He didn't take his eyes off the screen, though his features showed not a flicker of interest in what was going on. Never better, he said. She set the tray down on the table. Could I get you something different… maybe some fruit? I've already got the shits, thank you, he said politely. Some chocolate pudding? I'm not a child, Loretta, he said. Though I realize it's a very long time <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> I proved it to you. I'm sure you're getting a good <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> from somebody- Cadmus- -I just hope he appreciates how much of my money you've spent getting your tits tucked and your ass tucked and that belly of yours all stapled up- Stop that! Did you get a pussy tuck while you were at it? he remarked, his tone not once wavering from the lightly conversational. You must be sloppy down <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> after all these years. Don't be disgusting, Loretta said. Do I take that as a yes? If you don't stop this- What will you do? he said, a tiny smile coming onto his parchment lips. Throw me over your lap and spank me? Remember how I used to do that to you, love? Remember that lacquered hairbrush you used to present me with when you were in need of a little discipline? Loretta was having no more of this. She walked smartly to the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Don't you ever wonder how much of it I told people <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? he said. She stopped a yard short of the door. You didn't, she said. Don't be ridiculous, he said. Of course I told people. Just a select little group. Cecil of course. Some members of your family. Oh you are a filthy, disgusting old man- That's it, sweet pea. Let it out. It may be your last chance. You never had any shame- If I had I daresay I wouldn't have married you. What's that supposed to mean? <a href="http://bertpoka.k2free.com/">Nobody</a> else would have had you. Not with your reputation. I thought when I first got you naked: <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> isn't anywhere on this body that's still virgin territory. Every inch of it's been licked and pinched and screwed and smacked. I found that <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> arousing at the time. And when people said, why her, she's a whore, she's slept with half of Washington, I used to tell them, I can still show her a few tricks she hasn't seen. He paused for a moment. Loretta was quietly weeping. What the fuck are you ay-ing for? Cadmus said. When I'm dead you can tell everyone what a brute I was. You can write a book <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what a dirty-minded, decadent old goat I was. I don't care. I won't be listening. I'll be too busy paying for my sins. At last, having not taken his eyes off the screen throughout this exchange, he slowly, painfully, turned his head to look back at her. There's a special hell for people who die as rich as us, he said. So say a few prayers for me, will you? She looked at him blankly. What are you <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing? I was wondering… if you ever loved me. Oh sweet pea, he said. Isn't it a little late to be sentimental? She left without <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> word. There was no purpose arguing with him; clearly his medication was disordering his thoughts. She'd have to talk to Waxman; perhaps the doses were too strong. She went upstairs and put on a dress she'd had made for her the previous season, but had then never been in the mood to wear. It was white, and rather plain, and when she'd first tried it on she'd thought it made her look pallid. But now, seeing herself in the mirror, she approved of its severity; and of the somewhat frigid quality it conferred. He'd called her whore, and that wasn't just. She'd had her high times, to be sure: what he'd said <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> not being a piece of her body untouched was true. But so what? She'd made the best of what God had given her; taken her pleasures where, when and with whom she could. There was nothing shameful in that. Indeed, Cadmus had been perversely proud of her wild reputation at the beginning. He'd liked nothing better than to know that their courtship was the subject of gossip and tittle-tattle. And yes, she'd succumbed to the demands of vanity several times, and gone under the knife. But again: so what? She looked ten years her own junior; fifteen in a flattering light. But she had no wish to use her beauty the way Cadmus had implied. Once she'd taken his name, she'd had one lover only besides Cadmus, and even that had barely lasted a week. It would have been nice to <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> she'd broken his heart, but she harbored no such illusions. He'd been immune to love, that other one. He'd sailed away when he had finished with her, and nearly broken her heart. So out she went, dressed in white, leaving Cadmus sitting on the sofa in front of his beloved baseball. Of course, he saw none of it. He hadn't actually watched a game in months. There was something <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> sitting <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> that helped him remove his thoughts from his present condition-from its pain and humiliation-and talk himself into the past. He had work to do <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>; <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> to put in order <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> death took him and he found himself removed into that special hell made for the rich. Catholic atheist that he was, he half-believed in that hell; half believed he would suffer-if not eternally at least for a long, long time-in a barren spot where every comfort wealth and power could bestow was denied him. He'd never really cared <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> luxury so he wouldn't miss the silk pajamas and the Italian shoes and the thousand-bucks-a-bottle champagne. He'd miss control. He'd miss knowing he could get any politician, to the very highest, on the phone in five minutes, whatever their affiliations. He'd miss knowing every word he uttered was scrutinized for a clue to his desires. He'd miss being idolized. He'd miss being hated. He'd miss having a purpose. That was the real hell waiting for him: the wasteland where his will meant nothing, because he had nothing to work it upon. Yesterday he'd cried quietly to himself at the prospect. Today, he had no tears left. His head was just a cesspool, filled with dirty little words that he had no use for now that his bitch-wife had gone. Gone to get herself fucked, no doubt; gone to spread her cunt for some stinking donkey-dick- He was saying the words aloud, he vaguely realized; talking filth to himself while he sat in his own caked shit. And in his head <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were pictures to accompany the monologue; too blurred for him to know if they were excremental or erotic. Somewhere in the midst of all this confusion <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were other concerns he knew he should address. Business unfinished, good-byes unsaid. But he couldn't pin his thoughts down long enough to name them; the dirt kept distracting him. At one point the nurse came in and asked him how he was doing. It took the greatest effort of will not to let out a flood of filth, but he used the last remnants of his self-control to order her out of the room. She told him she'd be back in ten minutes with his noon medication, and then left. As he listened to her footsteps receding across the hall he heard a whirring sound in his head. It seemed to be coming from the back of his skull; an irritating little din that rose in volume by degrees. He tried to shake it out-like a dog with a flea in its ear-but it wouldn't go. It simply got louder, and more shrill. He grabbed hold of the arm of the sofa so as to pull himself to his feet. He needed help. A head awash with dirty words was one thing, but this was too vile to be endured. He got to his feet, but his legs weren't strong enough to support him. His hand slipped out from under him and he fell sideways. He cried out as he went down, but he heard no sound. The whine had become so loud it overwhelmed <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> else: the crack of his brittle bones as he hit the floor, the din of the table lamp as it came smashing down, caught by his out-flung hand. For a few moments, when he hit the ground, he lost consciousness, and in a kinder world than this he might never have found it again. But fate hadn't finished with him yet. After a period of blissful darkness his eyes flickered open again. He was lying on his side where he'd fallen, the whine now so loud he felt certain it would shake his skull apart. No; not even that excruciating luxury was granted him. He lay <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> alive, and deafened, until somebody came and found him. His thoughts, if such they could be called, were chaotic. There were still fragments of filth in the stew, but they were no longer complete words. They were just syllables, thrown against the wall of his skull by the relentless whine. When Celeste came back in, she was a model of proficiency. She cleared her patient's throat of some vestiges of vomit, ascertained that he was breathing properly, and then called for an ambulance. That done, she went back out into the hallway, alerted a member of the household staff to the crisis, and told them to find Loretta, and have her go to Mount Sinai where Cadmus would be taken. When she returned to Cadmus she found that he'd opened his eyes, just a fraction, and that his head had turned away from the door. Can you hear me, Mr. Geary? she asked him gently. He made no reply, but his eyes opened a little wider. He was trying to focus, she saw, the <a href="http://dwerabe.1sweethost.com/">object</a> of his attempted scrutiny the painting that was hung on the far wall of the room. The nurse knew nothing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> art whatsoever, but this mammoth picture had slowly exercised a fascination over her, so much so that she'd asked the old man <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it. He'd told her it was painted by an artist called Albert Bierstadt and that it represented his conception of a limitless American wilderness. Looking at it, he'd said, was supposed to be like taking a journey: your eye traveled from one part of the panorama to the next, always finding something new. He'd even shown her how to look at it through a rolled-up sheet of paper, as if viewing the scene through a telescope. On the left was a waterfall feeding a pool where buffalo drank; behind them, stretching across the canvas, was a rolling plain, with patches of bright sunlight and shadow, and beyond the grasslands a range of snow-capped mountains, the grandest of which had its heights wreathed in creamy cloud, except for its topmost crag, which was set against a pocket of deep blue sky. The only human presence in the picture was a solitary pioneer on a dappled horse, who was perched on a ridge to the right of the scene, studying the terrain <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> him. That man's a Geary, Cadmus had once told the nurse. She hadn't known whether the old man was joking or not, and she hadn't wanted to risk his ire by asking. But now, watching his face as he struggled to focus on the painting, she somehow knew that the pioneer was what Cadmus' eyes were straining to see. Not the buffalo, not the mountains, but the man who was surveying all of this, in readiness for conquest. At last, he gave up: the effort was too much for him. He made a tiny, frustrated sigh, and his top lip curled a little, as if in contempt at his own incapacity. It's all right… she said to him, smoothing a stray strand of silver-white hair back from his brow. I can hear them coming. This was no lie. She could indeed hear the medics outside in the hallway. A moment later, and they were tending to him, lifting Cadmus up off the floor and onto the stretcher, covering him with blankets, their gentle reassurances echoing her own. At the last, as they picked the stretcher up to carry him out, his gaze went back in the direction of the canvas. She hoped his exhausted eyes had caught a glimpse this time, though she doubted it. The chances of his ever coming back to study the painted pioneer again were, she knew, remote. For Rachel the house was a different place now that she knew that Galilee had built it. What a labor it must have been for a man on his own; digging and <a href="http://sabret.100freemb.com/">laying</a> the foundations, raising the walls, fashioning windows and doors, roofing it, tiling it, painting it. No doubt his sweat was in its timbers, and his curses, and a kind of genius, to make a house that felt so comforting. It was no wonder Niolopua's mother had wanted to possess it. If she couldn't have its builder, then it was the next best thing. Following the conversation on the veranda Rachel no longer doubted that Galilee would come back, but as the afternoon went on, and she turned over all she knew <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the man her mood grew steadily darker. Perhaps she was deceiving herself, <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing that something rare and tender had passed between them the previous night; perhaps when he returned he'd be doing so out of some bizarre obligation. After all she was just <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> Geary wife as far as he was concerned; <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> bored bitch getting her little fix of paradise. He didn't know how much of a captive she felt: how could he? And how could he be blamed if he thought her despicable, taking up residence in his dream house, lying in the cool like some planter's wife while Niolopua trimmed the grass? And then, as if that weren't enough, the <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> she'd done last night! She grew sick with embarrassment <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it. The way she'd displayed herself to him; what the hell had she been <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing? If she'd seen any other woman behave that way she'd have called them a slut; and she'd have had reason. She should have protested the instant she'd realized where his story was going. She should have said: I can't listen to this, and firmly told him to leave. Then maybe he would have come back because he wanted to; instead of- Oh my Lord… she said softly. There he was, on the beach. There he was, and her heart was suddenly beating so loudly she could hear it in her head, and her hands were clammy and her stomach was churning. There he was, and it was all she could do not to just go to him; tell him she wasn't a Geary, not in her heart; she wasn't even a wife, not really; it had aH been a stupid mistake, and would he please forgive her, would he please pretend he'd never laid eyes on her <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>, so that they could start again as though they'd just met, walking on the beach? She did none of this, of course. She simply watched him as he made his way toward the house. He saw her now; waved at her, and smiled. She went to the French window, slid it open and stepped out onto the veranda. He was <a href="http://beleberdaki.freewhost.com/">halfway</a> up the lawn, still smiling. His pants were soaked to the knee, the rest of him wet with spray, his grubby T-shirt clinging to his belly and chest. He extended his hand to her. Will you come with me? he said. Where are we going? I want to show you something. Let me get my shoes. You won't need shoes. We're just going along the beach. She closed the screen door to keep out the mosquitoes and went down onto the lawn to join him. He took her hand, the gesture so casual it was as though this was a daily ritual for them, and he'd come to the lawn a hundred times, and called to her, and smiled at her, and taken her hand in his. I want to show you my boat, he explained as they took the short path to the sand. It's moored in the next bay. Wonderful, she said. Oh… by the way… I really <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> I should apologize for last night. I wasn't… behaving… the way I normally behave. No? he said. She couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. All she could see was the smile on his face, and it seemed perfectly genuine. Well I had a wonderful time last night, he said, so if you want to behave that way again, go for it. She offered an awkward grin. Do you want to walk in the water? he said, moving on from her apology as though the whole subject was over and done with. It's not cold. I don't mind cold water, she said. We have hard winters where I come from. Which is where? Dansky, Ohio. Dansky, Ohio, he said, turning the words over on his tongue as he spoke them, as though savoring the syllables. I went to Ohio once. This is <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I took to the sea. A place called Bellefontaine. I wasn't <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> long. What do you mean when you say you 'took to the sea'? Just that. I gave up the land. And the people on it. Actually it was the people I gave up on, not the land. You don't like people? A few, he said, throwing her a sideways glance. But not many. You don't like the Gearys, for instance. The smile that had been at play on his face dropped away. Who told you that? Niolopua. Huh. Well he should keep his mouth shut. Don't blame him. He was upset. And from what he was telling me it sounds like the family gave everybody a raw deal. Galilee shook his head. I'm not complaining, he said. This is a hard world to get by in. It makes people cruel sometimes. There's a lot <a href="http://kertimaf.freehostnow.org/">worse</a> than the Gearys. Anyway… you're a Geary. The smile crept back. And you're not so bad. I'm getting a divorce, she said. Oh? Don't you love him then? No. Did you ever? I don't know. It's hard to be sure of what you feel when you meet somebody like Mitchell. Especially when you're just a Midwestern girl, and you're lost and you're not sure what you want. And <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> he is, telling you not to worry <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> that anymore. He'll take care of <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a>. But he didn't? Galilee said. She thought <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> this for a moment. He did his best, she admitted. But as time went by… The <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> you wanted changed, Galilee said. That's right. And eventually, the <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> you end up wanting are the <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> they can't give you. He wasn't talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> her any longer, she realized. He was talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> himself; of his own relationship with the Gearys, the nature of which she did not yet comprehend. You're doing the right thing, he said. Leaving <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> you start to hate yourself. Again he was talking autobiographically, she knew, and she took comfort from the fact. He seemed to see some parallel between their lives. The fears that had threatened her that afternoon were toothless. If he understood her situation as he seemed to-if he saw some sense in which his pain and hers overlapped-then they had some common ground upon which to build. Of course now she wanted to know more, but having made the remark <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> hating yourself he fell silent, and she couldn't <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> of a way to raise the subject again without seeming pushy. No matter, she thought. Why waste time talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the Gearys, when <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was so much to enjoy: the sky turning pink as the sun slid away, the sea calmer than she'd seen it, the motion of the water around her legs, the heat of Galilee's palm against hers. Apparently much the same thoughts were passing through her companion's head. Sometimes I talk myself into such foul moods, he said, and then I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>: what the hell do I have to complain <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? He looked up at the reef of coral clouds that was accruing high, high above them. So what if I don't <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a> the world? he went on. I'm a free man. At least most of the time. I go where I want when I want. And wherever I go… his gaze went from the clouds to Rachel … I see beautiful <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>. He leaned toward her and kissed her lightly. Things to be grateful for. They stopped walking now. Things that I can't <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> believe I'm seeing. Again he put his lips against hers, but this time <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was no chasteness. This time they wrapped their arms around one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> and kissed deeply, like the lovers they'd been bound to be from the beginning. It passed through Rachel's head that she wasn't living this but dreaming it: that every detail of this moment was in such a perfect place <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was no improving it. Sky, sea, clouds, lips. His eyes, meeting hers. His hands on her back, at her neck, in her hair. I'm sorry… he murmured to her. For what? For not coming to find you, he said. I should have come to find you. I don't <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a>. I was looking away. I was staring at the sea when I should have been watching for you. Then you wouldn't have married him. If I hadn't married him we'd never have met. Oh yes we would, he said. If I'd not been watching the sea, I would have known you were out <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. And I would have come looking for you. They walked on after a time, but now they walked with their arms around one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>. He took her to the end of the beach, then led the way over the spit of rocks that marked the divide between the two bays. On the other side was a stretch of sand perhaps half the length of the beach behind them, in the middle of which was a small, and plainly very antiquated, wooden jetty, its timbers wea<a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>d to a pale gray, its legs shaggy with vivid green weed. There was only one vessel moored <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>: The Samarkand. Its sails were furled, and it rode gently on the incoming tide, the very picture of tranquillity. Did you build it? she asked him. Not from scratch. I bought her in Mauritius, stripped her down to the bare essentials and fashioned her the way I wanted her. It took two years, because I was working on my own. Like the house. Yeah, well, I prefer it that way. I'm not very comfortable with other people. I used to be… But? I got tired of <a href="http://sadertab.kogaryu.com/">pretending</a>. Pretending what? That I liked them, he said. That I enjoyed talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>… he shrugged … whatever people talk <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>. Themselves, Rachel said. Is that what people talk <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? he said quizzically. It was as though he'd been out of human company so long he'd forgotten. I mustn't have been paying attention. Rachel laughed at this. No seriously, he said, I wouldn't have minded if they'd really wanted to talk <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what was going on in their souls. I'd have welcomed that. But that's not what you hear. You hear <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> pretty stuff. How fat their wives are getting and how stupid their husbands are and why they hate their children. Who could bear that for very long? I'd prefer to hear nothing at all. Or tell a story? Oh yes, he said, luxuriating in the thought, that's even better. But it.can't be just any story. It has to be something true. What <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the story you told me last night? That was true, he protested. I swear, I never told a truer story in all my life. She looked at him quizzically. You'll see, he said, if it isn't true yet, it will be. Anybody could say that, she replied. Yes, but anybody didn't. I did. And I wouldn't waste my time with <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> that weren't true. He put his hand to her face. You have to tell me a story sometime soon. And it has to be just as true. I don't know any stories like that. Like what? You know, she said. Stories that could stir you up the way that story stirred me up. Oh it stirred you up did it? You know it did. You see. Then it must have been true. She had no answer to this. Not because it made no sense but because after some fashion that she couldn't articulate, it did. Obviously his definition of true wasn't the standard definition, but <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was a kind of cockeyed logic to it nevertheless. Shall we go? he said, I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> the boat's getting lonely. A they walked along the creaking jetty Rachel asked turn why he had dubbed his boat The Samarkand. Galilee explained that Samarkand was the name of a city. I've never heard of it, she told him. There's no reason why you should. It's a long way from Ohio. Did you live <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>? No. I just passed through. I've done a lot of passing through in my life. You've traveled a lot? More than I'd like. Why don't you just find a place you like and settle down? That's a long story. I suppose the simple answer is that I've never really felt I belonged anywhere. Except out <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. He glanced seaward. And even <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>… For the first time <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> they'd begun this conversation, she sensed his attention wandering, as though this talk of <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> far off was making him yearn for them. Perhaps not for the specific of Samarkand; simply for something remote from the here and now. She touched his arm. Come back to me, she said. Sorry, he replied. I'm here. They'd reached the end of the jetty. The boat was <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> them, rocking gently in the arms of the tide. Are we going aboard then? she asked him. We surely are. He stepped aside, and she climbed the narrow plank laid between the jetty and the deck. He followed her, Welcome, he said with no little pride. To my Samarkand. The tour of the boat didn't take long; it was in most regards an unremarkable vessel. There were a few details of its crafting he pointed out to her as having been difficult to fashion or pretty in the result, but it wasn't until they got below deck that she really saw his handiwork. The walls of the narrow cabin were inlaid with wood; the colors, the grain and even the knotholes in the timber so chosen and arranged that they almost suggested images. Is it my imagination, Rachel said, or am I seeing <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> in the walls? Anything in particular? Well… over <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> I can see a kind of landscape, with some ruins, and maybe some trees. And <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s something that could be a tree, but might be a person… I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> it's a person. So you put it <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>? No. I did all of this work <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing I was just making patterns. It wasn't until I was a week into my next voyage I started to see <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>. It's like looking at inkblots- Rachel said. -or clouds- -or clouds. The more you look the more you see. It's useful on long voyages, Galilee said, when I'm sick of looking at the waves and the fish I come down here, smoke a little, get a buzz going, and look at the walls. There's always something I hadn't seen. