She stood unstirring, save that her eyes grew very wide. “Was?” she whispered.
He had wanted to tell her in kindlier wise. Maybe this was better. “I have to take off again. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
Fly east. As Tannahill, engage a private detective to collect the basic information about those Unity people, take a few surreptitious photos, provide him the basis for deciding whether to approach them directly or not. Meanwhile Svoboda would have wound up her affairs in Europe, obtained her visa and ticket, boarded a plane. She’d be landing in New York. The seclusion of the Tannahill property offered a chance to get genuinely acquainted, to catch up on the past millennium.
“And you won’t tell me why,” Natalia said, flat-voiced.
“I am sorry, but I can’t.” He had long since learned to avoid elaborate fictions.
She looked past him, or through him. “Another woman? Maybe. But more to it than that. Else you’d just cast me off.”
“No, listen— Look Nat, you’re welcome to keep on living here, in fact I hope you do, and—”
She shook her head. “I have my pride.” Her gaze sharpened. “What are you up to? Who are you conspiring with, and why?”
“I say again, this is a personal matter.”
“Maybe it is. Considering the attitudes you’ve expressed, I can’t be sure.” She lifted her hand anew. “Oh, I won’t go bearing tales, especially since you give me nothing to go on. But I’ve got to cover my ass. You understand that, don’t you? If the cops ever question me, Til tell them what little I know. Because I don’t owe you any loyalty any longer.”
“Hey, wait!” He reached to take hold of her. She warded him off. “Let’s sit down and have a drink and talk this out.”
She considered him. “How much more will you actually have to say?”
“I—well, I care about you and—”
“Never mind. You can make up the Hide-a-Bed for yourself. HI pack my things tomorrow.”
She went from him.
I would have had to depart before long in any case, he could not cry after her. It should have been easier than this. At least I’ll occupy no more of the years that are left you.
He wondered if she, once alone tonight, would weep.
9
Rain fell slowly through windlessness, almost a mist. Its tarnished silver hid the slabs of apartment buildings and muffled every noise. There were only wet grass, dripping leaves, glimmer of marshwater along the walkway. Nobody else was about on such a midweek afternoon in northwest Copenhagen. Having left his place and gone the short distance to Utterslev Mose park, Peter Astrup and Olga Rasmussen had the world to themselves.
Beneath his cap, droplets glinted on the round young face like tears. “But you cannot leave just like this,” he pleaded. .She looked straight ahead. Both her hands, after he let go, she had jammed into the pockets of her coat. “It is sudden,” she admitted.
“Brutally sudden!”
“That’s why I asked you to take the day off so I could meet you. Time is short, and I have much to do first.”
“After I hadn’t seen or beard from you since—“ He seized her arm. “What were you doing? Who have you been with?”
She edged aside. He felt the unspoken command and released her. He was always gentle, she thought, sympathetic, yes, he may be the sweetest lover I have ever had or ever will. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I must, Peter,” she said low. “This way seems best.”
“But what of our holiday in Finland?” He gulped. “Pardon me, that was an idiotic thing to ask ... now.”
“Not really.” She made herself regard him again. “I was looking forward the same as you. This opportunity, though, is too great.”
“Is it?” he demanded desperately. “To go haring off to America and—and what? You haven’t made that at all clear.”
“It’s confidential. Scientific research. I promised to say nothing about it. But you know how interested I am.”
“Yes. Your mind, your reach of knowledge, I believe that drew me to you more than your beauty.”
“Oh, come,” she tried to laugh. “I realize I’m rather plain.”
He stopped. Perforce she did likewise. They faced each other in the chilly gray. Because he was still youthful, he blurted, “You are mysterious, you hide something, I know you do, and you are, are incomparable as a woman.”
And Hanno, she thought, has also passed many mortal lifetimes hi learning.
“I, I love you, Olga,” Peter stammered. “I’ve told you before. I do again. Will you marry me? With papers and, and everything.”
“Oh, my dear,” she murmured. “I’m old enough to be—“ Abruptly she could not say, “Your mother.” Instead: “I am too old for you. I may not look it, but I have told you. We’ve enjoyed this past couple of years.”
We have, we have. And Hanno—what do I truly know of Hanno? What can I await from him? He and I have both lived too long in secret, it has surely misshaped us in ways we don’t feel, but he prowled the world for thrice the time that I abided in my Russia. He has been fascinating and challenging and, yes, fun; but already I have glimpsed a ruthlessness. Or is it an inward loneliness? How much is he able to care for anyone or for anything beyond naked survival?
Through the confusion she heard herself finish: “We knew from the first that it couldn’t last. Let’s end it cleanly, while it’s still happy.”
He stood slumped. “I don’t care how old you are,” he said. “I love you.”
Exasperation stirred. You’re being babyish, she kept from saying. Well, what could I expect from a person not yet thirty? You have nothing left for me to discover. “I’m sorry.” No doubt I should have declined you at the beginning, but the flesh has its demands and liaisons here are easy come, easy go. With Hanno and those others— Is an immortal marriage possible? I don’t think I’m actually in love with him yet, or he with me. Perhaps we never will be. But that’s no foundation for an enduring partnership anyway. Certainly not by itself. We’ll have to see what happens.
We’ll see. What happens.
“Don’t take it this hard,” she said. “You’ll get over it, and find the right girl.”
And settle down to raise children who will grow up into the same comfortable narrowness and crumble into the same dust. Unless we are on the verge of fire and slaughter and a new dark age, as Hanno thinks we may well be.
Svoboda smiled at Peter. “Meanwhile,” she said quietly, “we might go back to your apartment and give ourselves a grand farewell.”
After all, it would only be until tomorrow.
10
Corinne Macandal received her caller in the Victorian living room. “How do you do,” she said, and offered her hand. His was sinewy, unexpectedly hard, the clasp light but firm. He bowed over hers with an archaic assurance. “Please be seated. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
Kenneth Tannahill kept his feet. “Thank you,” he replied, “but could we please talk in confidence, where nobody can overhear?”
Surprised, she looked closer at him. Her immediate thought was: How old is he, anyway? Black hair, smooth
