The Master Of Rain

“Vous vous rappelez l’addresse d’Irina?”

“Non.”

“Et Natalya?”

“Je ne me rappele pas. Peut-etre un autre pretre.”

“Nous pouvons voir les papiers?”

The priest shrugged. “Servez-vous.”

“Come on,” Field said.

“What?”

“He says we can look at the papers.”

They were led into a cramped office with a desk and three metal filing cabinets. It had a picturesque view of a garden through a mullioned window, and was much lighter than the church. The priest opened a drawer and gestured with his hand. Field stepped forward and began to flick through the papers. They were filed in alphabetical order. He looked through “I” and then “S,” which was in another drawer. He pulled out the forms on either side of where “Ignatiev, Irina” and “Simonov, Natalya” should have been and handed them to Caprisi. They were all the same, written in black ink, with the name at the top and an address next to the section that was headed Residing at. The names of close relatives were listed in the bottom right-hand corner. The next of kin for each of the deceased had signed at the foot of the page. For some, this section had been left blank.

Field took the forms from Caprisi, put them back into the cabinet, and pushed the drawer shut. He turned to face the priest. “Nous vous remercions pour votre assistance—y-a-t’il un autre moyen des apprendre?”

The priest shrugged again. “Je suis desole.”

Field and Caprisi walked slowly through the church, the priest following them noiselessly. As they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he stood behind them and pointed toward the corner by the gate. “La- bas.”

“Irina?”

“Irina, oui. La-bas.”

They found her in the far corner, the earth newly turned around her grave. It was shorter than Field had imagined, with gravel scattered on top and a simple, black stone. Irina Ignatiev, the inscription read, 1899–1926.

Only the year dates were given, and there were no homilies or expressions of affection, regret, or loss. It was as if she had never really existed. They looked at the grave in silence. In the center was a small stone flowerpot, but it was empty.

“Give me a minute, will you?” Caprisi asked.

Field hesitated.

“Alone.”

Field walked to the gate, lit a cigarette, and smoked it. Caprisi had moved over to a grave, two or three rows in from the far wall. As Field watched, the American sank to his knees, his head bent in prayer.

Field felt like a voyeur and turned away. He finished his cigarette, smoked another, then waited with his hands in his pockets.

Caprisi walked back in silence.

As they got back into the car, they both saw the gray Citroen parked opposite. Two men in suits sat in the front seat, with the windows shut.

“French?” Field asked, looking over his shoulder as they drove off.

“Seems like it. The French police are in Lu’s pocket. Maybe he has set them onto us.”

“How did they find out we were here?”

Caprisi stared at him. “Perhaps there is a leak.”

Field felt his face reddening again and turned back to face the road. The Frenchmen had not followed them.

“To save you having to go back to look,” Caprisi said, “I did meet someone else here. Her name was Olga and she thought I wouldn’t propose to her because she was a Russian tea dancer, but she never understood that it was about Jane, or rather that it was about me. I wanted to keep a sense of distance. I couldn’t bear any more loss. She got pneumonia, but her friends say she died because I had said I would never marry her and she’d given up hope. Was that selfish of me?”

Field saw the hurt deep in his colleague’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Her friends didn’t tell me she was ill, and by the time I found out, she was dead.” The American shook his head slowly. “That’s why I say be careful. Sometimes, if you’ve suffered as much as they have, love can create an unbearable sense of expectation, of hope.” Caprisi appeared almost to be pleading with him. “Do you understand, Field?”