in his path. He almost bumped into her, apologized, then looked at her closely. “The Judge’s daughter!” he said. “Aren’t you Judge Dafoe’s daughter?”
She put on a puzzled look.
“I’m Rowland Vanderlinden,” he said. “You let me into your house at the time of the Simmonds trial, remember? In Queensville? I had to talk to the Judge.” She remembered that nervous energy in the way he talked and she liked it.
“Oh, of course,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“I just came in out of the rain,” she said.
He laughed. “If it weren’t for rain,” he said, “museums would have to close down.”
She laughed too.
“I was just about to go for lunch,” he said. “I usually go by myself and read while I eat. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”
“Yes,” she said, “I would like it.”
“Great!” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went out the door and he unfolded his umbrella. He extended his elbow for her and they went down the stairs in the rain. They walked only a short distance to a little restaurant where they found a table for two. It was a shabby kind of place, one she herself would never have gone into, full of strange food smells. The brown-skinned waiter with shiny black hair knew Rowland and recommended the curry special for lunch.
As they sat there, Rowland Vanderlinden talked, gesticulating with his hands, flicking his long hair back. Those little pock marks gave his face character, Rachel thought. And he had such nice blue eyes, full of life and curiosity.
When the curry came, Rachel ate what she could of it, trying not to show she didn’t like it. But he seemed not to notice and talked about this and that, including why he hadn’t appeared for the sentencing of Simmonds. “I had to come back here for a meeting of the Board,” he said. “I was sorry I couldn’t make it. I’d hoped I might see you there.”
She was thrilled to hear that, but for tactical reasons she thought she’d better lie. “I didn’t go either,” she said.
“Then I’m glad I didn’t,” he said with a smile. “My interest in Simmonds was purely academic, you know. I have a theory that such crimes are often sublimations of ancient, ritualistic impulses.”
She just smiled, though she wasn’t sure what “sublimations” meant.
“I thought I might find some pretext for visiting Queensville again,” he said, “but not long after the trial, I had a chance to go back to Africa for six months. So I took it.”
“What did you do there?” she asked. She’d never met anyone who’d led such an exotic life.
“I was studying the customs of the tribes along the Ogowe River,” he said.
“That sounds fascinating,” she said.
He looked pleased that she was fascinated. “One of the oddest things about people living in the jungle,” he said, “is how differently they perceive the world. Because the forests are so thick, they have no real appreciation of distance, especially if they’re not near a river. A few dozen yards is about as far as many of them ever see in their entire lifetimes. They just can’t imagine greater distances than that.” He smiled. “I sometimes think there’s a psychological equivalent of that phenomenon in Canada. I mean, some people here are so narrow-minded.”
Rachel was flattered by the implication that she wasn’t.
THE WAITER HAD TAKEN AWAY the curry plates and brought them a dark sludge for coffee.
“You must be very fond of travelling,” she said.
“I am,” he said. “I’m not one of those men who can sit around all their lives in the same place, doing the same thing day after day, and then, when they’re dying, they say: ‘Well that was my fate!’” He shook his head. “That’s not for me. I want my life to be an adventure, even though it may not always be fun.”
Rachel was sure she agreed with that.
He sipped his coffee and told her he was in the process of writing a scholarly article on his
She put on a puzzled look.
“I’m Rowland Vanderlinden,” he said. “You let me into your house at the time of the Simmonds trial, remember? In Queensville? I had to talk to the Judge.” She remembered that nervous energy in the way he talked and she liked it.
“Oh, of course,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“I just came in out of the rain,” she said.
He laughed. “If it weren’t for rain,” he said, “museums would have to close down.”
She laughed too.
“I was just about to go for lunch,” he said. “I usually go by myself and read while I eat. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”
“Yes,” she said, “I would like it.”
“Great!” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went out the door and he unfolded his umbrella. He extended his elbow for her and they went down the stairs in the rain. They walked only a short distance to a little restaurant where they found a table for two. It was a shabby kind of place, one she herself would never have gone into, full of strange food smells. The brown-skinned waiter with shiny black hair knew Rowland and recommended the curry special for lunch.
As they sat there, Rowland Vanderlinden talked, gesticulating with his hands, flicking his long hair back. Those little pock marks gave his face character, Rachel thought. And he had such nice blue eyes, full of life and curiosity.
When the curry came, Rachel ate what she could of it, trying not to show she didn’t like it. But he seemed not to notice and talked about this and that, including why he hadn’t appeared for the sentencing of Simmonds. “I had to come back here for a meeting of the Board,” he said. “I was sorry I couldn’t make it. I’d hoped I might see you there.”
She was thrilled to hear that, but for tactical reasons she thought she’d better lie. “I didn’t go either,” she said.
“Then I’m glad I didn’t,” he said with a smile. “My interest in Simmonds was purely academic, you know. I have a theory that such crimes are often sublimations of ancient, ritualistic impulses.”
She just smiled, though she wasn’t sure what “sublimations” meant.
“I thought I might find some pretext for visiting Queensville again,” he said, “but not long after the trial, I had a chance to go back to Africa for six months. So I took it.”
“What did you do there?” she asked. She’d never met anyone who’d led such an exotic life.
“I was studying the customs of the tribes along the Ogowe River,” he said.
“That sounds fascinating,” she said.
He looked pleased that she was fascinated. “One of the oddest things about people living in the jungle,” he said, “is how differently they perceive the world. Because the forests are so thick, they have no real appreciation of distance, especially if they’re not near a river. A few dozen yards is about as far as many of them ever see in their entire lifetimes. They just can’t imagine greater distances than that.” He smiled. “I sometimes think there’s a psychological equivalent of that phenomenon in Canada. I mean, some people here are so narrow-minded.”
Rachel was flattered by the implication that she wasn’t.
THE WAITER HAD TAKEN AWAY the curry plates and brought them a dark sludge for coffee.
“You must be very fond of travelling,” she said.
“I am,” he said. “I’m not one of those men who can sit around all their lives in the same place, doing the same thing day after day, and then, when they’re dying, they say: ‘Well that was my fate!’” He shook his head. “That’s not for me. I want my life to be an adventure, even though it may not always be fun.”
Rachel was sure she agreed with that.
He sipped his coffee and told her he was in the process of writing a scholarly article on his
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