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her round. See that? he said, pointing to the door at the far end of the cabin, which was constructed in the same way as the walls. The design on the door? Yes. Does it remind you of anything? She walked toward it. Galilee followed, his hands still laid on her shoulders. I'll give you a clue, he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. The grass looks very comfortable… The grass? She stopped a yard or so from the door, and looked at the patterns in the wood. There were arrangements of dark shapes towards the top of the door; and a sliver of pale wood running horizontally, broken in places, and some more forms she could make no sense of arbitrarily laid here and <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. But where was the grass? And why was it so comfortable? I'm not getting it, she said. Just look for the virgin, Galilee said. The virgin? she said. What virgin? He drew breath to give her <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> clue, but <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> he could speak she said: You mean Jerusha? He put his smiling lips against the nape of her neck and kept his silence. She kept looking, and piece by piece the picture began to emerge. The grass-that comfortable bed on which Jerusha had lain down-was <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> in the middle of the door, a patch of lightly speckled wood. Above it were those dark, massy shapes she'd first puzzled over: the heavy summer <a href="http://veraner.741.com/">foliage</a> of ancient trees. And that bright'horizontal sliver running across the door? It was the river, glimpsed from a distance. Now it was she who smiled, as the mystery came clear in front of her. She had only one question: Where are the people? You have to put those in for yourself, he said. Unless… He stepped past her and put his finger on a narrow, almost spindly shape in the grain of one of the pieces of wood. Could this be the riverman? No. He was better looking than that. Galilee laughed. So maybe it isn't Jerusha's forest after all, he said. I'll have to invent a new story. You like telling stories? I like what it does to people, he said, smiling a little guiltily. It makes them feel safe. Going to your country? Where the rich were kind and the poor had God- I suppose that is my country- I hadn't thought <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it that way <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>. The notion seemed to <a href="http://szrkzrxks.deep-ice.com/">trouble</a> him somewhat. He grew pensive for a moment; just a moment. Then he looked up from his thoughts and said: Are you hungry? Yes, I am a little. Good. Then I'll cook, he said. It'll take a couple of hours. Can you wait that long? A couple of hours? she said, What are you going to cook? Oh it's not the cooking that takes the time, he said. It's the catching. There was no trace of the day remaining when The Samarkand left the jetty; nor was <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> a moon. Only the stars, in brilliant array. Rachel sat on deck while the boat glided away from the island. The heavens got brighter the further they sailed, or such was her impression. She'd never seen so many stars, nor seen the Milky Way so clearly; a wide, irregular band of studded sky. What are you <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? Galilee asked her. I used to work in a jewelry store in Boston, she said. And we had this necklace that was called the Milky Way. It was supposed to look like that. She pointed to the sky. I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> it was eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You never saw so many diamonds. Did you want to steal it? Galilee said. I'm not a thief. But did you? She grinned sheepishly. I did try it on when nobody was looking. And it was very pretty. But the real thing's prettier. I would have stolen it for you, Galilee said. No problem. All you needed to say was-I want that-and it would have been yours. Suppose you'd got caught? I never get caught. So what have you stolen? Oh my Lord… he said. Where do I start? Is that a joke? No. I take theft very seriously. It is a joke. I stole this boat. You did not. How else was I going to get it? Buy it? You know how much vessels like this cost? he said reasonably. She still wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. I either stole the money to buy the boat, or stole the boat itself. It seemed simpler to steal the boat. That cut out the middle man. Rachel laughed. Besides, the guy who had the boat didn't care <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> her. He left her tied up most of the time. I took her out, showed her the world. You make it sound like you married her. I'm not that crazy, Galilee replied. I like sailing, but I like <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> better. An expression of surprise must have crossed her face, because he hurriedly said: Sorry. That was crude. I mean- No, if that's what you meant you should say it. He looked sideways at her, his eyes gleaming by the light of the lamp. Despite his claim not to be crazy, that was exactly how he looked at that moment: sublimely, exquisitely crazy. You realize what you're inviting? he said. No. Giving me permission to say what I mean? That's a dangerous invitation. I'll take the risk. All right, he said with a shrug. But you remember… … I invited it. He kept looking at her: that same gleaming gaze. I brought you on this boat because I want to make love to you. Make love is it now? No, fuck. I want to fuck you. Is that your usual method? she asked him. Get the girl out to the sea where she hasn't got any choice? You could swim, he said. He wasn't smiling. I suppose I could. But as they say on the islands: Utiuli kai holo ka mono. Which means what? Where the sea is dark, sharks swim. Oh that's very reassuring, she said, glancing down at the waters slopping against the hull of The Samarkand. They were indeed dark. So that may not be the wisest option. You're safer here. With me. Getting what you want. I haven't said- You don't need to tell me. You just need to be near me. I can smell what you want. If Mitchell had ever said anything like that as a sexual overture he would have killed his chances stone dead. But she'd invited this man to say what was in his head. It was too late to play the Puritan. Besides, coming from him, right now, the idea was curiously beguiling. He could smell her. Her breath, her sweat; God knows what else. She was near him and he could smell her; she was wasting his time and hers protesting and denying… So she said: I thought we were going to fish? He grinned at her. You want a lover who keeps his promises, huh? Absolutely. I'll get a fish, he said, and standing up he stripped off his T-shirt, unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his pants; all this so swiftly she didn't comprehend what he was intending to do until he threw himself overboard. It wasn't an elegant dive, it was a ragged plunge, and the splash soaked her. But that wasn't what got her up and shouting at him. It was what he'd said <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> sharks and dark water. Don't do this! she yelled. She could barely see him. Come out of <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>! I'm not going to be long. Galilee. You said <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were sharks. And the longer I talk to you the more likely they'll come and eat my ass, so can I please go fish? I'm not hungry any more. You will be, he said. She could hear the smile in his voice, then saw him throw his arms above his head and dive out of sight. You sonofabitch, she said to herself, her mind filling with unwelcome questions. How long could he hold his breath for? When should she start to be concerned for his safety? And what if she saw a shark: what was she to do then? Lean over the side and beat on the hull of the boat to divert its attention? Not a very pleasant idea, with the water so concealing. The thing would be on her <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> she knew it; taking off her hand, her arm, dragging her overboard. There was no doubt in her mind: when he got back on board she was going to tell him to take her straight back to the jetty; the sonofabitch, the sonofabitch, leaving her here staring down into the darkness with her heart in her mouth- She heard a splashing sound on the other side of the boat. Is that you? she called out. There was no reply. She crossed the deck, stumbling over something in the dark. Galilee, damn you! Answer me! The splashing came again. She scanned the water, looking for some sign of life. Praying it was a man not a fin. Oh God, don't let anything happen to him, she found herself saying, Please God, please, don't hurt him. You sound like a native. She looked in the direction of the voice. There was something that looked like a black ball bobbing in the water. And around it, fish were leaping, their backs silvery in the starlight. Okay, she said, determined not to sound concerned for fear she encouraged his cavortings. You got the fish? That's great. There was a shark god at Puhi, called Kaholia-Kane- I don't want to hear it! she yelled. But I heard you praying- No- Please God, you were saying. I wasn't praying to the <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> shark! she yelled, her fury and fear getting the better of her. Well you should. They listen. At least this one did. The women used to call to him, whenever somebody was lost at sea- Galilee? Yes? It's not funny anymore. I want you back on board. I'm coming, he said. Let me just- She saw his arm shoot out of the water and catch one of the leaping fish. Gotcha! Okay. I'm on my way. He began to plow through the water toward the boat. She scanned the surface in every direction, superstitiously fearful that the fin would appear just as Galilee came in striking distance of the boat. But he made it to the side without incident. Here, he said, passing the fish up to her. It was large, and still very much intending to return to its native element, thrashing so violently that she had to use both hands to keep hold of it. By the time she'd set the fish down where it couldn't dance its way back over the side Galilee had hoisted himself up out of the water and was standing, dripping wet, just a step or two behind her. I'm sorry, he said, <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> she could start to tell him how angry she was. I didn't realize I was upsetting you. I thought you knew it was all a joke. You mean <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> aren't any sharks? Oh no. There are sharks out <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. And the islanders do say Uliuli kai holo ka mano. But I don't <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> they're talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> real sharks when they say that. What are they talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? Men. Oh I see, Rachel said. When it gets dark, the men come out- -looking for something to eat. He nodded. But you could still have got attacked, she said, if <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are real sharks out <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. They wouldn't have touched me. And why's that? Too tough? He reached out and took hold of her hand, escorting it back toward him, and <a href="http://sabret.100freemb.com/">laying</a> her palm against the middle of his massive chest. His heart was thumping furiously. He felt as though <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was just a single layer of skin between hand and heart; as though if she wanted to she could have reached into his chest and taken hold of it. And now it was she who could smell him. His skin like smoke and burnt coffee; his breath salty. There's a lot of tales <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> sharks, men and gods, he said. More of your true stories? Absolutely true, he replied. I swear. Such as? Well, they come in four varieties. Legends <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> men who are really shape-changing sharks; that's the first. These creatures walk the beaches at night, taking souls; sometimes taking children. Rachel made a face. Doesn't sound like a lot of fun. Then <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are stories <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> men who decided to go into the sea and become sharks. Why would they do that? For the same reason I got myself a boat and sailed away: they were fed up with <a href="http://sadertab.kogaryu.com/">pretending</a>. They wanted to be in the water, always moving. Sharks die if they don't keep moving, did you know that? No… Well they do. So that's number two. Then <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s the one you already know. Kaholia-Kane and his brothers and sisters. Shark gods. Protectors of sailors and ships. There's one in Pearl Harbor, watching over the dead. Her name's Ka'ahupahau. And the greatest of them is called Kuhaimuana. He's thirty fathoms long… Rachel shook her head. Sorry. I don't like any of these stories, she said. That leaves us with just one category. Men who are gods? Rachel said. Galilee nodded. No, I'm not buying that either, she told him. Don't be so quick to judge, Galilee said. Maybe you just haven't met the right man. She laughed. And maybe it's all just stories, she replied. Look, I'm <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> happy to talk <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> sharks and religion tomorrow. But tonight let's just be ordinary people. You make it sound easy, he said. It is, she told him. She moved closer to him, her hand still pressed against his chest. His heart seemed to beat more powerfully still. I don't <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a> what's going on between us, she said, their faces so dose she could feel the heat of his breath. And to be honest I don't really care any more. She kissed him. He was staring at her, unblinking, and continued to stare as he returned her kiss. What do you want to do? he said, very quietly. She slid her other hand down over the hard shallow dome of his stomach, to his sex. Whatever you want, she said, unheeding him. He shuddered. There's so much I need to tell you, he said. <a href="http://domodet.t35.com/">Later</a>. Things you have to know <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> me. <a href="http://domodet.t35.com/">Later</a>. Don't say I didn't try, he said, staring at her with no little severity. I won't. Then let's go downstairs and be ordinary for a while. She led the way. But <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> he followed her he walked back across the deck to where the fish lay, and going down on his haunches, picked it up. She watched his body by the lamplight; the muscles of his back and buttocks, the bunching of his thighs as he squatted down, the dark, laden sac hanging between his legs. He was glorious, she thought; perhaps the most glorious man she'd ever seen. He stood up again-apparently unaware that she was watching him-and seemed to murmur a few words to the dead fish <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> tossing it overboard. What was that <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? she asked him. An offering, he explained. To the shark god. My half brother Galilee was always impatient with other people; it doesn't surprise me that he became tired of <a href="http://sadertab.kogaryu.com/">pretending</a>, as he explained to Rachel. What does surprise me is that he didn't assume that sooner or later he'd find himself p<a href="http://sabret.100freemb.com/">laying</a> that same game with her, and tire of her too. Then again, perhaps he did. Perhaps even at the beginning, now I look at what he said to her more closely, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were contradictions <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. On the one hand he seemed to be infatuated with her-all that sentimental talk <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> staring at the sea when he should have been watching for her-on the other <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> capable of condescension. Samarkand, he dryly explains, is a long way from Ohio, as though she were too parochial to have any knowledge of what lay beyond her immediate experience. It's a wonder she didn't kick him off the jetty. But then I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that from the beginning she understood him-contradictions and all-better than I ever have. And of course she was susceptible to his charms in a way that I'll never be, and perhaps <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>fore more forgiving of his flaws. I'm doing my best to evoke a measure of his allure for you. I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> I caught his voice, and the physical details are right. But it's difficult to go into the sexual business. Describing an act of coitus involving your own sibling feels like a form of literary incest, though I'm certain that my reticence does him an injustice. I haven't, for instance, told you how finely he was made between the legs. But for the record, very finely indeed. So on. For the sake of my blushes, on. There is, as I promised, much more calamity within the Geary family to report, but <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I start into that I want to tell you <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> a little drama here in the Barbarossa household. It happened last night, just as I was midway through describing Rachel and Galilee's encounter on The Samarkand. There was a great din at the other end of the house (and I really mean a cacophony: shouting and thundering enough to shake down a few of the smaller books off my shelves). I couldn't work, of course. I was far too curious. I ventured out into the hallway, and tried to make some sense of the noise. It wasn't difficult. Marietta was one portion of it: when she gets angry she becomes so shrill it makes your head ring, and she was shouting up a storm. Accompanying her complaints-which I could make no real sense of-was the sound of slamming doors, as she apparently raged her way from room to room. But these weren't the only elements in the noise. There was something far more disturbing: a clamor that was like the din of some benighted jungle; a lunatic mingling of chatters and howls. My mother, of course. I'm sorry, my father's wife. (It's strange, and probably significant, that I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> of her as my mother whenever I picture her more peaceful aspects. The warrior Cesaria Yaos is my father's wife.) Anyway, it was she, no doubt. Who else had a voice that could express the rage of a baboon, a leopard and a hippopotamus in one rise and fell swoop? But what was she so furious <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? I wasn't entirely certain I wanted to find out. There was some merit in retreat I thought. But <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I could <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> turn and creep back to my room I saw Marietta running down the hallway, with what appeared to be an armful of garments. You'll recall that the last time we two had spoken we'd parted furious with one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>, she having commented less than favorably on my work. But I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> even if we'd been bosom buddies she would not have halted at that moment. Cesaria's menagerie noises were escalating by the second. As Marietta ducked out of sight, I did what I'd been planning to do ten seconds <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>, and turned around so as to head back to my room. Too late. I'd barely taken a step when the noises ceased all at once, every last howl, only to leave room for Cesaria's other voice; her human voice, which is-I'm sure I've told you-nothing short of mellifluous. Maddox, she said. Shit, I thought. Where are you going? (Isn't it strange, by the way, that we're never too old to feel like errant children? There I was, old by any human standards, frozen in my tracks and guilty as any infant caught with sticky fingers.) I was going back to my work, I said. Then added, Mama, as a sop. It may have mellowed her. Is it going well? she asked me, <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> conversationally. I was sufficiently reassured to turn round and look at her, but she wasn't visible to me. There was just a busy darkness at the far end of the hallway where moments <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'d been a well-lit lobby. I was frankly grateful. I've never actually witnessed the form my mother takes in these legendary furies of hers, but I'm <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> sure it's sufficient to drop a saint in his tracks. It's going okay, I replied. I have days when- Cesaria broke in <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I got any further. Did Marietta go outside? she said. I… yes… yes, I believe she did. Fetch her back. I'm sorry? You're not deaf, Maddox. Go find your sister and bring her back inside. What happened? Just fetch her. (There's <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> second strangeness here, worth remarking on. Just as <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s a guilty child lurking in everyone, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s also a rebellious self that prickles at the idea of being ordered <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>, and is not easily silenced. It was this voice that answered Cesaria back, foolish though it was to do so.) Why can't you go and fetch her yourself? I heard myself saying. I knew I was going to regret the words even as I spoke them. But it was already too late to recant: Cesaria's shadow self was in motion. She was moving-not quickly, but steadily, inevitably-down the hallway toward me. Though the ceiling is not especially high, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was something vast <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> her manifestation; she seemed like a thunderhead at that moment. And I diminished to a fraction of myself <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> her; I was a mote, a sliver- She began to speak as she approached, but every word she uttered seemed <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> to collapse back into that terrible cacophony of hers; as though she was only keeping anarchy at bay with the greatest effort. You, she said remind me I knew what was coming of your father. I don't believe I said anything by way of reply. I was frankly too intimidated. Besides, if I'd tried to speak I doubt my tongue would have worked. I simply stood <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> as she roiled <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> me, and the animal din erupted out of her with fresh ferocity. This time, however, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was a <a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a> to go with the din, not <a href="http://berajer.dreamstation.com/">uncovered</a> by the cloud but seemingly sculpted from it. I had a mercifully short glimpse of it, though I'm certain that had Cesaria not wanted me to be her errand boy she might have given me more. That wasn't to her present purpose, however, so she showed me just enough to make me lose control of my bladder; perhaps three or four seconds' worth, if that. What did I see? It's no use telling you <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are no words. Of course <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are words; <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are always words. The question is: can I wield them well enough to evoke the power of what I witnessed? That I doubt. But let me do my best. I saw, I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>, a woman erupting at every pore and orifice; spewing unfinished forms. Giving birth, I suppose you'd say, expelling not one, nor even ten, but a thousand creatures; ten thousand. And yet here's the problem with that description. It doesn't take account of the fact that at the same time she was becoming-how do I express this?