passing from shadow to light and back into shadow again as the crowd swallowed her up. Beethoven had come at last to the end of his lunar reverie, and now the young piano player was sitting at the bar, his black tie undone and his rented dinner jacket draped carefully on the back of the stool, watching the elderly barman construct a large vodka martini.
The walls seemed suddenly to close in, and the low, genial conversations of these dear familiar women now hit her ear like a flock of farm geese objecting to a stranger. Duhamel seemed aware of this alteration in her mood. Without appearing to withdraw from the group, he led her to a more private corner, by the long, wood-paneled walkway that led to the lounge.
“Do you have . . . commitments, after this event?”
“Nothing in particular,” she said, her throat tightening. “Tally and some of the Brecons are talking about a dinner cruise on the river, but I don’t do boats anymore. And you?”
To her mild surprise, he looked at his watch—an antique Breguet—and sighed. “Now that I have met you, I wish I did not. But I have to go to this . . . avant-garde snake pit . . . to meet with the director. This I am told will be over by six. After that, there is to be some sort of dinner with the committee.”
“You poor devil. Drink, quietly but steadily. It’s your only hope.”
“But I am, I admit, feeling rather tired. Jet-lagged?”
“You’ve just arrived from some exotic shore, have you?”
“From London only, I’m afraid. Are you staying with friends?”
“No. I’m here, at the Forsyth. I leave tomorrow. For New York.”
“Manhattan? You live there? How exciting.”
“No. I have a little place on the Hudson River, a few miles north. I work at the academy, actually. It’s pretty close.”
“The academy?”
“The military academy, I mean. West Point?”
He smiled, really one of his best, and Briony, who was already feeling a kind of erotic vertigo, found herself falling right into it, eyes wide open.
“West Point? I am amazed. Where you are this dangerous spy?”
“Where I am this dangerous librarian.”
“What a shame. I so wanted to meet a spy. Well, I have to go, whether I wish to or not. Please give my regrets to Miss Bowering. Perhaps we will meet in the bar, later?”
“Not a chance. I’ll be in my room, dead to the world.”
“I see. You are alone, then? Your husband . . . ?”
“Off in Odessa, I hear, fumbling away at his poxy Ukrainian pierogi.”
“Pierogi?”
Briony’s smile had deep and bitter roots, from the pain he saw in it.
“It’s some kind of doughnut, I think. Dylan picked her up in a chat room, so they tell me. Poor girl. Instead of a rich American, she got my needle-dicked husband, who, thanks to my lawyer, is also virtually penniless.”
Duhamel looked a little off balance then, but he recovered.
“Ah, then, of course, your children . . . ?”
“My son’s in . . . the military. I’m not sure where he is right now. And my daughter? We are currently not on amiable ground. We do not speak.”
“No. What a shame.”
“Not really. We have agreed to disagree on the subject of her father. She takes the view that I am too controlling, and I take the view that he’s a whoremongering, poodle-faking parasite who crossed me once too often.”
Duhamel’s expression went through a number of changes, all of which were hard to read. “Would it be . . . terribly offensive . . . if I were to ask—?”
Briony fixed him with a look, but gently, smiling carefully at him.
“I would find it terribly offensive to be gossiped about . . . Jules.”
His face hardened imperceptibly, just enough to show his edges.
“I do not . . . gossip . . . Briony.”
That brief glitter of cold, hard steel under the velvet did it.
She was gone, she thought.
Quite gone.
“Room 511, then. Around nine. Don’t be seen.”
Duhamel bowed again, a brief inclination, his eyes never
The walls seemed suddenly to close in, and the low, genial conversations of these dear familiar women now hit her ear like a flock of farm geese objecting to a stranger. Duhamel seemed aware of this alteration in her mood. Without appearing to withdraw from the group, he led her to a more private corner, by the long, wood-paneled walkway that led to the lounge.
“Do you have . . . commitments, after this event?”
“Nothing in particular,” she said, her throat tightening. “Tally and some of the Brecons are talking about a dinner cruise on the river, but I don’t do boats anymore. And you?”
To her mild surprise, he looked at his watch—an antique Breguet—and sighed. “Now that I have met you, I wish I did not. But I have to go to this . . . avant-garde snake pit . . . to meet with the director. This I am told will be over by six. After that, there is to be some sort of dinner with the committee.”
“You poor devil. Drink, quietly but steadily. It’s your only hope.”
“But I am, I admit, feeling rather tired. Jet-lagged?”
“You’ve just arrived from some exotic shore, have you?”
“From London only, I’m afraid. Are you staying with friends?”
“No. I’m here, at the Forsyth. I leave tomorrow. For New York.”
“Manhattan? You live there? How exciting.”
“No. I have a little place on the Hudson River, a few miles north. I work at the academy, actually. It’s pretty close.”
“The academy?”
“The military academy, I mean. West Point?”
He smiled, really one of his best, and Briony, who was already feeling a kind of erotic vertigo, found herself falling right into it, eyes wide open.
“West Point? I am amazed. Where you are this dangerous spy?”
“Where I am this dangerous librarian.”
“What a shame. I so wanted to meet a spy. Well, I have to go, whether I wish to or not. Please give my regrets to Miss Bowering. Perhaps we will meet in the bar, later?”
“Not a chance. I’ll be in my room, dead to the world.”
“I see. You are alone, then? Your husband . . . ?”
“Off in Odessa, I hear, fumbling away at his poxy Ukrainian pierogi.”
“Pierogi?”
Briony’s smile had deep and bitter roots, from the pain he saw in it.
“It’s some kind of doughnut, I think. Dylan picked her up in a chat room, so they tell me. Poor girl. Instead of a rich American, she got my needle-dicked husband, who, thanks to my lawyer, is also virtually penniless.”
Duhamel looked a little off balance then, but he recovered.
“Ah, then, of course, your children . . . ?”
“My son’s in . . . the military. I’m not sure where he is right now. And my daughter? We are currently not on amiable ground. We do not speak.”
“No. What a shame.”
“Not really. We have agreed to disagree on the subject of her father. She takes the view that I am too controlling, and I take the view that he’s a whoremongering, poodle-faking parasite who crossed me once too often.”
Duhamel’s expression went through a number of changes, all of which were hard to read. “Would it be . . . terribly offensive . . . if I were to ask—?”
Briony fixed him with a look, but gently, smiling carefully at him.
“I would find it terribly offensive to be gossiped about . . . Jules.”
His face hardened imperceptibly, just enough to show his edges.
“I do not . . . gossip . . . Briony.”
That brief glitter of cold, hard steel under the velvet did it.
She was gone, she thought.
Quite gone.
“Room 511, then. Around nine. Don’t be seen.”
Duhamel bowed again, a brief inclination, his eyes never
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