Borderless Deceit by Adrian de Hoog Page B

admired Anne-Marie’s editing to make Rachel’s existence look innocent, even pure.
    In the following years Rachel’s career took off. Articulate, self-confident, polished – she was born for the work she had chosen. In Vienna she out-performed the city’s entire stuffy diplomatic corps. In the international meetings no one was more adept at confronting the sulking delegates and high-nosed ambassadors; she had a way of nudging them towards compromise. Anne-Marie said Rachel had friends everywhere; she was nearly a public persona. She appeared on the society pages. She was invited to fine restaurants, exclusive concerts, a VIP box to see Vienna’s famous white horses, and balls and elaborate garden parties. Yes…true. But I also knew what she was doing on the weekends spent privately.
    During Rachel’s Vienna years I once had an opportunity to ask her about her personal life. I did it elliptically and it boomeranged.
    Rachel was in town for consultations. One Saturday morning, a fine winter day, not excessively cold, with fresh snow, an azure sky, and cold, clean, diamond-hard air, I called her on impulse at the hotel and suggested cross-country skiing in the hills north of the city. She was immediately keen. We sorted out the details of getting her equipment and by early afternoon were in the rolling landscape, racing over tree shadows, following a trail taking us deep into the forest. Rachel was wearing improvised outdoor clothing and wasn’t the best dressed cross-country skier out that day, but her strides were smooth and forceful. Born for glittering ballrooms and global conference chambers, out on the trail she showed she was a child of nature too.
    The destination that afternoon was Herridge Cabin. Nestled amongst birch, oak, spruce and pine, fashioned from rough wood with a steeply sloping roof, the cabin is straight out of a fairy tale. When we got there a fire was burning in the stove. Lean, flushed, friendly skierscame and went. We were steaming from our effort and finding the interior too warm, sat down outside on a bench against the cabin wall to share a bottle of water. Looking at the sinking February sun, we talked, though not long. I can count on one hand the conversations I’ve had with Rachel after she left on her postings, and each one, each phrase she uttered, each nuance in her words has etched itself into my brain.
    â€œThis is beautiful,” she said, looking through the tree tops at the sky. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
    â€œYou’re a strong skier.”
    â€œI’m glad I could keep up. I didn’t want to hold you back.”
    â€œDo you have much chance to enjoy the winter in Vienna?”
    â€œI get out. But this is different. The solitude and purity…it recharges. You’re lucky to have it, Carson.”
    â€œIt’s easy to take for granted.” I couldn’t prevent myself from scrutinising her closely.
    â€œWhat?” she asked when I had stared too long.
    â€œYou’ve got colour in your face. It becomes you.”
    She removed her woollen hat and shook her hair loose. “Nothing wrong with burning off some calories.”
    The talk continued like this, easy as always. Why did this happen with Rachel? Why with no one else? “When are you going back?” I asked.
    â€œI’m leaving Tuesday for a quick visit out west to see my family and from there straight back to Vienna. A short stay really. A conference here last Thursday, three meetings yesterday, today off, consultations to be squeezed in tomorrow and a seminar with academics on Monday. Too hectic, especially at this time of year. I miss real winter. I wish I could have taken more time off.”
    â€œAnd what happens when you get back?”
    Surrounded by the light smell of burning hardwood from the cabin chimney and snapping off a piece of frozen candy bar, Rachel told me about the international committees she attended and the