-denser; like certain stars I've read <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>, which as they collapse upon themselves draw light and matter into them. So was she. How did my mind deal with the fact that she was doing two contrary <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>? Not well. In fact the <a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a> did such violence to my system I fell down as though she'd struck me, and covered my head with my hands as though she might get the sight into me again through the top of my skull. She chose to spare me. Just left me lying on the ground in my wet pants, sobbing. It took me a little time to recover my composure, but when I finally raised my head and chanced a look in her direction, I found that the thunder-head was no longer looming over me. She'd covered that furious face of hers and was waiting some little distance from me. I'm sorry… were the first words out of my mouth. No, she said, her voice suddenly drained of either music or strength. It was my fault. You're not a child to be ordered around. It was just that in that moment I saw your father so clearly. May… I… ask you a question? Ask anything, she said, sighing. That face I just saw… What <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it? Did Nicodemus ever see it? Despite her fatigue she was amused by this. There was a hint of a smile in her voice when she replied. Are you asking me if I scared him off? I nodded. Then I'll tell you: that face, as you call it, is what he chiefly loved me for. Really? I must have sounded astonished-as indeed I was-because she replied somewhat defensively: He had aspects that were just as terrible. Yes I know. Of course you know. You saw some of what he could do. But that wasn't all he was, I said. Just as what you saw a moment ago isn't all of me. But it's the truest part, isn't it? I said. Under other circumstances I surely wouldn't have pressed her on this business so closely, but I knew the chances of my having the freedom to interrogate her like this again were nil. If I was to know who Cesaria Yaos was <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> the house of Barbarossa came crashing down, it was now or never. The truest part? she said. No. I don't <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> I have one face that's truer than any other. I used to be <a href="http://akilam.100webspace.net/">worship</a>ped in dozens of temples, you know. I know. They're all heaps of rubble now. <a href="http://bertpoka.k2free.com/">Nobody</a> remembers how I was loved… Her voice trailed off. She'd apparently lost her point. What was I saying? <a href="http://bertpoka.k2free.com/">Nobody</a> remembering. Before that. All the temples- Oh yes. So many temples, with statues and embroideries, all depicting me. But not one of them resembled any other. How do you know? Because I visited them, she said. When your father and I had a spat we'd go our separate ways for a while. He'd go find himself some poor woman to seduce, and I'd go touring my holy sites. It's comforting when you're feeling a little woebegone. Hard to imagine. What? Me, woebegone? Oh I can be self-pitying, just like anybody else. No. I meant it's hard to imagine how it must feel, going into a temple where you're being <a href="http://akilam.100webspace.net/">worship</a>ped. Oh it can be wonderful. Wandering among your devotees. Were you ever tempted to tell them who you were? I did it many, many times. I usually picked somebody who wasn't a particularly reliable witness. The very old. The very young. Somebody with a sanity problem, or a saint, which is often one and the same. Why do that? Why not show yourself to somebody literate, intelligent? Somebody who could spread your gospel? Somebody like you? If you like. Is that what your book's going to be: one last desperate attempt to put your father and me back up on our pedestals? What did she want to hear from me? I wondered. And if I chose incorrectly, would I be subjected to her fury again? Is that what you're up to, Maddox? I decided on the truth. No, I said, I'm simply telling the story as best I can. And this conversation? Will it be in your book? I'll put it in if it seems relevant. There was a silence. Finally, she said: Well, I suppose it doesn't matter whether you do or you don't. Stories; temples. Who cares nowadays? You're going to have fewer readers than I have <a href="http://akilam.100webspace.net/">worship</a>pers, Maddox. I don't have to be read to be a writer, I pointed out. And I don't have to be <a href="http://akilam.100webspace.net/">worship</a>ped to be a goddess. But it helps. Believe me, it helps. She made a phantom smile, and I-to my great surprise-returned it. We understood one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> better at that moment than we ever had. So, now… Marietta. One more question, I begged. No, enough. Please, Mama. Just one. For the book. One then. And only one. Did my father have temples? He certainly did. Where were they? That's <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> question, Maddox. But, as you're so curious… The finest of his temples to my way of <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing was in Paris. Really? Paris. I thought Nicodemus hated Paris. <a href="http://domodet.t35.com/">Later</a>, he did. It's where I met Mr. Jefferson, you see. I didn't know that. There's a great deal <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> that man you don't know; that the world doesn't know. I could tell you enough <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> him to fill five books. He was such a charmer. But quiet… so quiet when he talked that you had to strain to hear him. I remember the first time I met him he'd just been given an apricot, which he'd never tasted <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>. And oh, the blissful look on that pinched face of his! I wanted him to make love to me on the spot. Did he? Oh no. He played very hard to get. He was in love with an English actress at the time. What a wretched combination that was: English and an actress. The worst of all possible worlds. Anyway, Thomas toyed with my affections for weeks. There was a revolution going on around us, but I swear I was so besotted with him I barely noticed. Heads being lopped off every hour and I was wandering around in an adolescent daze trying to find a way to make this scrawny little American diplomat love me. How did you do it? I'm not sure I ever did. If I were to raise him up now, out of his grave at Monticello, and say to him: did you love me? I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> he'd say, at best, for a day or two, an hour or two, that afternoon you showed me the temple. You took him to my father's temple? Every woman knows if you fail to get the man you want with words, you show him a sacred place. She laughed. Usually it's the one between your legs. Don't look so shocked, Maddox. It's a fact of life. If a woman's going to get a man on his knees, she has to give him something to <a href="http://akilam.100webspace.net/">worship</a>. But I knew raising my skirts for Jefferson wasn't going to be chough. He'd had that from his tarty little actress, Miss Cosway. I had to show him something that she could never supply. So I took him to your father's temple. What happened? He was very impressed. He asked me how I knew <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the place. It was a very secret cult your father had at that time. Noble families, mostly. And of course they'd either fled or lost their heads. So the temple was deserted. We wandered around while the mobs raged on the streets outside, and I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>-just for that little while-he was <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> in love. I remember he asked me who'd designed the place, and I took him to the altar, where <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was a statue of your father. It had a red velvet doth draped over it. And I said to Jefferson: <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I show you this, will you promise me something? He said yes, of course, if it was in his power. So I said to him: design me a house, where I can live happily, because it'll remind me of you. So that's how you got him to design you this place? I made him swear. On his wife. On his dreams of Monti-cello. On his dearest hopes for democracy. I made him swear on them all. You didn't trust him? Not remotely. So he swore- -and I <a href="http://berajer.dreamstation.com/">uncovered</a> your father's statue. There he was in all his tumescent glory! Again she laughed. Oh, Thomas was the very picture of discomfort. But to be fair to him, he kept his aplomb and asked me, with great seriousness, if the representation was a true and proportionate likeness. I reassured him that it was an exaggeration, though not much of one. I remember exactly what he said to that. Then I am certain, ma'am, you are a very contented wife.' Ha! 'A very contented wife.' I showed him how contented I was, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> and then. With your father's painted eyes looking down at us, I showed Jefferson how little I cared for marriage. We never did it again. I didn't really want to, and I'm <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> certain he didn't. His affair with the actress ended in tears, and he went back to his wife. But he built you your house, just as he promised he would. Oh he did more than that, she said. He also built a perfect copy of the temple. Perfect down to the last detail. Why? That's <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> question for his ghost. I don't know. He was a strange man. Beautiful <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> obsessed him. And the temple was beautiful. Did he put an altar in it? Do you mean did he have a statue of your father? I wouldn't be surprised. Where was this place? Where is it, you mean. It's still standing? I believe so. It's one of the best kept secrets in Washington. Washington… The thought that <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was a place of ritual sacred to my perpetually priapic father laid in the heart of the nation's capitol astonished me. I want to see it, I said. I'll write a letter of introduction, Cesaria said. To whom? She smiled. To the highest in the land. I'm not entirely forgotten, she said. Jefferson made certain I would never want for influence. So he knew you'd outlive him? Oh yes, he understood perfectly, though he never put what he knew into words. I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that would have been too much for him. Mother… you astonish me. Do I really? she said, with something approximating fondness in her voice. Well I'm pleased to hear it. She shook her head. Enough of this, she said. I'm <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> talked out. She pointed at me. And you be careful how you quote me, she said. I won't have my past misrepresented, even if it is in a book that nobody's going to read. So saying, she turned her back on me, and calling her porcupines to follow, she headed off down the passageway. I called after her: What do you want me to do <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Marietta? Nothing, she growled. Let her play. She'll regret what she's done. Maybe not tonight, but soon. While I was pleased to be relieved of the duty of going after Marietta, I was left somewhat curious as to the felony my half sister had committed. Indeed I was tempted to seek her out and ask her for myself. But I had such a wonderful freight of information from Cesaria, and I didn't want to risk forgetting a word of it. So I went straight back to my room, lit the lamps, poured myself some gin, and started to set it down. I paused only once, to reflect on what it might mean that Thomas Jefferson, the principal architect of the Declaration, the father of democracy in America, should have built a replica of my father's temple. To have gone to all that <a href="http://szrkzrxks.deep-ice.com/">trouble</a> in pursuit of beauty seemed to me unlikely. Which begged two questions: one, why had he done it? And two, if <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was some other purpose, did anybody on Capitol Hill know what it was? I will revisit Marietta's theft in due course; be assured of that. There are several threads of this tapestry woven together in her crime as you'll see. And-just as Cesaria <a href="http://werpikas.fortunecity.com/">predicted</a>-<a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> would be consequences. But first, I must return to The Samarkand, and the pair who'd passed the night upon it. When Rachel woke, dawn was creeping into the tiny cabin, and by its virtuous light she saw Galilee asleep at her side, one arm thrown over his face, the other across her body. Comforted by the sight, she dosed her eyes and went back to sleep. When she stirred again, he was gently stroking her breasts, kissing her face. Still only half-awake she slid her hand down between their bodies and raised her leg a little to guide him into her. He murmured something against her cheek that she didn't catch, but she was in too dreamy a state to ask him to repeat it. All she wanted was the fullness of him inside her; his gentle motion, his touch. She didn't even need to see him: he was <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> in her mind's eye when she closed her lids; her perfect lover, who'd brought her more sexual pleasure in one night than she'd experienced in all the years preceding it. She reached out and touched his chest, his nipples, then to his armpit and the mass of his shoulder, luxuriating in the polished muscle beneath her fingertips. One of his huge hands was at her face, stroking her with the back of his fingers, the other down between her legs, parting her, easing the passage of his sex by spreading her fluids down its length. She made a little sob of pleasure when he was fully housed; begged him to stay <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. He didn't move. Just kept his place, her body enclosing him so tightly she could feel the tick of his blood. At last, she began to move; just a tiny motion at first, but enough to send a shudder through him. You like that? she whispered. He replied with a short expulsion of air, almost a grunt, as he pressed his sex back into her, and the next instant withdrew it almost entirely. She let him do so without protest; the emptiness was delicious, as long as she knew it was only temporary. She reached up and put her arms around his neck, knotting her fingers at the base of his skull. Then, oh so slowly, she preempted his return stroke by raising her hips toward his. He spoke again. This time she heard what he said. Oh Lord in heaven… Slowly, slowly, she took him into her, both of them tender from a night of excesses; the line between bliss and discomfort perilously fine. As she rose he started down to meet her motion, and the image of him she'd had in her mind's eye lost its particularity, his substance dissolved in the wash of pleasure. The gleaming darkness of his limbs spread behind her lids, filling her thoughts completely. He was quickening now. She urged him on, her urges incoherent. No matter; he understood. She didn't need to tell him when to redirect his pressure, she'd no sooner formed the thought than he was doing so. And <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> he lost control of his body and came, she was distracting him from his crisis, slowing her own motion so as not to have their pleasure end too quickly. So it went on, for two hours, almost three: sometimes a contest-jabs and sobbing; sometimes so quiet, so still, they might almost have been asleep in one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>'s arms. They made no declarations of love; at least nothing audible. They didn't even speak, not even to call out one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>'s name. There was no failure of feeling in this; just the reverse. They were so entirely immersed in one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>, so entirely joined in their bliss, that for a short, sacred time they imagined themselves indivisible. Not so, of course. The illusion passed when their bodies had been wracked to exhaustion. They lay beside one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> shivering in their sweat, gloriously satisfied, but returned into their own skins. I'm hungry, Rachel said. They hadn't gone entirely without sustenance <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> boarding The Samarkand. Though Galilee had returned the fish to the sea as an offering to Kuhaimuana-all thirty fathoms of him-he'd opened cans of shucked oysters and brandied peaches in the middle of the night, which they'd eaten off and out of one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>'s bodies, so that the satisfying of one appetite didn't interrupt the satisfying of the other. Still, it was now midmorning, and her stomach was complaining. We can be back on land in an hour, Galilee said. I don't want to go, Rachel replied. I never want to go. I want to stay out here, just the two of us… People would come looking, he said. You're still a Geary. We'd find somewhere to hide, she said. People disappear all the time, and they're never found. I have a house… You do? In a tiny village in Chile, called Puerto Bueno. It's right at the top of the hill. A view of the harbor. Parakeets in the trees. Let's go <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>, she said. Galilee laughed. I'm serious, she said. I know you are. We could have children… The amusement left his face. I don't <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that'd be wise, he said. Why not? Because I'd be no use as a father. How do you know? she said, putting her hand over his. You might find out you really liked it. Bad fathers run in our family, Galilee said. Or rather, one does. One bad father out of how many? One out of one, he said. She thought he'd misunderstood what she was saying. No, I mean, what <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> your grandfathers? There aren't any. You mean they're dead. No, I mean <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> aren't any. There never were. She laughed. Don't be silly. Your mother and father had parents. They might have been dead <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> you were born, but- They had no parents, Galilee said, taking his eyes off her. Believe me. There was something faintly intimidating <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the way he said believe me. It wasn't an invitation, it was a command. He didn't wait to see if she'd obey it or not; he just got up and started to dress. It's time we went back, he said. People'll be looking for you. Let them look, she said, sliding her arms around him from behind, and pressing her body against him. We don't have to go yet; I want to talk; I want to get to know you better. There'll be other times, he said, moving away from her to pick up his shirt. Will <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>? she said. Of course, he replied, not turning back to look at her. What was it I said that offended you? You haven't said anything, he replied. I just <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> we should get back, that's all. Last night- He stopped buttoning his shirt. Was wonderful, he said. So stop being like this, she said, irritation creeping into her voice. I'm sorry if I talked out of turn. It was just a joke. He sighed. No it wasn't. You meant it or you wouldn't have said it. You'd like to have children… Yes, she said, I would. And I'd like to have them with you. We scarcely know one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>, he replied, and started up the stairs to the deck. She went after him, angry now. What <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what you said on the beach? she demanded. About watching for me? Was that just a way to get me here? She followed him up the stairs. By the time she got on deck he was sitting on the narrow bench beside the wheel, his face in his hands. Is that all this was <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? she said to him. And now we've had the night together you're just going to move on? He kept his face buried. From the sound of his voice, he might have been dead. I meant nothing by any of this, he said. I just got caught up in the moment, and that wasn't fair to you. It wasn't fair. I thought you understood… Understood what? That this was just <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> story, he replied. Look at me, she said. He didn't move; his face remained hidden from her. Look at me and say that! she demanded. With great reluctance he looked up at her. His face was gray; so was the expression in his eyes. I meant nothing by any of this, he said steadily. I thought you understood this was just <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> story. Her eyes pricked, she heard the whine of the blood in her ears. How could he be saying this? Her <a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a> began to blur as the tears came. How could he sit <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> and tell her it was all just a game, when they both knew, they both knew, surely, surely, that something wonderful had happened? You're a liar, she said. That may be. You know it's not true! It's as true as any story I ever told you, he said, looking down at the deck. She wanted to quote him back at himself on the subject of what was true and what was not, but she couldn't remember the argument he'd made. All she could <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> was: he's running away from me. I'm never going to see him again. It was unbearable. Ten minutes ago, they'd been talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> his house on the hilltop. Now he was telling her nothing he'd said was worth a damn. Liar, she said again. Liar, liar, liar. He got up and went into the wheelhouse, not looking at her once. He switched on the engine, and then flipped the switch to haul up the anchor. Between engine and anchor-raising <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> a noise; any further conversation was out of the question. Frustrated, Rachel went below to dress. The cabin was in total disarray, the pillows and sheets cast in every direction <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the bed, her clothes scattered. She focused her <a href="http://torkas.200u.com/">emotion</a>s on a missing shoe for a minute or two, which kept the tears from coming again. By the time she'd found the shoe and got herself dressed, the weepy feeling had passed, and she was almost ready to have a rational conversation. Shoes on, she went back up on deck. The boat was ploughing through the placid waters at <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> a clip, the wind cold and bracing. Look! Galilee yelled to her, pointing toward the bow. She could see nothing. Go see! he urged her. She climbed up past the wheelhouse and onto the forward deck to see what he was so anxious she see. There was a pod of dolphins keeping pace with The Samarkand, three or four of them racing to stay so close to the bow they were practically touching it, their bodies like velvet torpedoes as they sped along. Now and then a smaller individual-a juvenile, she supposed-leaped out of the water to one side of the boat or the other, the leaps decorated with a fillip of the tail or a half-twist of the body. She glanced back at Galilee to show her appreciation, but he had his eyes on the island. There were rain clouds obscuring the heights of Mount Waialeale, as <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> had been the first day she'd arrived. It was just a short time <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> she'd been driving with Jimmy Hornbeck and they'd had their conversation <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Mammon, the demon of acquisitiveness; but it seemed like weeks. No; more than weeks: <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> life. She'd been a different Rachel then; she'd been a Rachel who hadn't known Galilee was in the world. For better or <a href="http://kertimaf.freehostnow.org/">worse</a>, that changed <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a>. The jetty had an occupant when they came in sight of it: a solitary figure sitting staring out at the sea. Rachel assumed the man was fishing, and paid him little attention. It wasn't until The Samarkand was within a few boatlengths of its destination that she studied the figure more closely and realized that it was Niolopua, He'd risen now and was waiting at the end of the jetty, plainly agitated. Before the boat had even come alongside the jetty he leapt aboard. He took no notice of his father; it was Rachel he needed to talk to; and urgently. There have been messages for you, he said, from New York. About what? The woman wouldn't say-. She just told me to find you. Very important, she said. I've been looking for you <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> dawn. Who was it you were talking to? Mrs. Geary. Yes, but which Mrs. Geary? Was it Margaret? The man shook his head. Loretta? It was Loretta? The old one? Niolopua said. Before Rachel could confirm that yes, Loretta was the old one, Galilee had done it for her. And she didn't tell you what it was <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? No. Just that… this Mrs. Geary had to call as soon as possible, because <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was something she had to know. Cadmus, Rachel said. The old man was dead, more than likely. Come with me, she said to Galilee. Niolopua can go with you. I'll follow. You promise me? she said. Of course. We need to talk. I know. I <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a>. I'll come in a while. Let me just take care of the boat. It was hard not to look back as she and Niolopua returned to the house; hard not to fear that Galilee was lying to her, and that the moment she was out of sight he'd cast off and sail away. But she had to have some faith, she told herself. If she didn't believe the promise he'd made her, then <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was no hope for them. And if he broke that promise, then <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'d been no hope anyway. Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks which divided one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would be out of sight of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just one glance over her shoulder and confirm that he was still <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. She resisted successfully, but the effort of doing so must have been visible to Niolopua because once they were down on the sand again, with the house almost in view, he said: Don't worry. He'll come. She glanced sideways at him. Is it that obvious? Niolopua shrugged. He's who he is. You're who you are. What's that supposed to mean? That he won't break his promise. It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a few moments, that she realized how she'd lost some of her equilibrium from being on board The Samarkand. The floor felt <a href="http://7347357.imess.net/">unreliable</a> beneath her bare soles, and she felt oddly queasy: a strange reversal of seasickness. She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face, then asked Niolopua if he'd mind making her some hot, sweet tea while she called New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the relative privacy of the dining room and dialed the mansion, wondering as she did so how to best express her condolences. Would Loretta expect her to be tearful at the news? Surely not. The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she recognized: a man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a heavy cold. She asked for Loretta. Mrs. Geary can't come to the phone right now. Who is this? Rachel told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic-the way she felt when an elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop. The prospect of entrapment loomed. I had a message from Loretta, Rachel said. Yes. I know. Who was that I was talking to? A detective. What's going on? It's Margie… What <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> her? There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: She's dead, Rachel. Somebody shot her dead. The elevator lurched a second time. Oh God, Mitch… They're saying Garrison did it, Mitchell went on. But that's just bullshit. He was set up. It's just bullshit. When did it happen? Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off. Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie. You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you. I don't know anything. You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something- I don't want to come back, Mitchell. What are you talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>? For the first time in the exchange <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was some <a href="http://torkas.200u.com/">emotion</a> in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief. You've got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway? It's none of your business. You're out on that <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> island, aren't you? he said, his tone all anger now. You <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> we don't know <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> that place? You <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> it's some big secret? I know what goes on out <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. You don't have the first clue, she said, hoping he heard the certainty in her voice. If you don't come back, the police are going to come looking for you. Is that what you want? Don't try bullying me. It won't work any more. Rachel. I'll call you back. Don't hang up. She hung up. You bastard, she said quietly. Then, more quietly still: Poor Margie. Something bad? Niolopua said. He was at the door with her cup of hot tea. Very bad, she said. He brought the tea to her table and set it down. My sister-in-law was murdered last night. How? She was shot. By… her own husband. She was <a href="http://sabret.100freemb.com/">laying</a> all this out more for her own benefit than for Niolopua's; putting what was nearly beyond belief into words. Do you want me to go tell my father? Yes, Rachel said, if you don't mind. Would you ask him to hurry up? Tell him I need him here. Is <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> anything else <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> I go? No, thank you. I'm sorry, he said. She was a nice woman. So saying, he left her alone. She took a few sips of tea, which Niolopua had sweetened with honey, then got up and went to the cabinet. If her memory served she'd seen a half-emptied <a href="http://mydomdrug.hostse.com/">carton</a> of cigarettes in one of the drawers. That's what she needed right now: a bitter lungful of carcinogenic smoke inhaled in memory of her Margie. Several lungfuls, in fact, and fuck the consequences. The <a href="http://mydomdrug.hostse.com/">carton</a> was where she'd hoped it was, but <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were no matches. Taking her tea and the cigarettes, she went through to the kitchen. The vestiges of her land-sickness remained; not the queasiness, but the unsettling sense that the ground beneath her was rocking. She found some matches and went out to sit in the veranda, where she could watch for Galilee. The cigarette tasted stale, but she smoked it anyway, <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing of the countless times she'd sat happily immersed in the cloud of smoke that hung <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Margie, talking with happy purposelessness. If the victim had been somebody else, Margie would have been thoroughly entranced, she knew; eager to talk over every possible scenario of how the murder had come <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>. She'd had no sense of tragedy, she'd told Rachel once. Tragedy only happened to people who gave a damn, and she'd never met anybody who did. Rachel had said this was nonsense. Amongst all the important people Margie had rubbed shoulders with <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'d been some who genuinely wanted to make a <a href="http://sarkzry.undonet.com/">difference</a>. Not a one, Margie had replied; cheats, liars and thieves, every last one. Rachel remembered the conversation not for Margie's cynicism, but because <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> had been such disappointment in her voice as she spoke. Somewhere behind the veil <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'d been a woman who'd wanted nothing more than to be proved wrong <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what wretched bastards the movers and shakers of the world were. Which thought led on, inevitably, to Garrison, <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> whom Margie had never said one good word. According to her he'd been-among other <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>-selfish, pompous and inept in bed. But these were minor felonies beside the crime of which he was now accused; and it was difficult for Rachel to imagine any circumstances in which he would pick up a gun and shoot his own wife. Yes, it seemed they'd despised one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>; but they'd lived in a state of mutual contempt for years. It didn't make him a murderer. If he'd wanted an end to the marriage, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were easier resolutions. She turned over what Mitchell had said, <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> coming home of her own volition, or having the police come and fetch her. It was nonsense, surely. She plainly wasn't a suspect, so any information she could supply would be purely anecdotal. If they needed to talk to her, they could do it by phone. She didn't have to go back if she didn't want to; and she didn't want to. Especially now, with so much to work out between Galilee and herself. She'd finished her cigarette by now, and had almost finished her tea. Rather than sit on the veranda she decided to go back inside and change into fresh clothes. She picked up some cookies on her way through the kitchen, and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror-her skin flushed from wind and sun-that she realized how strangely calm she felt. Was she simply too stunned by all that had happened in the last few hours to respond to it? Why wasn't she weeping? Her best friend was dead, for God's sake, and here she was staring at herself out of the mirror without a tear shed. She looked hard at her reflection, as though it might speak back to her and solve this mystery; but her face showed her nothing. She went to the shower, and turned it on, shedding her clothes where she stood. The flow of water was weak, but she luxuriated in it nevertheless, remembering Galilee's touches as she sluiced off her salted skin. His hands on her face, her breasts, her belly, his tongue at play between her legs. She wanted him again, now. Wanted him to be whispering to her the way he'd whispered that first night: a story of water and love. She'd even take a tale of sharks if that was what he felt like telling. She was in the mood to be devoured. Taking her leisurely time, she washed her hair and then rinsed the remaining soap from her body. She'd neglected to bring a towel from the rack, so she stepped out of the shower soaking wet, and <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> he was, standing in the doorway, looking at her. Her first instinct was to cover her nakedness, but the way he was looking at her made the idea nonsensical. There was nothing salacious in his stare; the expression he wore was almost childlike in its simplicity. His eyes were wide, his face almost slack. So now they're killing their own, he murmured. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. He shook his head. This is the beginning of the end, Rachel. What do you mean? My brother Lurnan <a href="http://werpikas.fortunecity.com/">predicted</a> all this. He knew <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was going to be a murder? Murder's the least of it. Margie was a sad creature, and she's probably better off- Don't say that. It's true. We both know it's true. I loved Margie. I'm sure you did. So don't say she's better off dead, because that's not right, that's not true. <a href="http://bertpoka.k2free.com/">Nobody</a> could have healed her. She'd been swimming in that poison for too long. So I shouldn't care that she's dead? Oh no, I'm not saying that. Of course you should care. Of course you should mourn. But don't expect any justice to be done. The police already have her husband. They won't have him for long. Another of your brother's predictions? No, that one's mine, he said. Garrison'll walk away from what he did. He's a Geary. They always find someone else to blame. How do you know so much <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> them? They're the enemy, he said simply. So what makes me any different? Rachel said. I've been swimming in the poison too. He nodded. I know, he said. I tasted it. She was reminded of her nakedness as he spoke. It was no accident; as he spoke of tasting the poison his eyes had left her face. Gone to her breasts; to her sex. Will you pass me a towel? she said to him. He dutifully took the largest of the towels off the rack. She reached out to take it from him, but rather than pass it over he said, Please, let me… and, opening the towel, he pressed it against her body and began to dry her. Despite the prickly exchanges they'd had of late-first in the boat, now here-she was instantly comforted by his attentions; the intimacy of his touch muted by the plushness of the towel, but all the more teasing for the fact. When he dried her breasts she couldn't keep herself from sighing appreciatively. That feels nice, she said. Yes? Yes… He drew her a little closer, carefully drying beneath her breasts, then making his way down towards her groin. When will you go back to New York? he asked her. She had some <a href="http://szrkzrxks.deep-ice.com/">trouble</a> concentrating on the question; even more formulating an answer. I don't see… any reason why I should. I thought she was a friend of yours. She was. But I'm no use to her now. I'm better off here, with you. I know that's what Margie would tell me. She'd say: you've got something that gives you pleasure, hold on to it. And I've given you pleasure? You know you have, she purred. Good, he said, with a kind of forced brightness, as though the idea was in equal measure pleasing and troubling to him. His hands were between her legs now. She took hold of the towel and pulled it away. Let's go to the bedroom, she said. No, he said. Here, and suddenly his fingers were inside her, and he was pressing her against the wall, his mouth on hers. He tasted strange, almost acidic; and the way he stroked her was far from tender. There was suddenly something ungainly <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> all of this. She wanted to call a halt, but she was afraid of driving him away. He was unbuckling his pants now, pressing himself so hard against her she could barely draw breath. Wait… she said to him. Please. Slow down. He didn't heed her. If anything his behavior became more frenzied. He pushed her legs open. She felt his erection jabbing at her, like something blind, poking around for its bed. She told herself to relax; to trust him. He'd made the most extraordinary love to her last night; he understood the signals her body was putting out better than any man she'd ever been with. So why did she want to push him away now? Why did it hurt when he got inside her? What had seemed like a wonderful fullness a few hours <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> now made her want to cry out. There was no pleasure in this; none. She couldn't govern her instincts any longer. She closed her mouth against his kisses, and put her hands on his chest to push him away. I don't like this, she said. He ignored her. He was buried deep in her, to the root, his cock brutally rigid, his hips grinding against hers. No, she said. No! Will you please get off me! Now she pushed him as hard as she could, but his body was too strong, his erection was too implacable: she was pinned against the wall. Galilee, she said, trying to look into his eyes. You're hurting me. Listen to me! You're hurting me. Was it the fact that she was shouting now, her words echoing around the tiled walls, that roused him out of his stupor? Or was he simply bored with his own cruelty, as his body language seemed to suggest? He pushed himself off and out of her like someone leaving a dining table because the food didn't suit them, his expression one of mild distaste. Get out of here, she told him. He retreated a step or two, still not looking at her, then turned and crossed to the door. She hated <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> him at that moment-his idling gait, the way he glanced down at his erection, the little smile she caught in the mirror as he slipped through the door. She closed it after him, then listened as he made his way through the house. Only when she heard the sound of the French window opened, and then being slammed as he exited, did she go to her clothes and start to dress. By the time she ventured out into the house he'd disappeared. Niolopua was sitting on the lawn watching the ocean. She went out onto the veranda, and called to him. You had an argument? he said. She nodded. He didn't even speak to me. He just went down onto the beach, looking like thunder. Will you stay here for a little while? I don't want him coming back. I'll stay, if it makes you feel more comfortable, but I'm sure he's not coming back. Thank you, she said. He'll set sail now, Niolopua said. You'll see. I don't care what he does as long as he stays the hell away from me, she said. Just as Niolopua had <a href="http://werpikas.fortunecity.com/">predicted</a>, Galilee didn't come back. The day waned, and Rachel stayed in the house, feeling drained of any energy or desire, eating a little, drinking a little, but getting pleasure from nothing. As she'd requested Niolopua kept his watch on the lawn, coming to the veranda once to ask for a beer, otherwise leaving her alone. The telephone rang several times, but she didn't pick up. It was probably Mitch, or perhaps Loretta, trying to persuade her to go back home. In fact, <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> Galilee's leaving, she'd started to <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that returning to New York was not such a bad idea. Certainly staying here in the house would not be wise; she'd only brood on <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>. Better to go back to the family, where at least she understood her feelings. After the <a href="http://torkas.200u.com/">emotion</a>al chaos of the last few days <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> would be something bracingly plain <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> being among the Gearys. They were hateful, it was as simple as that. No confusion, no ambiguity, no kisses one moment and brutality the next. Maybe she'd just get drunk and stay that way, like Margie; pronounce against the world from behind her funeral veil. It wasn't a very pretty prospect, but what did she have left? This island had been a last resort: a place to heal herself; to watch the <a href="http://edheer.free.futureweb.be/">miraculous</a> at play. But it had failed her. She was left empty-handed. As the last of the light was going out of the sky she heard Niolopua calling her name, and went out onto the veranda to find him standing at the bottom of the lawn pointing out to sea. There was The Samarkand. Even though its sails were little more than white specks against the darkening blue, Rachel knew without a doubt it was Galilee's vessel. For an aching moment she imagined herself on deck with him, looking back at the island from the sea. The stars coming out overhead; the bed below, waiting for them. She indulged the romance for a moment only, then told herself to stop it. Even so, she couldn't turn her back on the ocean; not until he'd gone. She watched the boat get smaller and smaller, until at last it was utterly eroded by distance and darkness. Only then did she look away. So that's the end of it, she thought. The man she'd fleet-ingly imagined might be her prince had gone. And what a perfect departure he'd made, carried away by the tide; who knew where? Still she didn't weep. Her prince was gone, and she didn't weep. Yes, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was regret. Of course <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was regret. However long she lived, she'd never stop wondering what would have happened if she'd better navigated the shoals of his nature; wonder what kind of life they might have had together in his house on the hill. But <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was something else besides regret: <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was anger. That, she finally decided, was what kept the tears from coming: her fury at the way life piled hurt on hurt.. It dried her eyes the moment they moistened. Margie's methodology had been much the same, hadn't it? By turning spite into an art form, by pronouncing loudly on the meaninglessness of life, Margie kept herself functioning. That's how <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> would have to be for Rachel from now oh. She'd have to learn to be just like Margie. God help them both. So Galilee sailed away; I cannot tell you where. If this were a different kind of book I might well invent the details of his route, culled from books and maps. But in doing so I would be trading on your ignorance; assuming you wouldn't notice if I failed to get the details right. It's better I admit the truth: Galilee sailed away, and I don't know where he went. When I dose my eyes, and wait for an image of him to come I usually find him sitting on the rolling deck of The Samarkand looking less than happy with his lot. But though I've searched the horizon for some due as to his where<a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>s I see only the wastes of the ocean. To an eye more canny than mine perhaps <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> are dues even here, but I'm no sailor. To me, one seascape looks much like the next. I will confess that I tried to apply what I thought would be simple logic to the question. I took down from the shelves several maps I'd been given over the years (the older ones may even have belonged to Galilee himself; long <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> he left to wander the world, he loved to trace imaginary journeys) and having spread them out on the floor of my study I walked among them with a book on celestial navigation in one hand and a volume on tides and currents in the other, trying to plot the likeliest course for The Samarkand to have taken. But the challenge defeated me. I set his course north past the island (that much I remember seeing, through Rachel's eyes); I began to calculate the prevailing winds at that time, and set The Samarkand <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> them, but I became hopelessly distracted by the very charts that were supposed to be anchoring my imagination. They were, as I said, old charts; made at a time when knowledge was not so vigorously (some would say calamitously) divided from the pleasures of fancy. The makers of these maps had seen nothing wrong with adding a few decorative touches here and <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>: filigreed beasts that rose out of the painted ocean to foam at passing ships; flights of windy angels poised at every quarter, with streaming hair and trumpeters' cheeks; even a great squid on one of the maps with eyes like twin furnaces and tentacles (so the note informed me) the length of six clippers. In the midst of such wonders, my pathetic attempts at rational projections went south. I left off my calculations and sat in the midst of the maps like a man trading in such <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>, waiting for a buyer. Galilee had been in love <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>, of course, and survived to tell the tale. But he'd only once <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> been in love with a Geary, and that made all the <a href="http://sarkzry.undonet.com/">difference</a> in the world. Loving a woman who belonged in the family of your enemy wasn't wise; <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were plenty of tragedies that testified to that. And in his experience love always ended up a bitter business. Sweet for a time yes, but never for long enough to justify the consequences: the weeks of self-recrimination, the months of lost sleep, the years of loneliness. Every time