‘It’s not so easy to hold your tongue, and you know it.’
‘True,’ Marc admitted. ‘But trust me. I know this neighbour, I’ll open to her.’
‘How do you know her?’
‘I told you. We talked once. About a tree’.
‘What tree?’
‘A little beech tree.’
VII
FEELING AWKWARD, SOPHIA SAT BOLT UPRIGHT ON THE CHAIR THEY had offered her. After leaving Greece, her life had accustomed her either to receive or to refuse entrance to journalists and fans, but not to go knocking on doors. It must have been twenty years since she last went to call on someone, like this, without notice. And now that she was sitting in this room, with the three men around her, she wondered what they must think of this tedious visit from a neighbour coming to call. People don’t do that these days. So she was tempted to begin by explaining herself. Were they the kind of persons one could explain things to, as she had come to believe from her second-floor look-out? Sometimes it’s different when you see people close to. There was Marc, half sitting, half standing at the big wooden table, crossing his lanky legs: an attractive pose, and an attractive face, looking at her without impatience. Opposite her sat Mathias, with handsome features too, a little heavy in the jaw, but with limpid blue eyes, straightforward and calm. Lucien, who was busying himself with glasses and bottles, tossing his hair back from time to time, had the face of a child and the collar and tie of a man. She felt reassured. Why else had she come after all, except that she was already frightened?
‘Look,’ she said, taking the glass which Lucien had offered her with a smile. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’ve come to ask a favour.’
Two faces waited for her to go on. It was time to explain, but how was she going to broach such a ridiculous subject? Lucien wasn’t listening. He was coming and going, the complicated dish he was cooking requiring all his attention.
‘It’s a really silly thing. But I need to ask a favour,’ Sophia said again.
‘What sort of favour?’ Marc asked gently, encouraging her.
‘It’s hard to ask, and I know you have been working very hard these last weeks. But I need someone to dig a hole in my garden.’
‘Major offensive on the Western Front,’ murmured Lucien.
‘Of course,’ Sophia was hurrying on, ‘I would be prepared to pay, if we could agree. Should we say… three thousand francs, for the three of you?’
‘Three thousand francs, for digging a hole?’ Marc murmured.
‘Attempt at subornation by enemy forces,’ muttered Lucien under his breath.
Sophia was uncomfortable. And yet she thought she had come to the right place, and that she should press on.
‘Yes, three thousand francs, for digging a hole. And for saying nothing about it.’
‘But,’ Marc started to say,‘- Madame…?’
‘Relivaux, Sophia Relivaux. I’m your neighbour, from next door, on the right.’
‘No,’ Mathias said quietly, ‘you’re not.’
‘Yes I am,’ said Sophia. ‘I’m your next-door neighbour.’
‘Very true,’ Mathias replied, still speaking softly. ‘But you aren’t Sophia Relivaux. You are the wife of Monsieur Relivaux. But you are Sophia Simeonidis.’
Marc and Lucien were staring at Mathias, astonished. Sophia smiled.
‘Lyric soprano,’ said Mathias. ‘Manon Lescaut”, “Madame Butterfly”, “Aida”, Desdemona, “La Boheme”, “Elektra”… and you haven’t sung now for six years. Allow me to say how honoured I am to have you as a neighbour.’
With this, Mathias bowed his head as if in homage. Sophia looked at him and thought, yes, this was indeed the right house to have come to. She gave a happy sigh, as she looked round the large room, now with its tiled floor and plastered walls, every noise echoing since there was very little furniture. The three tall windows overlooking the garden were mullioned. It was a little like the refectory of a monastery. Through a low door, also arched, Lucien was appearing from time to time, holding a wooden spoon. In a monastery one says everything, especially in the refectory, in a low voice.
‘Since he has told you, I don’t need to introduce myself,’ said Sophia.
‘Well, we should introduce ourselves though,’ said Marc, who was rather impressed. ‘This is Mathias Delamarre, and…’
‘That’s alright,’ Sophia cut him short. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing to say so, but I know who you are. You overhear a lot without meaning to between these two gardens.’
‘Without meaning to?’ asked Lucien.
‘Well, sometimes on purpose, it’s true. I have looked and listened, quite deliberately at times, I will admit.’
She stopped. She wondered whether Mathias would understand that she had seen him from her little window.
‘I wasn’t spying on you. You just interested me. I thought I might be able to call on your help. What would you say if, one morning, a tree was planted in your garden, and you had had nothing to do with it?’
‘Frankly,’ said Lucien, ‘the state our garden is in, I doubt if we would notice.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Marc. ‘You’re talking about that little beech tree, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Sophia. ‘It just appeared one morning. Without a word from anyone. I don’t know who planted it. It wasn’t a present, so far as I can tell. And it wasn’t my gardener, because I haven’t got one at the moment.’
‘What does your husband have to say about it?’ asked Marc.
‘He’s not bothered about it. He’s a busy man.’
‘You mean he couldn’t give a damn?’ said Lucien.
‘Worse than that. He doesn’t want to hear me talk about it even. It irritates him.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Marc.
Lucien and Mathias nodded their agreement.
‘You think that’s odd? Really?’ asked Sophia.
‘Yes, really,’ said Marc.
‘Me too,’ said Sophia softly.
‘Forgive my ignorance,’ said Marc, ‘but were you a very famous singer?’
‘No. Not in the top class. I had some success, but I was never known as La Simeonidis. No, if you think this was some kind of eccentric fan-mail, as my husband suggested, you are mistaken. I have had admirers, but I didn’t provoke any extravagant worshippers. Ask your friend Mathias, since he seems to know about it.’
Mathias waved his hand vaguely. ‘You were more admired than you say, all the same,’ he said quietly.
There was a silence. Lucien turned host and filled up the glasses.
‘The fact is,’ he said, pointing his spoon at Sophia, ‘you are scared. You’re not accusing your husband, you’re not accusing anyone, you don’t want even to think about it, but you are scared.’
‘I am certainly worried,’ Sophia said in a low voice.
‘Because a tree being planted,’ Lucien went on, ‘means earth. Earth underneath it. Earth that nobody will disturb because it has a tree growing out of it. It’s sealed-in earth. In other words, a grave. The problem is potentially interesting.’
Lucien was not one to mince words; he spoke as he found. In this case, he had hit home.
‘Without going as far as that,’ said Sophia, still quietly, ‘let’s say, I would rather set my mind at rest about it. I’d rather know, if there is anything beneath the tree.’
‘Anything, or anyone,’ said Lucien. ‘Have you reason to suspect anyone? Your husband? Any dark doings? An importunate mistress?’
