Walking in Darkness

The childish face was wraithlike, fading, only just visible. ‘It’s extraordinary,’ Steve said, oddly very moved as he stared at the child. His mother had lost a child, a little girl, before he was born, he knew, although she never talked about it.

His parents had called her Marcie; she had been premature and had only survived a few days, was buried in the little churchyard half a mile from their home. His mother visited the grave now and then, and tended the tiny garden she had planted above it. It was that which had told Steve how much the dead child had meant to her.

‘You know, I’m sure my mother would be thrilled with something like this,’ he said slowly. ‘Do you accept commissions? If I brought some photocopies of my family photos, would you do one like this for me?’

Lilli put her head on one side and considered him thoughtfully. ‘I’d have to think about that. I need to know a lot about my subjects. What’s your background? Where do your people come from?’

He laughed. ‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘People are like trees, they have deep roots; they are fed by their roots, and if they’re uprooted to a new place they often die, if not in the body then in the soul.’

‘Unless they’re very strong, in themselves, like the people who came to the States from all over the world and found a new home here,’ said Steve soberly, and Lilli nodded.

‘Sure. Where they came from was so bad they would have died rather than go back. Sure. What about your people? How long they been in the States?’

‘My family are New Englanders on both sides, from way back in the eighteenth century. English on both sides. On my father’s side the first American was a sailor who jumped a ship bringing rum from the West Indies; on my mother’s side we come from a parson with Puritan leanings who emigrated to find freedom of conscience.’

She studied him with those dark pools of eyes, frowning a little in concentration, then after a moment said slowly, ‘Yes, I see both of them in your face; the courage and recklessness of your sea-going ancestor and the fanaticism and stubbornness of the Puritan parson. Interesting combination. Yes, I would like to do a study of you.’

‘A study of me?’ he muttered, taken aback. ‘But I thought it was my family you would be studying?’

‘Before I can create one of my wheels I have to know the person I’m making the wheel for, because in each of us a little of our ancestors lives, and the sum total of the wheel will be you. I shall use only pictures of your family that seem to me to explain you.’ She eyed him with faint mockery. ‘Do you still want one?’

‘Yes,’ he said, but with faint hesitation, because he wasn’t sure he wanted her probing and prying, asking questions, making guesses. On the other hand, he liked to please his mother and knew she would be fascinated by one of those wheels.

Staring at Sophie’s wheel, he asked, ‘Tell me, does the art nouveau border have a meaning, or is it just decoration?’

‘Art nouveau had a special meaning to the Czechs, it was a time of nationalist fervour, the turn of the century, and art and politics came together in a new way.’ She gave him a self-mocking little smile. ‘Also I love it, OK? I learnt to love it from my Czech father, I guess. And you didn’t ask how much, by the way. That’s the reckless sailor in you, ready to jump ship without knowing what he’s getting himself into!’

He had never thought of himself as reckless and wasn’t sure he liked the idea. ‘I was getting round to it! So, how much?’

‘Four hundred dollars.’

He was startled by the amount, but under her amused gaze he wouldn’t show it. ‘OK, it’s a deal.’ He held out his hand and she was about to take it when a telephone began to ring.

Lilli groaned. ‘You know, I hate that thing. Always sounds urgent, always turns out to be nothing at all.’ She walked over to the windowsill where the phone was perched on top of a book. She picked it up. ‘Yeah?’ Then her face changed, she went paler than ever. ‘Oh. When? But how . . . Is she going to be OK? Well, can I see her? What ward?’ There was a pause, then she said curtly, ‘Yes, she has Medicare, of course she does. You’ll get your blood money, don’t worry.’

She hung up and looked round at Steve. ‘God damn these people. All they care about is can she pay? Sophie can die in the street for all they care—’

‘Sophie?’ The name jerked out of him, shock making his voice shake.

‘There’s been an accident in the subway . . .’

‘That was Sophie?’ He thought how close he had come to finding out half an hour ago and could have kicked himself for driving away.

Lilli looked at him sharply. ‘What? You heard about the accident? You know what happened? Did you hear it on the radio, or something? What did they say? The hospital wouldn’t give me any details, or say how bad she was.’

He told her how he had seen the ambulance arriving. ‘They said someone had thrown herself under a train.’

He felt sick as his imagination began to paint pictures of what Sophie would look like if she had been hit by a train. God, he thought, that lovely face. That body. Even if she lived, what would be left of either? ‘But it never entered my head that it might be Sophie,’ he muttered, his stomach churning.

‘I can’t understand how it happened,’ Lilli said. ‘She’s always so careful.’

‘When I talked to her she obviously had something on her mind, she was angry about something.’ He glanced sideways at Lilli, wondering just how much she knew, and what there was to know. Maybe his guesswork about Sophie had been way off? After all, the gossip about Don Gowrie was vague; indeed he was sure it had started long ago, before Sophie Narodni came to America. Mrs Gowrie had been ill for a long, long time, of course – there could have been a succession of ‘other women’ in Gowrie’s life. Sophie might just be the latest. And if she was, was she the type to kiss and tell? He didn’t think she was, but women were a law unto themselves. Who knew what they would tell each other? They seemed to need to talk, to confide in each other; they were in an eternal conspiracy against the other sex. ‘But I hadn’t got her down as suicidal,’ he said.

‘Suicidal? I don’t believe it. Not Sophie. Look at those faces in her wheel – the peasant strength of people who have survived the worst life can chuck at them,’ Lilli said, her Oriental eyes shadow-ringed with anxiety. She sighed. ‘But then what do we ever know of each other?’

She was right, Steve thought, especially where women were concerned, Steve had never yet managed to understand a woman, even when he had known her most of his life, like Cathy Gowrie. He had honestly thought he knew her as well as he knew himself, they had known each other since childhood, but how wrong he had turned out to be!