a romance ended, he'd tell himself that he'd never fall again. He'd stay out at sea, where he was safe from his own appetites. What did he want from love anyway? A mate or a hiding place? Both perhaps. And yet hadn't he raged again and again against the witless contentment of his animal self, smug in its nest, in its ease, in the comfort of its own dirt? He hated that part of himself: the part that wanted to be wrapped in the arms of some beloved; that asked to be hushed and sung to and forgiven. What stupidity! But even as he railed against it, fled it, out to sea, he shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead, now that love was gone again. Not just the loneliness and the sleepless nights, but the horror of being out in the fierce, hard light that burned over him, set <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> by his own divinity. As he guided The Samarkand out into the ocean currents, he wondered how many more times he'd be able to sail away <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> the toll of partings became intolerable. Perhaps this was the last. That wouldn't be such a terrible oath to take: to swear that after Rachel <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'d be no more seductions, no more breaking of hearts. It would be his mark of respect to her, though she'd never know he'd made it: to say that after her <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> would only be the sea. That said, he couldn't readily put the woman from his mind. He sat out on deck through the night, while The Samarkand was carried further and further from land, <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what had passed between them. How she'd looked, lying in the carved bed that first night; how she'd talked to him as he told the story of Jerusha and the river-man, asking questions, prodding him to make the story better, finer, deeper. How she'd imitated the child bride while she lay <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>, pulling the sheet off her body to show herself to him; and how exquisite that sight had been. How they'd touched; how he thought of her all the time they were parted, wondering whether to risk bringing her on board the boat. He'd never let a woman set foot on The Samarkand <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>, <a href="http://ferasdy.freewebhostx.com/">holding</a> to ancient superstition on the matter. But her presence made such fears seem nonsensical. What boat would not be blessed to have such a creature tread its boards? So, Galilee sailed away, and-as I said-I don't know where he wandered. I do know where he ended up, however. After three weeks The Samarkand put into the little harbor at Puerto Bueno. There had been storms all along that coast earlier in the month, and the town had taken a severe battering. Several houses close to the quay, repeatedly assaulted by waves breaking over the harbor wall, had been damaged; and one had collapsed entirely, killing the widow who'd lived <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. But Galilee's house at the top of the hill was virtually unharmed, and it was here he returned, climbing the steep streets of the town without speaking to anyone he encountered, though he knew them all, and they all knew him. The roof of the Higgins house had leaked during the storms, and the place smelled damp. There was mildew everywhere; and much of the furniture in the upper rooms had begun to rot. He didn't care. There was nothing here that mattered to him. Any vague dreams he might have once entertained of bringing a companion here, and living a kind of ordinary life, now seemed foolish; laughable. What a perfect waste of time, to indulge dreams of domesticity. By chance the weather brightened the day after he appeared-which fact did nothing to harm his reputation as a man of power among the townspeople-but the scene from the windows of his house-the clouds steadily sculpted to nothingness by the wind, the sea glittering in the sun-gave him no pleasure. He'd seen it all <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>. This, and every other glory. There was nothing new to watch for; no surprises left in earth or heaven. He could close his eyes forever, and pass away without regret, knowing he'd seen the best of <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a>. Oh, and the worst. He'd seen the worst, over and over again. He wandered from one stagnant room to the next, and up the stairs and down; and everywhere he went, he saw <a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a>s of <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> he wished he'd never witnessed. Some of them had seemed like brave sights at the time. In his youth, bloody business had excited him; why did its echoes now come to bruise him the way they did? Why when he lay down on the mildewed bed did he remember a whorehouse in Chicago, where he'd chased down two men and slaughtered them like the cattle they made such profit from? Why, after all these years, did he remember how one of them had made a little speech as he lay dying, and thanked his murderer for the ease of it all? Why when he sat down to empty his bowels did his mind conjure up a yellow dog, which had shit itself in terror, seeing its master with his throat cut on the Starrs, and Galilee sitting at the bottom of the flight, drinking the dead man's champagne? And why, when he tried to sleep-not in the bed but on the threadbare sofa in the living room-did he remember a rainy February night and a man who had no better reason to die than that he'd crossed the will of one mightier, and he, Galilee, no better reason to commit murder than that he served that same will? Oh that was a terrible memory. In some ways-though it was not the bloodiest of his recollections-it was the most distressing because it had been such an intimate encounter. He remembered it so clearly: the car rocking as gusts of wind came off the ocean; the rain rattling on the car roof; the stale heat of the interior, and the still staler heat that came off the man who died in his arms. Poor George; poor, innocent George. He'd looked up at Galilee with such confusion on his face; his lips trying to form some last coherent question. He'd been too far gone to shape the words; but Galilee had supplied the answer anyway. I was sent by your father, he'd said. The confounded look had slipped away and George's face had become oddly placid, hearing that he was dying at the behest of his father; as though this were some last, wretched service he could render the old man, after which he was finally free of Cadmus's jurisdiction. Any ambition Galilee might have entertained of fathering a child had gone at that moment: to be the father's agent in the murder of a son had killed all appetite in him. Not simply the appetite for parenthood-though that had been the saddest casualty of the night at Smith Point Beach; the very desire to live had lost its piquancy at that moment. Destroying a man because he stood between your family and its ascendance was one thing (all kings did it, sooner or later); but to order the death of your own child because he disappointed you: that was <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> order of deed entirely, and to have been obliged to perform it had broken Galilee's heart. And still, after all this time, he couldn't get the scene out of his head. The hours of the whorehouse in Chicago, and his memories of the yellow dog shitting on the stairs, were bad enough; but they were nothing by comparison with the memory of the look on George Geary's face that rainy night. And so it went on for a week and a half: memories by day and dreams by night, and nothing to do but endure them. He ventured out of the house at evening, and went down to check that all was well with The Samarkand, but even that journey became harder as time passed; he was so exhausted. This could not go on. The time had come to make a decision. There was no great heroism in suffering, unless perhaps it was for a cause. But he had no causes, nor ever had; not to live for, not to die for. All he had was himself. No, that wasn't true. If he'd just had himself he wouldn't have been haunted this way. She'd done this to him. The Geary woman; the wretched, gentle Geary woman, whom he'd wanted so badly to put out of his heart, but could not. It was she who'd reminded him of his capacity for feeling, and in so doing had opened him up as surely as if she'd wielded a knife, letting these unwelcome <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> have access to his heart. It was she who'd reminded him of his humanity, and of all that he'd done in defiance of his better self. She who'd stirred the voice of the man on the whorehouse floor, and roused the yellow dog, and put the sight of George Geary <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> him. His Rachel. His beautiful Rachel, whom he tried not to conjure but who was <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> all the time, <a href="http://ferasdy.freewebhostx.com/">holding</a> his hand, touching his arm, telling him she loved him. Damn her to hell for tormenting him this way! Nothing was worth this pain, this constant gnawing pain. He no longer felt safe in his own skin. She'd invaded him, somehow; possessed him. Sleeplessness made him irrational. He began to hear her voice, as though she were in the next room, and calling to him. Twice he came into the dining room and found the table set for two. There was no happy end to this, he knew. There would be no escaping her, however patiently he waited. She had too strong a hold on his soul for him to hope for deliverance. It was as though he were suddenly old-as though the decades in which time had left him untouched had suddenly caught up with him-and all he could look forward to now was certain decline; an inevitable descent into obsessive lunacy. He would become the madman on the hill, locked away in a world of rotted <a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a>s; seeing her, hearing her, and tormented day and night by the shameful memories that came with love: the knowledge of his cruelties, his innumerable cruelties. Better to die soon, he thought. Kinder to himself, though he probably didn't deserve the kindness. On the sixth evening, climbing the hill to the house, he conceived his plan. He'd known several suicides in his life, and none of them had made a good job of it. They'd left other people with a mess to clear up, for one thing, which was not his style at all. He wanted to go, as far as it were possible, invisibly. That night, he made fires in all the hearths in the house, and burned <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> that might be used to construe some story <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> him. The few books he'd ga<a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>d over the years, an assortment of bric-a-brac from the shelves and windowsills, some carvings he'd made in an idle hour (nothing fancy, but who knew what people would read into what they found here?). There wasn't a lot to burn, but it took time nevertheless, what with his state of mind so dreamy and his limbs aching from want of rest. When he had finished, he opened all the doors and windows, every one, and just <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> dawn headed down the hill to the harbor. His neighbors would get the message, seeing the house left open. After a couple of days some brave soul would venture inside, and once word spread that he'd made a permanent departure the place would be stripped of anything useful. At least so he hoped. Better somebody was using the chairs and tables and clocks and lamps than that they all rot away. The wind was strong. Once The Samarkand was clear of the harbor, its sails filled; and long <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> the people of Puerto Bueno were up and brewing their morning coffee or pouring their breakfast whiskies their sometime neighbor was gone. His plan was very simple. He would sail The Samarkand a good distance from land, and then-once he was certain neither wind nor current would bear him back the way he'd come-he'd surrender his captaincy over both vessels, his body and his boat, and let nature take its course. He would not trim his sails if a storm arose. He would not steer the boat from reef or rocks. He would simply let the sea have him, whenever and however she chose to take him. If she chose to overturn The Samarkand and drown him, so be it. If she chose to dash the boat to pieces, and him along with it, then that was fine too. Or if she chose to match his passivity with her own, and let him linger becalmed until he perished on deck, and was wi<a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>d by the sun, then that lay in her power too, and he wouldn't lift a hand to contradict her will. He had only one fear: that if hunger and thirst made him delirious he might lose the certainty that moved him now, and in a moment of weakness attempt to take control of the vessel again, so he scoured the boat for anything that might be put to practical use, and threw it all overboard. His mariner's charts, his life jackets, his compass, his flares, his inflatable life raft: all of it went. He left only a few luxuries to sweeten these last days, reasoning that suicide didn't have to be an uncivilized business. He kept his cigars, his brandy, a book or two. Thus supplied, he gave himself over to fate and the tides. Most murder, as you're probably aware, is domestic. The conventions of popular fiction tell an untruth: the person most likely to take your life by violence is not some anonymous maniac but the man or woman with whom you breakfasted this morning. So I doubt that I'm spoiling any great mystery if I confirm here that the man who murdered Margie was Garrison Geary. He didn't do it because he despised her, though he did. He didn't do it because she had a lover, though she had. He did it because she refused him knowledge, which may seem like an obscure reason for slaughtering your spouse, but will probably be one of the lesser strangenesses ahead. By the time Rachel got back to New York, Garrison had confessed. Not to cold-blooded murder, of course, but rather to an act of self-defense in the face of his wife's crazed attempt on his life. According to his testimony it had happened like this: he'd come home to find Margie in a drunken state, wielding a Colt .38. She was sick of their life together, she'd told him, and wanted an end to it all. He'd tried to reason with her, but she'd been in far too inflamed a state to be talked down. Instead she'd fired at him. The bullet had missed, however, and <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> she could fire a second time Garrison had attempted to disarm her. In the struggle the gun had gone off, <a href="http://atejatrka.yoll.net/">wounding</a> Margie. He'd called the police instantly, but by the time medical help arrived it was too late. Her body-weakened by years of abuse-had given up. There was a good deal of evidence in support of Garrison's account. The first and most potent piece was this: the gun was Margie's. She'd bought it six years ago, after one of her drinking circle had been attacked on the street, and died in the resulting coma. Margie hadn't concealed her pleasure in the weapon; it was a pretty gun, she'd said, and she'd have not the least hesitation in using it should the occasion arise. According to Garrison, she had. She'd intended to kill him, and he'd done what anybody would have done under the circumstances. He didn't make any false show of grief. His marriage to Margie had been little more than a duty for years, he freely admitted. But if he'd wanted her out of his life, he pointed out, <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> were less foolhardy ways to engineer that than to shoot her in his own bathroom. Divorce, for instance. It didn't make any sense for him to murder her. It only jeopardized his liberty. Portions of his testimony appeared on the front pages of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, along with quotes from a number of sources that suggested his arguments carried weight. Nor could most of the commentators refrain from reporting some unflattering anecdote <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Margie's alcoholism, which had been public knowledge (and on occasion a public spectacle) for a decade or more. Of course <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was also no scarcity of gossip pieces, both in magazines and on tele<a href="http://refase.angelcities.com/">vision</a>, raking up some of the less savory stories from Garrison's past. Two of his former mistresses consented to be interviewed, as did a number of sometime employees. The portraits they drew weren't particularly flattering. Even if only half of what they were remembering was true Garrison still emerged as self-centered, autocratic and on occasion sexually compulsive. But when each of them was asked the important question-in your opinion, was this self-defense or murder?-they were all of the opinion that the man they'd known would not have shot his wife in cold blood. One of the mistresses even added that Garrison was very sentimental <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Margie. He'd always be telling me how it had been when they were first in love. I used to tell him I didn 't want to hear <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> all that, but sometimes I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> he couldn 't help talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> her. It used to make me a little jealous, but looking back I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> it's sort of sweet. The other subject that came under close scrutiny during this period was the family itself. The Garrison Geary Murder Case gave the press across the country, from the most high-minded journals to the lowliest gutter rags, a perfect excuse to dust off all their old stories <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the Gearys. As rich as the Rockefellers and as influential as the Kennedys, the piece in Newsweek began, the Geary family has been an American institution <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> the end of the Civil War, when its founding fathers came to a sudden and impressive prominence which has not diminished <a href="http://hasderta.425mb.com/">since</a> that time. Whatever the demands of the age, the Gearys have been their equal. Warmongers and peacemakers, traditionalists and radicals, hedonists and Puritans; it has sometimes seemed that within the ranks of the Geary clan an example of every American extreme could be found. With the police investigations into the murder of Margaret Geary ongoing, a cloud of doubt hangs over the family's reputation; but however those investigations are concluded one thing may be reliably <a href="http://werpikas.fortunecity.com/">predicted</a>: the family will survive, as will the American public's endless fascination with its affairs. Rachel had not told anybody she was on her way back, but she didn't doubt that word would precede her, courtesy of Jimmy Hornbeck. She was right. The Central Park apartment was adorned with fresh flowers, and <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was a note on the table from Mitchell, welcoming her home, and thanking her for coming. It was a curiously detached little missive, not that far removed from a hotel manager's note of thanks to a returning guest. But nothing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Mitchell surprised her any more. She was perfectly sanguine <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> what lay <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a> her. Whatever new grotesqueries she was <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> to witness she was determined to view them with the same amused detachment that she'd seen in Margie. She called Mitchell in the early evening to announce her arrival. He suggested she come to the mansion for some supper. Loretta would like to see her, he said; and so would he. She agreed to come. Good, he said, he'd send Ralphie to pick her up. There are reporters outside the home all the time, he warned. Yes, they were waiting for me when I came back here. What did you tell them? Absolutely nothing. Who the hell's telling them our business, that's what I want to know. When all this is over, I'm going to find out who the fuck these people are- And do what? Fire then- asses! I'm so sick of having cameras everywhere and people asking stupid <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> questions. She'd never heard Mitch exasperated this way <a href="http://derthad.greatnow.com/">before</a>; he'd always accepted scrutiny as the price of living the high life. You know some sonofabitch got a photograph of Garrison in jail, sitting on the can. And some <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> rag printed it! A picture of my brother taking a dump in a cell. Can you believe that? The outburst shocked her; not because somebody had taken a picture of Garrison relieving himself, but because until this moment she hadn't imagined his being behind bars. She'd just assumed that Cecil, or the phalanx of lawyers the family had hired to defend Garrison, had secured his release on bail. When does he get out? she asked him. We're pressing for that right now, Mitch said. I mean, he's innocent. We all know that. It was a horrible accident and we all wish it hadn't happened, but it's ridiculous keeping him locked up like he was a common criminal. A common criminal: that went to the heart of it. Whatever else Garrison might have been, Mitchell seemed to be saying, he was American royalty, and deserved to be treated with appropriate respect. It was an impression Rachel had reinforced when she went over to the mansion: the atmosphere was one of besiegement; the drapes closed against the curious eyes of the hoi polloi, while the noble Gearys debated their response to the crisis. Loretta set the tone for these exchanges. The imperiousness was intact, but it was shaded now with a certain bruised melancholy, as though some martyrdom had been visited upon her which she was bearing with fortitude. She welcomed Rachel back with a dry kiss. They ga<a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>d for supper around the dining room table, with Loretta at one end and-rather pointedly positioned, Rachel thought-Cecil at the other. Besides Deborah, Rachel and Mitch three other members of the clan were present. Norah was <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>, tanned and brittle; George's brother Richard had come up from Miami, where he'd just successfully defended a man who'd cut up a hooker with an electric carving knife, and Karen, flown in from Europe. She was the one member of the group Rachel had not met; she'd been out of the country during the wedding. She was a contained woman, her body, her gestures and her voice neat and unassuming. Rachel had the impression that she'd not come back out of love for either Garrison or the family, but because an edict had gone out, demanding her presence. She certainly had little to contribute to the debate. In fact she said scarcely a word throughout the supper, seldom even looking up from her plate. There was no doubt as to the star of the evening: it was Loretta. She made a statement of intent the moment they all sat down. We're going to start acting like a family again, she said to everyone. This business with Garrison is a wake-up call, to us all. It's time to put our <a href="http://sarkzry.undonet.com/">difference</a>s aside. Whatever problems we have with one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>-and they're bound to come along in the best of circumstances-this is the time to forget <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> them and show people what we're made of. Cadmus, as I'm sure you know, is now bedridden, and I'm afraid he's very weak. In fact, some of the time he doesn't even know who I am, which is of course very painful. But he has periods when his mind's suddenly very lucid, and then he can be astonishingly acute. Earlier this evening he started talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> hearing voices in the house. And I told him that yes, we were having a little family gathering. I didn't tell him why, of course. He doesn't know <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>… what happened… and I don't intend to tell him. But he did say to me, when I explained to him that we were all gathering together, that he was going to be here with us. And I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> in a very real sense he is. He should be our inspiration right now. There were murmurs of assent around the table, the loudest coming from Richard. We all know what Cadmus would say if he knew what was going on, Loretta said. Fuck 'em all, said Mitch. Norah laughed into her wine glass. Loretta moved on without glancing in her stepson's direction. He'd say: business as usual. We have to demonstrate our strength as a family. Our solidarity. Which is why I'm particularly grateful to you, Rachel, for coming back at such short notice. I know <a href="http://cefas.avafreehost.com/">things</a> between you and Mitchell aren't very easy at the moment so it means a lot to me personally that you're here. Now, Cecil, why don't you tell us all the situation as far as Garrison's bail is concerned? The next hour was dedicated to legal issues: the history of the judge who would be presiding over the hearing, supplied by Richard; brief assessments of the prosecutors from Cecil, then onto the business problems arising from Garrison's temporary indisposal. Rachel didn't <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a> many of the issues under discussion, but <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> was no doubt that despite Loretta's talk of business as usual family affairs were hard to keep on track without Garrison to give the orders. A dozen times, maybe more, a question had to be left unanswered because it fell into Garrison's area of expertise. Finally, the conversation returned to Rachel. Has Mitchell told you <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the fund-raiser on Friday night? Loretta asked her. No, I… Loretta threw Mitchell a weary look. It's for the hospital. The pediatric ward. It was <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the only charity Margaret had the slightest interest in, and I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> it's important we have a presence <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>. I was going to talk to Rachel <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it later, Mitchell put in. <a href="http://domodet.t35.com/">Later</a>'s no good, Mitchell, Loretta said. We've had too much 'later' in this household. Things being put off and put off… What the hell was she talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>, Rachel wondered. We've got to get on and do what we need to do. Even if it makes us uncomfortable or- All right, Loretta, Mitchell said. Calm down. Don't you condescend to me, Loretta replied, her voice monotonal. You're going to listen to me for once in your pampered little life. We're in a mess here. Do you <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a> me? Mitchell just stared, which inflamed Loretta all the more. