you if you want help but don’t ask too much, and remember that I am involved with these people and I have only one passport and it’s French.’
I wondered if that was a hint about what I’d revealed under the drugs, but I said nothing.
She looked at her wristwatch. ‘It’s very late,’ she said. She looked at me quizzically. ‘There’s only one bed and I need my sleep.’ I had been thinking of having a cigarette but I replaced them on the side table. I moved aside. ‘Share the bed,’ I invited, ‘but I can’t guarantee sleep.’
‘Don’t pull the Jean-Paul lover-boy stuff,’ she said, ‘it’s not your style.’ She grabbed at the cotton dress and pulled it over her head.
‘What is my style?’ I asked irritably.
‘Check with me in the morning,’ she said, and put the light out. She left only the radio on.
10
I stayed in Maria’s flat but the next afternoon Maria went back to my rooms to feed Joe. She got back before the storm. She came in blowing on her hands and complaining of the cold.
‘Did you change the water and put the cuttlefish bone in?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s good for his beak,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she said. She stood by the window looking out over the fast-darkening boulevard. ‘It’s primitive,’ she said without turning away from the window. ‘The sky gets dark and the wind begins to lift hats and boxes and finally dustbin lids, and you start to think this is the way the world will end.’
‘I