Past Imperfect

from Marinella Calvan — but now he felt guilty. 'How long will you be?'

'Five or six minutes. I just need to finish my make-up and throw a few more things in the overnight bag.'

'Well, now that you've prepared it. It looks too good to go to waste. I'll see what I can manage.'

By the time Monique was ready, he'd finished all of the fish, two-thirds of the rice, and downed the last gulp of Bordeaux as he picked up the first bags.

'Fire somewhere?' Monique asked halfway through the drive.

Dominic didn't realize till that moment how fast he'd been driving: 168kmph, when his normal average was 130-140kmph. He eased back to just over 150 kmph.

After the flight and the day's events, Dominic was tired. The oncoming headlights stung his eyes towards the end of the drive. Particularly their stark glare on the unlit roads approaching Vidauban and the farmhouse. The drive had taken two hours-twenty minutes rather than the normal two hours-fifty.

But when he pressed the replay button on the answerphone, there were no messages from Calvan. Only one from Lepoille: 'Psychics. Interesting subject. Nothing much come up in France yet, but I'm still trying. Quite a lot from America though, some of them big cases. I'm on a short shift tomorrow — four hours starting at midday. We'll speak then.'

Monique caught his expression as he looked up from the machine. 'Anything wrong?'

'No, nothing. Nothing.' It was probably more his anxiety she sensed than the short message on the tape. Calvan would be in the middle of a long flight back to Virginia, no more messages would come through that night. And with the time difference, the earliest he could now receive a call would be early afternoon the next day.

Monique sensed his restlessness the next morning. Conversation was stilted over coffee and hot bread. If it was warm enough, Monique usually served up outside, but with this morning's early crispness she wore a thick towelling robe over a T-shirt and jeans. Dominic wore a sweat shirt.

She wondered whether his tension was connected with the tape and transcript she'd read and his trip to London. Analysts, past-life regressionists, voices from the past, and now messages on their answerphone about psychics. Possibly it was all as strange to him as to her.

With the first tape, she'd pushed whatever emotions she might have had away, harboured doubts and used the mechanical exercise of preparing the questions both as a shield and to throw it back quickly in the lap of whoever sent it: analysts, hoaxers, or whatever they were.

But with the transcript, she'd found herself wrestling with a fast changing range of emotions: disbelief, anger, outrage that it might be a hoax, rereading segments over and over and searching for fault or possible invention, not wanting to believe — before final acceptance; an acceptance that cut through her and chilled her to the bone. It was Christian's voice. There was no doubt. She didn't know how or why, or even pretend to comprehend. But it was him. She did her duty; after three attempts to express her thoughts in a few lines without rambling or being too sentimental, she had faxed the short note back to London.

There had been no tears, then. They hadn't come till the next morning when she read back through the transcript. The first time she'd read it purely clinically, objectively: is this Christian's voice? As if she was an expert character or voice analyst. But the second time, she actually attached Christian's voice, recalled its soft tones, its joy and vibrance, so open and innocent: '…It was made of shell, in the shape of an old galleon. The light inside made the shell almost luminescent and direct light would also shine through the portholes. It was beautiful.' And in that moment, she recalled Christian's face clearly, full of joy as Jean-Luc paid the rest of the money and the shop-keeper took the galleon down from the shelf and handed it to Christian. And all the other moments of him smiling suddenly flooded back: looking up at her with pride with one of his first drawings from school, her sewing the arm back on his Topo Gigio doll and his kiss of thanks, him asking for a story as she tucked him in bed, bright green eyes sparkling up at her. The soft touch of his small hands against her cheek. All gone now. Gone. Gone for so many years. So many.

The tears convulsed her in a sudden tidal wave, heavy racking sobs that shook her whole body uncontrollably. And she'd rocked slightly with their rhythm, muttering so many at intervals, as if it was a mantra that would finally return some control, some normality. Sudden grief rising up and mugging her after so many years felt strange to her. She hadn't cried for Christian for fourteen years, since Gerome's tenth birthday party, when she'd suddenly recalled a similar party for Christian, his last. But that didn't help, the recalled shame of not having grieved for so many years merely added poignancy.

Perhaps to cover her tears and confusion, she'd prepared one of Dominic's favourite dishes when he arrived. There. See. Everything's fine. Normal.

She didn't say much on the drive, not wishing to bring up the subject in case her emotions and the tears welled up again. She'd read the transcript and identified the voice. She'd sent her fax back to London. She'd cried. It was over.

But then she became aware that Dominic wasn't saying much either and he seemed tense and anxious, was driving faster than normal. Now, this morning, sipping his coffee, she could feel the same tension.

'Did something happen in London? You seem anxious, as if you're waiting on some news.'

'Just tired.' Dominic forced a smile. 'And now having to face catching up on work. You know what it's like whenever I go away. Things back up.'

'I thought it might have been something to do with the tapes and transcripts. That they'd somehow upset you.'

Dominic looked back at her. The stark morning light caught the lines of pain etched in her face. Lines he'd hoped had mellowed years ago and wouldn't return. She was still incredibly beautiful, a dusky Sophia Loren with just a fleck of salt in her dark pepper hair. And if he smiled, she would smile in return, and he could look upon them as laughter lines… the pain and sad memories would suddenly melt away. But he sensed she was speaking more for how she felt than for him: the tapes and transcripts had upset her. He reached one hand out and touched hers.

'Of course I was upset by them. But it was more concern for the effect they might have on you.'

'I cried a bit. But I'm okay now.' She forced a smile, felt the eyes welling slightly again. She'd planned not to mention her crying; some quick sympathy and a smile from Dominic and suddenly the words were out. He had that effect on her.

'Are you sure?'

She just nodded, looked down and sipped at her coffee.

Dominic wondered whether he'd done the right thing coming down to Vidauban for the weekend. It had seemed a good idea to get away, both for him and Monique. But now, having left his number with half the world, hoping to just sit back and relax while the calls flooded back in, he felt suddenly cut off, restless. Four hours to wait before Lepoille made contact, five or six for anything from Calvan. He could start on Guidier's file to kill the time, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to apply his mind effectively. He was too pre-occupied.

And for Monique, he wondered whether Vidauban might be too nostalgic coming straight after her reading the transcript. The thought hadn't hit him until the night before as he turned into the driveway, as the farmhouse and its small courtyard were caught in the headlamps.

When they'd bought it six years ago, time enough seemed to have passed from Christian and Taragnon for it not to be a reminder. Just a nostalgic link with an area they loved. It had also looked different to the Taragnon farmhouse — the front facade was flat. But three years ago he'd added a small office that jutted out into the courtyard, and from that moment it held a far stronger resemblance. Except that instead of the blank wall of the side of Jean-Luc's garage, a large window looked from his office onto the courtyard. And rather than looking out across open fields, a small rockery garden sloped up to a few pine trees and a half stone wall twenty metres away, separating them from the property next door. The only open fields were beyond the garden the other side of the house.

After breakfast, Dominic retired to his office for lack of anything else to do. He shuffled some papers and files and glanced through the first pages of Guidier's file without it really grabbing his attention. Just after ten o'clock, Gerome appeared on the patio for breakfast and Dominic came back out to say hello. Work was fine. Jaqueline was fine, Gerome grimaced. She hadn't come over because he was heading off to see a friend in