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? she yelled, slamming her palm down on the table. All the silverware jumped. Loretta- Cecil said softly. Don't you start pouring oil, Cecil. This isn't any time to be making nice. We're in terrible <a href="http://szrkzrxks.deep-ice.com/">trouble</a>. All of us. The whole family. Terrible, terrible <a href="http://szrkzrxks.deep-ice.com/">trouble</a>. He'll be out in a week, Mitchell said. Is this willful or are you just too stupid to see what's right in front of your nose? Loretta said, her voice not <a href="http://werabert.builtfree.org/"><a href="http://terakil.freewhost.com/">quite</a></a> so loud, but still several notches above the conver sational. There's more to all this than what happened to poor Margie… Oh don't start your Cassandra act, for God's sake, Mitchell said, his voice thick with contempt. Mitchell, Cecil said, a little respect… If she wants some respect she should start being practical, and not telling us it's all in the <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> stars. That's not what I'm saying, Loretta said. Oh I'm sorry. What is it today? Tarot cards? If your father could hear you- My father thought you were as crazy as a coot, Mitchell said, getting up from the table. And I'm not going to waste my time sitting here listening to you chatter on like you <a href="http://gadera.150m.com/">understand</a> a damn thing <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> the way the business life of this family works. You're the one who's out of his depth, Loretta said. There you go again with your inane little threats! Mitchell yelled. I know what you're doing! You <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> I don't see you trying to get Rachel over to your side? Oh for God's sake- Sending her off to that stinking little island, <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>ing it's some kind of secret. Rachel caught hold of his hand. Mitch, she said. You're making a fool of yourself. Shut up. He looked as though she'd just slapped him, hard. He pulled his hand out of her grip. Are you in with her then? he said, looking at Rachel but pointing at Loretta. Is this some <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> conspiracy? Cecil? Help me out here. I want to know what's going on. Nothing's going on, Cecil said, wearily. We're just all tired and stressed out. And sad, She isn't sad, Mitchell said, looking back at Loretta, who was wearing an expression of regal inviolability. She's <a href="http://deraur.freeweb7.com/">fucking</a> glad Margie's dead and my brother's in a jail cell. I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> you should apologize for that, Cecil said. It's the truth! Mitchell protested. Look at her! Now it was Cecil who rose. I'm sorry, Mitchell, I can't permit you to talk to Loretta that way. Sit the fuck down! Mitchell yelled. Who the hell do you <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> you are? Cecil did and said nothing. You know what happens when the old man goes? It's Garrison and me. We're in charge. And if Garrison stays in jail, then it's just me. He made a tight little smile. So you'd better watch yourself, Cecil. I'm going to be looking very hard at the kind of support I'm getting. And if I see a lack of loyalty, I'm not going to <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> twice. Cecil glanced down at his plate. Then he sat down. Better, Mitchell said. Rachel. We're leaving. So go, Rachel said, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Mitchell hesitated. I'm not coming with you, Rachel said. It's up to you, Mitchell replied, with an unconvincing show of in<a href="http://sarkzry.undonet.com/">difference</a>. I know, Rachel said. And I'm staying here. Mitchell made no further attempt to convince her. He left the room without <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> word. Brat, Loretta remarked quietly. I'd better go and calm him down, Richard said. Why don't we all just go home to bed? Norah suggested. I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that's probably a very good idea, Loretta said. Rachel… would you stay just a couple of minutes? I need to have a word with you. The rest of the company departed. When the last of them had gone, and the door was closed Loretta said: I noticed you didn't eat. I wasn't hungry. Lovesick? Rachel said nothing. It'll pass, Loretta went on. You'll have plenty to distract you in the next few days. She sipped on her white wine. You've got nothing to hide, she said. We've all felt what you're feeling now. I don't know what you're talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a>. Him, Loretta said quietly. Galilee. I'm talking <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> Galilee. Rachel looked up, and found Loretta's eyes <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>, ready to read her. Was he all you wanted him to be? she asked. I told you. I don't… know… Loretta looked pained. There's no need for deceit, she said, lie to Mitchell, by all means. But not to me. She kept looking at Rachel; as if waiting for her to spill her pain. Greedy for it, in fact. Why should I lie to Mitchell? Rachel said, determined to deflect this interrogation by gaze. Because it's all he deserves, Loretta said flatly. He was born with too many blessings for his own good. It's made him stupid. If he'd had a harelip he'd have been twice the man he is. So I take it you <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> I'm rather stupid too. Why would I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> that? I married him. Brilliant women marry perfect clods every day of the week. Sometimes you have to do that to get on in the world. If you're a shoe-girl in a shoestore and if you don't get out all you'll ever do is sell shoes then by God you do <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> in your power to change your circumstances. There's no shame in that. You did what you had to do. And now you're finished with him. And <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s no shame in that either. She paused for a moment, as if to allow time for Rachel to respond; but this little speech had left Rachel dumbstruck. Is it really so hard to admit to? Loretta went on. If I were you I'd be proud of myself. I really would. Proud of what? Now you're being obtuse, Loretta said, and it's not worthy of you. What are you afraid of? I just don't know… I don't know why you're talking this way to me when we scarcely know one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a> and… well, to be honest I thought you didn't really like me. Oh I like you well enough, Loretta said. But liking isn't really the point any more, is it? We need one <a href="http://dysakk.freehostia.com/">another</a>, Rachel. For what? For self-protection. Whatever your dense husband <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a>s, he's not going to be running the Geary empire. Why not? Because he's inheriting a lot more than he'll be able to deal with. He'll crack. He's already cracking because he doesn't have Garrison to hold his hand. What if Garrison gets off? I don't <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s any 'what if?' <a href="http://nerilas.55fast.com/">about</a> it. He'll get off. But <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s other stuff, just waiting to be <a href="http://berajer.dreamstation.com/">uncovered</a>. His women, for one thing. So he has a mistress. <a href="http://bertpoka.k2free.com/">Nobody</a>'s going to care. You know what he likes to do? Loretta said. He likes to hire women to play dead. Doll themselves up to look like corpses and lie <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a> and be violated. That's one of his milder obsessions. Oh my God… He's been getting more indiscreet over the last year or so. In fact, I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> he wants to get caught. There are some photographs… Of what? You don't need to know, Loretta said. Just take it from me that if the least disgusting of them was to be made public Garrison's little circle of influence would disappear overnight. And who has these pictures? Loretta smiled. You? Rachel said. You've got them? Loretta smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her tone completely detached. I'm not going to sit back and watch a necrophile and his idiot brother take charge of all this family owns. AD this family stands for. She looked up from the smoothed linen. The point is: we all have to take sides. You can either work with me to make sure we don't lose <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> when Cadmus dies, or you can run to Mitchell and tell him I'm conspiring against the two of them, and take your chances with them. It's up to you. Why are you trusting me now? Rachel said. Because Margie's dead? God, no. She was no use to me. She was too far gone. Garrison again. God knows what he put Margie through, behind locked doors. She'd never have put up with- With p<a href="http://sabret.100freemb.com/">laying</a> dead on a Saturday night? I <a href="http://sdtulul.netfirms.com/">think</a> a lot of women do that and a lot <a href="http://kertimaf.freehostnow.org/">worse</a> to keep their husbands happy. So you still haven't answered my question. Why are you telling me all this now? Because now <a href="http://t666domy.t35.com/">there</a>'s something you want and I can help you get it. There was a long silence. Then Rachel said: Galilee? Loretta nodded. Who else? she said. In the end, <a href="http://cahetio.0catch.com/">everything</a> comes back to Galilee.He didn't take his eyes off the screen, though his features showed not a flicker of interest in what was going on. Never better, he said. She set the tray down on the table. Could I get you something different… maybe some fruit? I've already got the shits, thank you, he said politely. Some chocolate pudding? I'm not a child, Loretta, he said. Though I realize it's a very long time since I proved it to you. I'm sure you're getting a good fucking from somebody- Cadmus- -I just hope he appreciates how much of my money you've spent getting your tits tucked and your ass tucked and that belly of yours all stapled up- Stop that! Did you get a pussy tuck while you were at it? he remarked, his tone not once wavering from the lightly conversational. You must be sloppy down there after all these years. Don't be disgusting, Loretta said. Do I take that as a yes? If you don't stop this- What will you do? he said, a tiny smile coming onto his parchment lips. Throw me over your lap and spank me? Remember how I used to do that to you, love? Remember that lacquered hairbrush you used to present me with when you were in need of a little discipline? Loretta was having no more of this. She walked smartly to the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Don't you ever wonder how much of it I told people about? he said. She stopped a yard short of the door. You didn't, she said. Don't be ridiculous, he said. Of course I told people. Just a select little group. Cecil of course. Some members of your family. Oh you are a filthy, disgusting old man- That's it, sweet pea. Let it out. It may be your last chance. You never had any shame- If I had I daresay I wouldn't have married you. What's that supposed to mean? Nobody else would have had you. Not with your reputation. I thought when I first got you naked: there isn't anywhere on this body that's still virgin territory. Every inch of it's been licked and pinched and screwed and smacked. I found that quite arousing at the time. And when people said, why her, she's a whore, she's slept with half of Washington, I used to tell them, I can still show her a few tricks she hasn't seen. He paused for a moment. Loretta was quietly weeping. What the fuck are you ay-ing for? Cadmus said. When I'm dead you can tell everyone what a brute I was. You can write a book about what a dirty-minded, decadent old goat I was. I don't care. I won't be listening. I'll be too busy paying for my sins. At last, having not taken his eyes off the screen throughout this exchange, he slowly, painfully, turned his head to look back at her. There's a special hell for people who die as rich as us, he said. So say a few prayers for me, will you? She looked at him blankly. What are you thinking? I was wondering… if you ever loved me. Oh sweet pea, he said. Isn't it a little late to be sentimental? She left without another word. There was no purpose arguing with him; clearly his medication was disordering his thoughts. She'd have to talk to Waxman; perhaps the doses were too strong. She went upstairs and put on a dress she'd had made for her the previous season, but had then never been in the mood to wear. It was white, and rather plain, and when she'd first tried it on she'd thought it made her look pallid. But now, seeing herself in the mirror, she approved of its severity; and of the somewhat frigid quality it conferred. He'd called her whore, and that wasn't just. She'd had her high times, to be sure: what he'd said about there not being a piece of her body untouched was true. But so what? She'd made the best of what God had given her; taken her pleasures where, when and with whom she could. There was nothing shameful in that. Indeed, Cadmus had been perversely proud of her wild reputation at the beginning. He'd liked nothing better than to know that their courtship was the subject of gossip and tittle-tattle. And yes, she'd succumbed to the demands of vanity several times, and gone under the knife. But again: so what? She looked ten years her own junior; fifteen in a flattering light. But she had no wish to use her beauty the way Cadmus had implied. Once she'd taken his name, she'd had one lover only besides Cadmus, and even that had barely lasted a week. It would have been nice to think she'd broken his heart, but she harbored no such illusions. He'd been immune to love, that other one. He'd sailed away when he had finished with her, and nearly broken her heart. So out she went, dressed in white, leaving Cadmus sitting on the sofa in front of his beloved baseball. Of course, he saw none of it. He hadn't actually watched a game in months. There was something about sitting there that helped him remove his thoughts from his present condition-from its pain and humiliation-and talk himself into the past. He had work to do there; things to put in order before death took him and he found himself removed into that special hell made for the rich. Catholic atheist that he was, he half-believed in that hell; half believed he would suffer-if not eternally at least for a long, long time-in a barren spot where every comfort wealth and power could bestow was denied him. He'd never really cared about luxury so he wouldn't miss the silk pajamas and the Italian shoes and the thousand-bucks-a-bottle champagne. He'd miss control. He'd miss knowing he could get any politician, to the very highest, on the phone in five minutes, whatever their affiliations. He'd miss knowing every word he uttered was scrutinized for a clue to his desires. He'd miss being idolized. He'd miss being hated. He'd miss having a purpose. That was the real hell waiting for him: the wasteland where his will meant nothing, because he had nothing to work it upon. Yesterday he'd cried quietly to himself at the prospect. Today, he had no tears left. His head was just a cesspool, filled with dirty little words that he had no use for now that his bitch-wife had gone. Gone to get herself fucked, no doubt; gone to spread her cunt for some stinking donkey-dick- He was saying the words aloud, he vaguely realized; talking filth to himself while he sat in his own caked shit. And in his head there were pictures to accompany the monologue; too blurred for him to know if they were excremental or erotic. Somewhere in the midst of all this confusion there were other concerns he knew he should address. Business unfinished, good-byes unsaid. But he couldn't pin his thoughts down long enough to name them; the dirt kept distracting him. At one point the nurse came in and asked him how he was doing. It took the greatest effort of will not to let out a flood of filth, but he used the last remnants of his self-control to order her out of the room. She told him she'd be back in ten minutes with his noon medication, and then left. As he listened to her footsteps receding across the hall he heard a whirring sound in his head. It seemed to be coming from the back of his skull; an irritating little din that rose in volume by degrees. He tried to shake it out-like a dog with a flea in its ear-but it wouldn't go. It simply got louder, and more shrill. He grabbed hold of the arm of the sofa so as to pull himself to his feet. He needed help. A head awash with dirty words was one thing, but this was too vile to be endured. He got to his feet, but his legs weren't strong enough to support him. His hand slipped out from under him and he fell sideways. He cried out as he went down, but he heard no sound. The whine had become so loud it overwhelmed everything else: the crack of his brittle bones as he hit the floor, the din of the table lamp as it came smashing down, caught by his out-flung hand. For a few moments, when he hit the ground, he lost consciousness, and in a kinder world than this he might never have found it again. But fate hadn't finished with him yet. After a period of blissful darkness his eyes flickered open again. He was lying on his side where he'd fallen, the whine now so loud he felt certain it would shake his skull apart. No; not even that excruciating luxury was granted him. He lay there alive, and deafened, until somebody came and found him. His thoughts, if such they could be called, were chaotic. There were still fragments of filth in the stew, but they were no longer complete words. They were just syllables, thrown against the wall of his skull by the relentless whine. When Celeste came back in, she was a model of proficiency. She cleared her patient's throat of some vestiges of vomit, ascertained that he was breathing properly, and then called for an ambulance. That done, she went back out into the hallway, alerted a member of the household staff to the crisis, and told them to find Loretta, and have her go to Mount Sinai where Cadmus would be taken. When she returned to Cadmus she found that he'd opened his eyes, just a fraction, and that his head had turned away from the door. Can you hear me, Mr. Geary? she asked him gently. He made no reply, but his eyes opened a little wider. He was trying to focus, she saw, the object of his attempted scrutiny the painting that was hung on the far wall of the room. The nurse knew nothing about art whatsoever, but this mammoth picture had slowly exercised a fascination over her, so much so that she'd asked the old man about it. He'd told her it was painted by an artist called Albert Bierstadt and that it represented his conception of a limitless American wilderness. Looking at it, he'd said, was supposed to be like taking a journey: your eye traveled from one part of the panorama to the next, always finding something new. He'd even shown her how to look at it through a rolled-up sheet of paper, as if viewing the scene through a telescope. On the left was a waterfall feeding a pool where buffalo drank; behind them, stretching across the canvas, was a rolling plain, with patches of bright sunlight and shadow, and beyond the grasslands a range of snow-capped mountains, the grandest of which had its heights wreathed in creamy cloud, except for its topmost crag, which was set against a pocket of deep blue sky. The only human presence in the picture was a solitary pioneer on a dappled horse, who was perched on a ridge to the right of the scene, studying the terrain before him. That man's a Geary, Cadmus had once told the nurse. She hadn't known whether the old man was joking or not, and she hadn't wanted to risk his ire by asking. But now, watching his face as he struggled to focus on the painting, she somehow knew that the pioneer was what Cadmus' eyes were straining to see. Not the buffalo, not the mountains, but the man who was surveying all of this, in readiness for conquest. At last, he gave up: the effort was too much for him. He made a tiny, frustrated sigh, and his top lip curled a little, as if in contempt at his own incapacity. It's all right… she said to him, smoothing a stray strand of silver-white hair back from his brow. I can hear them coming. This was no lie. She could indeed hear the medics outside in the hallway. A moment later, and they were tending to him, lifting Cadmus up off the floor and onto the stretcher, covering him with blankets, their gentle reassurances echoing her own. At the last, as they picked the stretcher up to carry him out, his gaze went back in the direction of the canvas. She hoped his exhausted eyes had caught a glimpse this time, though she doubted it. The chances of his ever coming back to study the painted pioneer again were, she knew, remote. For Rachel the house was a different place now that she knew that Galilee had built it. What a labor it must have been for a man on his own; digging and laying the foundations, raising the walls, fashioning windows and doors, roofing it, tiling it, painting it. No doubt his sweat was in its timbers, and his curses, and a kind of genius, to make a house that felt so comforting. It was no wonder Niolopua's mother had wanted to possess it. If she couldn't have its builder, then it was the next best thing. Following the conversation on the veranda Rachel no longer doubted that Galilee would come back, but as the afternoon went on, and she turned over all she knew about the man her mood grew steadily darker. Perhaps she was deceiving herself, thinking that something rare and tender had passed between them the previous night; perhaps when he returned he'd be doing so out of some bizarre obligation. After all she was just another Geary wife as far as he was concerned; another bored bitch getting her little fix of paradise. He didn't know how much of a captive she felt: how could he? And how could he be blamed if he thought her despicable, taking up residence in his dream house, lying in the cool like some planter's wife while Niolopua trimmed the grass? And then, as if that weren't enough, the things she'd done last night! She grew sick with embarrassment thinking about it. The way she'd displayed herself to him; what the hell had she been thinking? If she'd seen any other woman behave that way she'd have called them a slut; and she'd have had reason. She should have protested the instant she'd realized where his story was going. She should have said: I can't listen to this, and firmly told him to leave. Then maybe he would have come back because he wanted to; instead of- Oh my Lord… she said softly. There he was, on the beach. There he was, and her heart was suddenly beating so loudly she could hear it in her head, and her hands were clammy and her stomach was churning. There he was, and it was all she could do not to just go to him; tell him she wasn't a Geary, not in her heart; she wasn't even a wife, not really; it had aH been a stupid mistake, and would he please forgive her, would he please pretend he'd never laid eyes on her before, so that they could start again as though they'd just met, walking on the beach? She did none of this, of course. She simply watched him as he made his way toward the house. He saw her now; waved at her, and smiled. She went to the French window, slid it open and stepped out onto the veranda. He was halfway up the lawn, still smiling. His pants were soaked to the knee, the rest of him wet with spray, his grubby T-shirt clinging to his belly and chest. He extended his hand to her. Will you come with me? he said. Where are we going? I want to show you something. Let me get my shoes. You won't need shoes. We're just going along the beach. She closed the screen door to keep out the mosquitoes and went down onto the lawn to join him. He took her hand, the gesture so casual it was as though this was a daily ritual for them, and he'd come to the lawn a hundred times, and called to her, and smiled at her, and taken her hand in his. I want to show you my boat, he explained as they took the short path to the sand. It's moored in the next bay. Wonderful, she said. Oh… by the way… I really think I should apologize for last night. I wasn't… behaving… the way I normally behave. No? he said. She couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. All she could see was the smile on his face, and it seemed perfectly genuine. Well I had a wonderful time last night, he said, so if you want to behave that way again, go for it. She offered an awkward grin. Do you want to walk in the water? he said, moving on from her apology as though the whole subject was over and done with. It's not cold. I don't mind cold water, she said. We have hard winters where I come from. Which is where? Dansky, Ohio. Dansky, Ohio, he said, turning the words over on his tongue as he spoke them, as though savoring the syllables. I went to Ohio once. This is before I took to the sea. A place called Bellefontaine. I wasn't there long. What do you mean when you say you 'took to the sea'? Just that. I gave up the land. And the people on it. Actually it was the people I gave up on, not the land. You don't like people? A few, he said, throwing her a sideways glance. But not many. You don't like the Gearys, for instance. The smile that had been at play on his face dropped away. Who told you that? Niolopua. Huh. Well he should keep his mouth shut. Don't blame him. He was upset. And from what he was telling me it sounds like the family gave everybody a raw deal. Galilee shook his head. I'm not complaining, he said. This is a hard world to get by in. It makes people cruel sometimes. There's a lot worse than the Gearys. Anyway… you're a Geary. The smile crept back. And you're not so bad. I'm getting a divorce, she said. Oh? Don't you love him then? No. Did you ever? I don't know. It's hard to be sure of what you feel when you meet somebody like Mitchell. Especially when you're just a Midwestern girl, and you're lost and you're not sure what you want. And there he is, telling you not to worry about that anymore. He'll take care of everything. But he didn't? Galilee said. She thought about this for a moment. He did his best, she admitted. But as time went by… The things you wanted changed, Galilee said. That's right. And eventually, the things you end up wanting are the things they can't give you. He wasn't talking about her any longer, she realized. He was talking about himself; of his own relationship with the Gearys, the nature of which she did not yet comprehend. You're doing the right thing, he said. Leaving before you start to hate yourself. Again he was talking autobiographically, she knew, and she took comfort from the fact. He seemed to see some parallel between their lives. The fears that had threatened her that afternoon were toothless. If he understood her situation as he seemed to-if he saw some sense in which his pain and hers overlapped-then they had some common ground upon which to build. Of course now she wanted to know more, but having made the remark about hating yourself he fell silent, and she couldn't think of a way to raise the subject again without seeming pushy. No matter, she thought. Why waste time talking about the Gearys, when there was so much to enjoy: the sky turning pink as the sun slid away, the sea calmer than she'd seen it, the motion of the water around her legs, the heat of Galilee's palm against hers. Apparently much the same thoughts were passing through her companion's head. Sometimes I talk myself into such foul moods, he said, and then I think: what the hell do I have to complain about? He looked up at the reef of coral clouds that was accruing high, high above them. So what if I don't understand the world? he went on. I'm a free man. At least most of the time. I go where I want when I want. And wherever I go… his gaze went from the clouds to Rachel … I see beautiful things. He leaned toward her and kissed her lightly. Things to be grateful for. They stopped walking now. Things that I can't quite believe I'm seeing. Again he put his lips against hers, but this time there was no chasteness. This time they wrapped their arms around one another and kissed deeply, like the lovers they'd been bound to be from the beginning. It passed through Rachel's head that she wasn't living this but dreaming it: that every detail of this moment was in such a perfect place there was no improving it. Sky, sea, clouds, lips. His eyes, meeting hers. His hands on her back, at her neck, in her hair. I'm sorry… he murmured to her. For what? For not coming to find you, he said. I should have come to find you. I don't understand. I was looking away. I was staring at the sea when I should have been watching for you. Then you wouldn't have married him. If I hadn't married him we'd never have met. Oh yes we would, he said. If I'd not been watching the sea, I would have known you were out there. And I would have come looking for you. They walked on after a time, but now they walked with their arms around one another. He took her to the end of the beach, then led the way over the spit of rocks that marked the divide between the two bays. On the other side was a stretch of sand perhaps half the length of the beach behind them, in the middle of which was a small, and plainly very antiquated, wooden jetty, its timbers weathered to a pale gray, its legs shaggy with vivid green weed. There was only one vessel moored there: The Samarkand. Its sails were furled, and it rode gently on the incoming tide, the very picture of tranquillity. Did you build it? she asked him. Not from scratch. I bought her in Mauritius, stripped her down to the bare essentials and fashioned her the way I wanted her. It took two years, because I was working on my own. Like the house. Yeah, well, I prefer it that way. I'm not very comfortable with other people. I used to be… But? I got tired of pretending. Pretending what? That I liked them, he said. That I enjoyed talking about… he shrugged … whatever people talk about. Themselves, Rachel said. Is that what people talk about? he said quizzically. It was as though he'd been out of human company so long he'd forgotten. I mustn't have been paying attention. Rachel laughed at this. No seriously, he said, I wouldn't have minded if they'd really wanted to talk about what was going on in their souls. I'd have welcomed that. But that's not what you hear. You hear about pretty stuff. How fat their wives are getting and how stupid their husbands are and why they hate their children. Who could bear that for very long? I'd prefer to hear nothing at all. Or tell a story? Oh yes, he said, luxuriating in the thought, that's even better. But it.can't be just any story. It has to be something true. What about the story you told me last night? That was true, he protested. I swear, I never told a truer story in all my life. She looked at him quizzically. You'll see, he said, if it isn't true yet, it will be. Anybody could say that, she replied. Yes, but anybody didn't. I did. And I wouldn't waste my time with things that weren't true. He put his hand to her face. You have to tell me a story sometime soon. And it has to be just as true. I don't know any stories like that. Like what? You know, she said. Stories that could stir you up the way that story stirred me up. Oh it stirred you up did it? You know it did. You see. Then it must have been true. She had no answer to this. Not because it made no sense but because after some fashion that she couldn't articulate, it did. Obviously his definition of true wasn't the standard definition, but there was a kind of cockeyed logic to it nevertheless. Shall we go? he said, I think the boat's getting lonely. A they walked along the creaking jetty Rachel asked turn why he had dubbed his boat The Samarkand. Galilee explained that Samarkand was the name of a city. I've never heard of it, she told him. There's no reason why you should. It's a long way from Ohio. Did you live there? No. I just passed through. I've done a lot of passing through in my life. You've traveled a lot? More than I'd like. Why don't you just find a place you like and settle down? That's a long story. I suppose the simple answer is that I've never really felt I belonged anywhere. Except out there. He glanced seaward. And even there… For the first time since they'd begun this conversation, she sensed his attention wandering, as though this talk of things far off was making him yearn for them. Perhaps not for the specific of Samarkand; simply for something remote from the here and now. She touched his arm. Come back to me, she said. Sorry, he replied. I'm here. They'd reached the end of the jetty. The boat was before them, rocking gently in the arms of the tide. Are we going aboard then? she asked him. We surely are. He stepped aside, and she climbed the narrow plank laid between the jetty and the deck. He followed her, Welcome, he said with no little pride. To my Samarkand. The tour of the boat didn't take long; it was in most regards an unremarkable vessel. There were a few details of its crafting he pointed out to her as having been difficult to fashion or pretty in the result, but it wasn't until they got below deck that she really saw his handiwork. The walls of the narrow cabin were inlaid with wood; the colors, the grain and even the knotholes in the timber so chosen and arranged that they almost suggested images. Is it my imagination, Rachel said, or am I seeing things in the walls? Anything in particular? Well… over there I can see a kind of landscape, with some ruins, and maybe some trees. And there's something that could be a tree, but might be a person… I think it's a person. So you put it there? No. I did all of this work thinking I was just making patterns. It wasn't until I was a week into my next voyage I started to see things. It's like looking at inkblots- Rachel said. -or clouds- -or clouds. The more you look the more you see. It's useful on long voyages, Galilee said, when I'm sick of looking at the waves and the fish I come down here, smoke a little, get a buzz going, and look at the walls. There's always something I hadn't seen. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her round. See that? he said, pointing to the door at the far end of the cabin, which was constructed in the same way as the walls. The design on the door? Yes. Does it remind you of anything? She walked toward it. Galilee followed, his hands still laid on her shoulders. I'll give you a clue, he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. The grass looks very comfortable… The grass? She stopped a yard or so from the door, and looked at the patterns in the wood. There were arrangements of dark shapes towards the top of the door; and a sliver of pale wood running horizontally, broken in places, and some more forms she could make no sense of arbitrarily laid here and there. But where was the grass? And why was it so comfortable? I'm not getting it, she said. Just look for the virgin, Galilee said. The virgin? she said. What virgin? He drew breath to give her another clue, but before he could speak she said: You mean Jerusha? He put his smiling lips against the nape of her neck and kept his silence. She kept looking, and piece by piece the picture began to emerge. The grass-that comfortable bed on which Jerusha had lain down-was there in the middle of the door, a patch of lightly speckled wood. Above it were those dark, massy shapes she'd first puzzled over: the heavy summer foliage of ancient trees. And that bright'horizontal sliver running across the door? It was the river, glimpsed from a distance. Now it was she who smiled, as the mystery came clear in front of her. She had only one question: Where are the people? You have to put those in for yourself, he said. Unless… He stepped past her and put his finger on a narrow, almost spindly shape in the grain of one of the pieces of wood. Could this be the riverman? No. He was better looking than that. Galilee laughed. So maybe it isn't Jerusha's forest after all, he said. I'll have to invent a new story. You like telling stories? I like what it does to people, he said, smiling a little guiltily. It makes them feel safe. Going to your country? Where the rich were kind and the poor had God- I suppose that is my country- I hadn't thought about it that way before. The notion seemed to trouble him somewhat. He grew pensive for a moment; just a moment. Then he looked up from his thoughts and said: Are you hungry? Yes, I am a little. Good. Then I'll cook, he said. It'll take a couple of hours. Can you wait that long? A couple of hours? she said, What are you going to cook? Oh it's not the cooking that takes the time, he said. It's the catching. There was no trace of the day remaining when The Samarkand left the jetty; nor was there a moon. Only the stars, in brilliant array. Rachel sat on deck while the boat glided away from the island. The heavens got brighter the further they sailed, or such was her impression. She'd never seen so many stars, nor seen the Milky Way so clearly; a wide, irregular band of studded sky. What are you thinking about? Galilee asked her. I used to work in a jewelry store in Boston, she said. And we had this necklace that was called the Milky Way. It was supposed to look like that. She pointed to the sky. I think it was eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You never saw so many diamonds. Did you want to steal it? Galilee said. I'm not a thief. But did you? She grinned sheepishly. I did try it on when nobody was looking. And it was very pretty. But the real thing's prettier. I would have stolen it for you, Galilee said. No problem. All you needed to say was-I want that-and it would have been yours. Suppose you'd got caught? I never get caught. So what have you stolen? Oh my Lord… he said. Where do I start? Is that a joke? No. I take theft very seriously. It is a joke. I stole this boat. You did not. How else was I going to get it? Buy it? You know how much vessels like this cost? he said reasonably. She still wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. I either stole the money to buy the boat, or stole the boat itself. It seemed simpler to steal the boat. That cut out the middle man. Rachel laughed. Besides, the guy who had the boat didn't care about her. He left her tied up most of the time. I took her out, showed her the world. You make it sound like you married her. I'm not that crazy, Galilee replied. I like sailing, but I like fucking better. An expression of surprise must have crossed her face, because he hurriedly said: Sorry. That was crude. I mean- No, if that's what you meant you should say it. He looked sideways at her, his eyes gleaming by the light of the lamp. Despite his claim not to be crazy, that was exactly how he looked at that moment: sublimely, exquisitely crazy. You realize what you're inviting? he said. No. Giving me permission to say what I mean? That's a dangerous invitation. I'll take the risk. All right, he said with a shrug. But you remember… … I invited it. He kept looking at her: that same gleaming gaze. I brought you on this boat because I want to make love to you. Make love is it now? No, fuck. I want to fuck you. Is that your usual method? she asked him. Get the girl out to the sea where she hasn't got any choice? You could swim, he said. He wasn't smiling. I suppose I could. But as they say on the islands: Utiuli kai holo ka mono. Which means what? Where the sea is dark, sharks swim. Oh that's very reassuring, she said, glancing down at the waters slopping against the hull of The Samarkand. They were indeed dark. So that may not be the wisest option. You're safer here. With me. Getting what you want. I haven't said- You don't need to tell me. You just need to be near me. I can smell what you want. If Mitchell had ever said anything like that as a sexual overture he would have killed his chances stone dead. But she'd invited this man to say what was in his head. It was too late to play the Puritan. Besides, coming from him, right now, the idea was curiously beguiling. He could smell her. Her breath, her sweat; God knows what else. She was near him and he could smell her; she was wasting his time and hers protesting and denying… So she said: I thought we were going to fish? He grinned at her. You want a lover who keeps his promises, huh? Absolutely. I'll get a fish, he said, and standing up he stripped off his T-shirt, unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his pants; all this so swiftly she didn't comprehend what he was intending to do until he threw himself overboard. It wasn't an elegant dive, it was a ragged plunge, and the splash soaked her. But that wasn't what got her up and shouting at him. It was what he'd said about sharks and dark water. Don't do this! she yelled. She could barely see him. Come out of there! I'm not going to be long. Galilee. You said there were sharks. And the longer I talk to you the more likely they'll come and eat my ass, so can I please go fish? I'm not hungry any more. You will be, he said. She could hear the smile in his voice, then saw him throw his arms above his head and dive out of sight. You sonofabitch, she said to herself, her mind filling with unwelcome questions. How long could he hold his breath for? When should she start to be concerned for his safety? And what if she saw a shark: what was she to do then? Lean over the side and beat on the hull of the boat to divert its attention? Not a very pleasant idea, with the water so concealing. The thing would be on her before she knew it; taking off her hand, her arm, dragging her overboard. There was no doubt in her mind: when he got back on board she was going to tell him to take her straight back to the jetty; the sonofabitch, the sonofabitch, leaving her here staring down into the darkness with her heart in her mouth- She heard a splashing sound on the other side of the boat. Is that you? she called out. There was no reply. She crossed the deck, stumbling over something in the dark. Galilee, damn you! Answer me! The splashing came again. She scanned the water, looking for some sign of life. Praying it was a man not a fin. Oh God, don't let anything happen to him, she found herself saying, Please God, please, don't hurt him. You sound like a native. She looked in the direction of the voice. There was something that looked like a black ball bobbing in the water. And around it, fish were leaping, their backs silvery in the starlight. Okay, she said, determined not to sound concerned for fear she encouraged his cavortings. You got the fish? That's great. There was a shark god at Puhi, called Kaholia-Kane- I don't want to hear it! she yelled. But I heard you praying- No- Please God, you were saying. I wasn't praying to the fucking shark! she yelled, her fury and fear getting the better of her. Well you should. They listen. At least this one did. The women used to call to him, whenever somebody was lost at sea- Galilee? Yes? It's not funny anymore. I want you back on board. I'm coming, he said. Let me just- She saw his arm shoot out of the water and catch one of the leaping fish. Gotcha! Okay. I'm on my way. He began to plow through the water toward the boat. She scanned the surface in every direction, superstitiously fearful that the fin would appear just as Galilee came in striking distance of the boat. But he made it to the side without incident. Here, he said, passing the fish up to her. It was large, and still very much intending to return to its native element, thrashing so violently that she had to use both hands to keep hold of it. By the time she'd set the fish down where it couldn't dance its way back over the side Galilee had hoisted himself up out of the water and was standing, dripping wet, just a step or two behind her. I'm sorry, he said, before she could start to tell him how angry she was. I didn't realize I was upsetting you. I thought you knew it was all a joke. You mean there aren't any sharks? Oh no. There are sharks out there. And the islanders do say Uliuli kai holo ka mano. But I don't think they're talking about real sharks when they say that. What are they talking about? Men. Oh I see, Rachel said. When it gets dark, the men come out- -looking for something to eat. He nodded. But you could still have got attacked, she said, if there are real sharks out there. They wouldn't have touched me. And why's that? Too tough? He reached out and took hold of her hand, escorting it back toward him, and laying her palm against the middle of his massive chest. His heart was thumping furiously. He felt as though there was just a single layer of skin between hand and heart; as though if she wanted to she could have reached into his chest and taken hold of it. And now it was she who could smell him. His skin like smoke and burnt coffee; his breath salty. There's a lot of tales about sharks, men and gods, he said. More of your true stories? Absolutely true, he replied. I swear. Such as? Well, they come in four varieties. Legends about men who are really shape-changing sharks; that's the first. These creatures walk the beaches at night, taking souls; sometimes taking children. Rachel made a face. Doesn't sound like a lot of fun. Then there are stories about men who decided to go into the sea and become sharks. Why would they do that? For the same reason I got myself a boat and sailed away: they were fed up with pretending. They wanted to be in the water, always moving. Sharks die if they don't keep moving, did you know that? No… Well they do. So that's number two. Then there's the one you already know. Kaholia-Kane and his brothers and sisters. Shark gods. Protectors of sailors and ships. There's one in Pearl Harbor, watching over the dead. Her name's Ka'ahupahau. And the greatest of them is called Kuhaimuana. He's thirty fathoms long… Rachel shook her head. Sorry. I don't like any of these stories, she said. That leaves us with just one category. Men who are gods? Rachel said. Galilee nodded. No, I'm not buying that either, she told him. Don't be so quick to judge, Galilee said. Maybe you just haven't met the right man. She laughed. And maybe it's all just stories, she replied. Look, I'm quite happy to talk about sharks and religion tomorrow. But tonight let's just be ordinary people. You make it sound easy, he said. It is, she told him. She moved closer to him, her hand still pressed against his chest. His heart seemed to beat more powerfully still. I don't understand what's going on between us, she said, their faces so dose she could feel the heat of his breath. And to be honest I don't really care any more. She kissed him. He was staring at her, unblinking, and continued to stare as he returned her kiss. What do you want to do? he said, very quietly. She slid her other hand down over the hard shallow dome of his stomach, to his sex. Whatever you want, she said, unheeding him. He shuddered. There's so much I need to tell you, he said. Later. Things you have to know about me. Later. Don't say I didn't try, he said, staring at her with no little severity. I won't. Then let's go downstairs and be ordinary for a while. She led the way. But before he followed her he walked back across the deck to where the fish lay, and going down on his haunches, picked it up. She watched his body by the lamplight; the muscles of his back and buttocks, the bunching of his thighs as he squatted down, the dark, laden sac hanging between his legs. He was glorious, she thought; perhaps the most glorious man she'd ever seen. He stood up again-apparently unaware that she was watching him-and seemed to murmur a few words to the dead fish before tossing it overboard. What was that about? she asked him. An offering, he explained. To the shark god. My half brother Galilee was always impatient with other people; it doesn't surprise me that he became tired of pretending, as he explained to Rachel. What does surprise me is that he didn't assume that sooner or later he'd find himself playing that same game with her, and tire of her too. Then again, perhaps he did. Perhaps even at the beginning, now I look at what he said to her more closely, there were contradictions there. On the one hand he seemed to be infatuated with her-all that sentimental talk about staring at the sea when he should have been watching for her-on the other quite capable of condescension. Samarkand, he dryly explains, is a long way from Ohio, as though she were too parochial to have any knowledge of what lay beyond her immediate experience. It's a wonder she didn't kick him off the jetty. But then I think that from the beginning she understood him-contradictions and all-better than I ever have. And of course she was susceptible to his charms in a way that I'll never be, and perhaps therefore more forgiving of his flaws. I'm doing my best to evoke a measure of his allure for you. I think I caught his voice, and the physical details are right. But it's difficult to go into the sexual business. Describing an act of coitus involving your own sibling feels like a form of literary incest, though I'm certain that my reticence does him an injustice. I haven't, for instance, told you how finely he was made between the legs. But for the record, very finely indeed. So on. For the sake of my blushes, on. There is, as I promised, much more calamity within the Geary family to report, but before I start into that I want to tell you about a little drama here in the Barbarossa household. It happened last night, just as I was midway through describing Rachel and Galilee's encounter on The Samarkand. There was a great din at the other end of the house (and I really mean a cacophony: shouting and thundering enough to shake down a few of the smaller books off my shelves). I couldn't work, of course. I was far too curious. I ventured out into the hallway, and tried to make some sense of the noise. It wasn't difficult. Marietta was one portion of it: when she gets angry she becomes so shrill it makes your head ring, and she was shouting up a storm. Accompanying her complaints-which I could make no real sense of-was the sound of slamming doors, as she apparently raged her way from room to room. But these weren't the only elements in the noise. There was something far more disturbing: a clamor that was like the din of some benighted jungle; a lunatic mingling of chatters and howls. My mother, of course. I'm sorry, my father's wife. (It's strange, and probably significant, that I think of her as my mother whenever I picture her more peaceful aspects. The warrior Cesaria Yaos is my father's wife.) Anyway, it was she, no doubt. Who else had a voice that could express the rage of a baboon, a leopard and a hippopotamus in one rise and fell swoop? But what was she so furious about? I wasn't entirely certain I wanted to find out. There was some merit in retreat I thought. But before I could about turn and creep back to my room I saw Marietta running down the hallway, with what appeared to be an armful of garments. You'll recall that the last time we two had spoken we'd parted furious with one another, she having commented less than favorably on my work. But I think even if we'd been bosom buddies she would not have halted at that moment. Cesaria's menagerie noises were escalating by the second. As Marietta ducked out of sight, I did what I'd been planning to do ten seconds before, and turned around so as to head back to my room. Too late. I'd barely taken a step when the noises ceased all at once, every last howl, only to leave room for Cesaria's other voice; her human voice, which is-I'm sure I've told you-nothing short of mellifluous. Maddox, she said. Shit, I thought. Where are you going? (Isn't it strange, by the way, that we're never too old to feel like errant children? There I was, old by any human standards, frozen in my tracks and guilty as any infant caught with sticky fingers.) I was going back to my work, I said. Then added, Mama, as a sop. It may have mellowed her. Is it going well? she asked me, quite conversationally. I was sufficiently reassured to turn round and look at her, but she wasn't visible to me. There was just a busy darkness at the far end of the hallway where moments before there'd been a well-lit lobby. I was frankly grateful. I've never actually witnessed the form my mother takes in these legendary furies of hers, but I'm quite sure it's sufficient to drop a saint in his tracks. It's going okay, I replied. I have days when- Cesaria broke in before I got any further. Did Marietta go outside? she said. I… yes… yes, I believe she did. Fetch her back. I'm sorry? You're not deaf, Maddox. Go find your sister and bring her back inside. What happened? Just fetch her. (There's another second strangeness here, worth remarking on. Just as there's a guilty child lurking in everyone, there's also a rebellious self that prickles at the idea of being ordered about, and is not easily silenced. It was this voice that answered Cesaria back, foolish though it was to do so.) Why can't you go and fetch her yourself? I heard myself saying. I knew I was going to regret the words even as I spoke them. But it was already too late to recant: Cesaria's shadow self was in motion. She was moving-not quickly, but steadily, inevitably-down the hallway toward me. Though the ceiling is not especially high, there was something vast about her manifestation; she seemed like a thunderhead at that moment. And I diminished to a fraction of myself before her; I was a mote, a sliver- She began to speak as she approached, but every word she uttered seemed about to collapse back into that terrible cacophony of hers; as though she was only keeping anarchy at bay with the greatest effort. You, she said remind me I knew what was coming of your father. I don't believe I said anything by way of reply. I was frankly too intimidated. Besides, if I'd tried to speak I doubt my tongue would have worked. I simply stood there as she roiled before me, and the animal din erupted out of her with fresh ferocity. This time, however, there was a vision to go with the din, not uncovered by the cloud but seemingly sculpted from it. I had a mercifully short glimpse of it, though I'm certain that had Cesaria not wanted me to be her errand boy she might have given me more. That wasn't to her present purpose, however, so she showed me just enough to make me lose control of my bladder; perhaps three or four seconds' worth, if that. What did I see? It's no use telling you there are no words. Of course there are words; there are always words. The question is: can I wield them well enough to evoke the power of what I witnessed? That I doubt. But let me do my best. I saw, I think, a woman erupting at every pore and orifice; spewing unfinished forms. Giving birth, I suppose you'd say, expelling not one, nor even ten, but a thousand creatures; ten thousand. And yet here's the problem with that description. It doesn't take account of the fact that at the same time she was becoming-how do I express this?-denser; like certain stars I've read about, which as they collapse upon themselves draw light and matter into them. So was she. How did my mind deal with the fact that she was doing two contrary things? Not well. In fact the vision did such violence to my system I fell down as though she'd struck me, and covered my head with my hands as though she might get the sight into me again through the top of my skull. She chose to spare me. Just left me lying on the ground in my wet pants, sobbing. It took me a little time to recover my composure, but when I finally raised my head and chanced a look in her direction, I found that the thunder-head was no longer looming over me. She'd covered that furious face of hers and was waiting some little distance from me. I'm sorry… were the first words out of my mouth. No, she said, her voice suddenly drained of either music or strength. It was my fault. You're not a child to be ordered around. It was just that in that moment I saw your father so clearly. May… I… ask you a question? Ask anything, she said, sighing. That face I just saw… What about it? Did Nicodemus ever see it? Despite her fatigue she was amused by this. There was a hint of a smile in her voice when she replied. Are you asking me if I scared him off? I nodded. Then I'll tell you: that face, as you call it, is what he chiefly loved me for. Really? I must have sounded astonished-as indeed I was-because she replied somewhat defensively: He had aspects that were just as terrible. Yes I know. Of course you know. You saw some of what he could do. But that wasn't all he was, I said. Just as what you saw a moment ago isn't all of me. But it's the truest part, isn't it? I said. Under other circumstances I surely wouldn't have pressed her on this business so closely, but I knew the chances of my having the freedom to interrogate her like this again were nil. If I was to know who Cesaria Yaos was before the house of Barbarossa came crashing down, it was now or never. The truest part? she said. No. I don't think I have one face that's truer than any other. I used to be worshipped in dozens of temples, you know. I know. They're all heaps of rubble now. Nobody remembers how I was loved… Her voice trailed off. She'd apparently lost her point. What was I saying? Nobody remembering. Before that. All the temples- Oh yes. So many temples, with statues and embroideries, all depicting me. But not one of them resembled any other. How do you know? Because I visited them, she said. When your father and I had a spat we'd go our separate ways for a while. He'd go find himself some poor woman to seduce, and I'd go touring my holy sites. It's comforting when you're feeling a little woebegone. Hard to imagine. What? Me, woebegone? Oh I can be self-pitying, just like anybody else. No. I meant it's hard to imagine how it must feel, going into a temple where you're being worshipped. Oh it can be wonderful. Wandering among your devotees. Were you ever tempted to tell them who you were? I did it many, many times. I usually picked somebody who wasn't a particularly reliable witness. The very old. The very young. Somebody with a sanity problem, or a saint, which is often one and the same. Why do that? Why not show yourself to somebody literate, intelligent? Somebody who could spread your gospel? Somebody like you? If you like. Is that what your book's going to be: one last desperate attempt to put your father and me back up on our pedestals? What did she want to hear from me? I wondered. And if I chose incorrectly, would I be subjected to her fury again? Is that what you're up to, Maddox? I decided on the truth. No, I said, I'm simply telling the story as best I can. And this conversation? Will it be in your book? I'll put it in if it seems relevant. There was a silence. Finally, she said: Well, I suppose it doesn't matter whether you do or you don't. Stories; temples. Who cares nowadays? You're going to have fewer readers than I have worshippers, Maddox. I don't have to be read to be a writer, I pointed out. And I don't have to be worshipped to be a goddess. But it helps. Believe me, it helps. She made a phantom smile, and I-to my great surprise-returned it. We understood one another better at that moment than we ever had. So, now… Marietta. One more question, I begged. No, enough. Please, Mama. Just one. For the book. One then. And only one. Did my father have temples? He certainly did. Where were they? That's another question, Maddox. But, as you're so curious… The finest of his temples to my way of thinking was in Paris. Really? Paris. I thought Nicodemus hated Paris. Later, he did. It's where I met Mr. Jefferson, you see. I didn't know that. There's a great deal about that man you don't know; that the world doesn't know. I could tell you enough about him to fill five books. He was such a charmer. But quiet… so quiet when he talked that you had to strain to hear him. I remember the first time I met him he'd just been given an apricot, which he'd never tasted before. And oh, the blissful look on that pinched face of his! I wanted him to make love to me on the spot. Did he? Oh no. He played very hard to get. He was in love with an English actress at the time. What a wretched combination that was: English and an actress. The worst of all possible worlds. Anyway, Thomas toyed with my affections for weeks. There was a revolution going on around us, but I swear I was so besotted with him I barely noticed. Heads being lopped off every hour and I was wandering around in an adolescent daze trying to find a way to make this scrawny little American diplomat love me. How did you do it? I'm not sure I ever did. If I were to raise him up now, out of his grave at Monticello, and say to him: did you love me? I think he'd say, at best, for a day or two, an hour or two, that afternoon you showed me the temple. You took him to my father's temple? Every woman knows if you fail to get the man you want with words, you show him a sacred place. She laughed. Usually it's the one between your legs. Don't look so shocked, Maddox. It's a fact of life. If a woman's going to get a man on his knees, she has to give him something to worship. But I knew raising my skirts for Jefferson wasn't going to be chough. He'd had that from his tarty little actress, Miss Cosway. I had to show him something that she could never supply. So I took him to your father's temple. What happened? He was very impressed. He asked me how I knew about the place. It was a very secret cult your father had at that time. Noble families, mostly. And of course they'd either fled or lost their heads. So the temple was deserted. We wandered around while the mobs raged on the streets outside, and I think-just for that little while-he was quite in love. I remember he asked me who'd designed the place, and I took him to the altar, where there was a statue of your father. It had a red velvet doth draped over it. And I said to Jefferson: before I show you this, will you promise me something? He said yes, of course, if it was in his power. So I said to him: design me a house, where I can live happily, because it'll remind me of you. So that's how you got him to design you this place? I made him swear. On his wife. On his dreams of Monti-cello. On his dearest hopes for democracy. I made him swear on them all. You didn't trust him? Not remotely. So he swore- -and I uncovered your father's statue. There he was in all his tumescent glory! Again she laughed. Oh, Thomas was the very picture of discomfort. But to be fair to him, he kept his aplomb and asked me, with great seriousness, if the representation was a true and proportionate likeness. I reassured him that it was an exaggeration, though not much of one. I remember exactly what he said to that. Then I am certain, ma'am, you are a very contented wife.' Ha! 'A very contented wife.' I showed him how contented I was, there and then. With your father's painted eyes looking down at us, I showed Jefferson how little I cared for marriage. We never did it again. I didn't really want to, and I'm quite certain he didn't. His affair with the actress ended in tears, and he went back to his wife. But he built you your house, just as he promised he would. Oh he did more than that, she said. He also built a perfect copy of the temple. Perfect down to the last detail. Why? That's another question for his ghost. I don't know. He was a strange man. Beautiful things obsessed him. And the temple was beautiful. Did he put an altar in it? Do you mean did he have a statue of your father? I wouldn't be surprised. Where was this place? Where is it, you mean. It's still standing? I believe so. It's one of the best kept secrets in Washington. Washington… The thought that there was a place of ritual sacred to my perpetually priapic father laid in the heart of the nation's capitol astonished me. I want to see it, I said. I'll write a letter of introduction, Cesaria said. To whom? She smiled. To the highest in the land. I'm not entirely forgotten, she said. Jefferson made certain I would never want for influence. So he knew you'd outlive him? Oh yes, he understood perfectly, though he never put what he knew into words. I think that would have been too much for him. Mother… you astonish me. Do I really? she said, with something approximating fondness in her voice. Well I'm pleased to hear it. She shook her head. Enough of this, she said. I'm quite talked out. She pointed at me. And you be careful how you quote me, she said. I won't have my past misrepresented, even if it is in a book that nobody's going to read. So saying, she turned her back on me, and calling her porcupines to follow, she headed off down the passageway. I called after her: What do you want me to do about Marietta? Nothing, she growled. Let her play. She'll regret what she's done. Maybe not tonight, but soon. While I was pleased to be relieved of the duty of going after Marietta, I was left somewhat curious as to the felony my half sister had committed. Indeed I was tempted to seek her out and ask her for myself. But I had such a wonderful freight of information from Cesaria, and I didn't want to risk forgetting a word of it. So I went straight back to my room, lit the lamps, poured myself some gin, and started to set it down. I paused only once, to reflect on what it might mean that Thomas Jefferson, the principal architect of the Declaration, the father of democracy in America, should have built a replica of my father's temple. To have gone to all that trouble in pursuit of beauty seemed to me unlikely. Which begged two questions: one, why had he done it? And two, if there was some other purpose, did anybody on Capitol Hill know what it was? I will revisit Marietta's theft in due course; be assured of that. There are several threads of this tapestry woven together in her crime as you'll see. And-just as Cesaria predicted-there would be consequences. But first, I must return to The Samarkand, and the pair who'd passed the night upon it. When Rachel woke, dawn was creeping into the tiny cabin, and by its virtuous light she saw Galilee asleep at her side, one arm thrown over his face, the other across her body. Comforted by the sight, she dosed her eyes and went back to sleep. When she stirred again, he was gently stroking her breasts, kissing her face. Still only half-awake she slid her hand down between their bodies and raised her leg a little to guide him into her. He murmured something against her cheek that she didn't catch, but she was in too dreamy a state to ask him to repeat it. All she wanted was the fullness of him inside her; his gentle motion, his touch. She didn't even need to see him: he was there in her mind's eye when she closed her lids; her perfect lover, who'd brought her more sexual pleasure in one night than she'd experienced in all the years preceding it. She reached out and touched his chest, his nipples, then to his armpit and the mass of his shoulder, luxuriating in the polished muscle beneath her fingertips. One of his huge hands was at her face, stroking her with the back of his fingers, the other down between her legs, parting her, easing the passage of his sex by spreading her fluids down its length. She made a little sob of pleasure when he was fully housed; begged him to stay there. He didn't move. Just kept his place, her body enclosing him so tightly she could feel the tick of his blood. At last, she began to move; just a tiny motion at first, but enough to send a shudder through him. You like that? she whispered. He replied with a short expulsion of air, almost a grunt, as he pressed his sex back into her, and the next instant withdrew it almost entirely. She let him do so without protest; the emptiness was delicious, as long as she knew it was only temporary. She reached up and put her arms around his neck, knotting her fingers at the base of his skull. Then, oh so slowly, she preempted his return stroke by raising her hips toward his. He spoke again. This time she heard what he said. Oh Lord in heaven… Slowly, slowly, she took him into her, both of them tender from a night of excesses; the line between bliss and discomfort perilously fine. As she rose he started down to meet her motion, and the image of him she'd had in her mind's eye lost its particularity, his substance dissolved in the wash of pleasure. The gleaming darkness of his limbs spread behind her lids, filling her thoughts completely. He was quickening now. She urged him on, her urges incoherent. No matter; he understood. She didn't need to tell him when to redirect his pressure, she'd no sooner formed the thought than he was doing so. And before he lost control of his body and came, she was distracting him from his crisis, slowing her own motion so as not to have their pleasure end too quickly. So it went on, for two hours, almost three: sometimes a contest-jabs and sobbing; sometimes so quiet, so still, they might almost have been asleep in one another's arms. They made no declarations of love; at least nothing audible. They didn't even speak, not even to call out one another's name. There was no failure of feeling in this; just the reverse. They were so entirely immersed in one another, so entirely joined in their bliss, that for a short, sacred time they imagined themselves indivisible. Not so, of course. The illusion passed when their bodies had been wracked to exhaustion. They lay beside one another shivering in their sweat, gloriously satisfied, but returned into their own skins. I'm hungry, Rachel said. They hadn't gone entirely without sustenance since boarding The Samarkand. Though Galilee had returned the fish to the sea as an offering to Kuhaimuana-all thirty fathoms of him-he'd opened cans of shucked oysters and brandied peaches in the middle of the night, which they'd eaten off and out of one another's bodies, so that the satisfying of one appetite didn't interrupt the satisfying of the other. Still, it was now midmorning, and her stomach was complaining. We can be back on land in an hour, Galilee said. I don't want to go, Rachel replied. I never want to go. I want to stay out here, just the two of us… People would come looking, he said. You're still a Geary. We'd find somewhere to hide, she said. People disappear all the time, and they're never found. I have a house… You do? In a tiny village in Chile, called Puerto Bueno. It's right at the top of the hill. A view of the harbor. Parakeets in the trees. Let's go there, she said. Galilee laughed. I'm serious, she said. I know you are. We could have children… The amusement left his face. I don't think that'd be wise, he said. Why not? Because I'd be no use as a father. How do you know? she said, putting her hand over his. You might find out you really liked it. Bad fathers run in our family, Galilee said. Or rather, one does. One bad father out of how many? One out of one, he said. She thought he'd misunderstood what she was saying. No, I mean, what about your grandfathers? There aren't any. You mean they're dead. No, I mean there aren't any. There never were. She laughed. Don't be silly. Your mother and father had parents. They might have been dead before you were born, but- They had no parents, Galilee said, taking his eyes off her. Believe me. There was something faintly intimidating about the way he said believe me. It wasn't an invitation, it was a command. He didn't wait to see if she'd obey it or not; he just got up and started to dress. It's time we went back, he said. People'll be looking for you. Let them look, she said, sliding her arms around him from behind, and pressing her body against him. We don't have to go yet; I want to talk; I want to get to know you better. There'll be other times, he said, moving away from her to pick up his shirt. Will there? she said. Of course, he replied, not turning back to look at her. What was it I said that offended you? You haven't said anything, he replied. I just think we should get back, that's all. Last night- He stopped buttoning his shirt. Was wonderful, he said. So stop being like this, she said, irritation creeping into her voice. I'm sorry if I talked out of turn. It was just a joke. He sighed. No it wasn't. You meant it or you wouldn't have said it. You'd like to have children… Yes, she said, I would. And I'd like to have them with you. We scarcely know one another, he replied, and started up the stairs to the deck. She went after him, angry now. What about what you said on the beach? she demanded. About watching for me? Was that just a way to get me here? She followed him up the stairs. By the time she got on deck he was sitting on the narrow bench beside the wheel, his face in his hands. Is that all this was about? she said to him. And now we've had the night together you're just going to move on? He kept his face buried. From the sound of his voice, he might have been dead. I meant nothing by any of this, he said. I just got caught up in the moment, and that wasn't fair to you. It wasn't fair. I thought you understood… Understood what? That this was just another story, he replied. Look at me, she said. He didn't move; his face remained hidden from her. Look at me and say that! she demanded. With great reluctance he looked up at her. His face was gray; so was the expression in his eyes. I meant nothing by any of this, he said steadily. I thought you understood this was just another story. Her eyes pricked, she heard the whine of the blood in her ears. How could he be saying this? Her vision began to blur as the tears came. How could he sit there and tell her it was all just a game, when they both knew, they both knew, surely, surely, that something wonderful had happened? You're a liar, she said. That may be. You know it's not true! It's as true as any story I ever told you, he said, looking down at the deck. She wanted to quote him back at himself on the subject of what was true and what was not, but she couldn't remember the argument he'd made. All she could think was: he's running away from me. I'm never going to see him again. It was unbearable. Ten minutes ago, they'd been talking about his house on the hilltop. Now he was telling her nothing he'd said was worth a damn. Liar, she said again. Liar, liar, liar. He got up and went into the wheelhouse, not looking at her once. He switched on the engine, and then flipped the switch to haul up the anchor. Between engine and anchor-raising there was quite a noise; any further conversation was out of the question. Frustrated, Rachel went below to dress. The cabin was in total disarray, the pillows and sheets cast in every direction about the bed, her clothes scattered. She focused her emotions on a missing shoe for a minute or two, which kept the tears from coming again. By the time she'd found the shoe and got herself dressed, the weepy feeling had passed, and she was almost ready to have a rational conversation. Shoes on, she went back up on deck. The boat was ploughing through the placid waters at quite a clip, the wind cold and bracing. Look! Galilee yelled to her, pointing toward the bow. She could see nothing. Go see! he urged her. She climbed up past the wheelhouse and onto the forward deck to see what he was so anxious she see. There was a pod of dolphins keeping pace with The Samarkand, three or four of them racing to stay so close to the bow they were practically touching it, their bodies like velvet torpedoes as they sped along. Now and then a smaller individual-a juvenile, she supposed-leaped out of the water to one side of the boat or the other, the leaps decorated with a fillip of the tail or a half-twist of the body. She glanced back at Galilee to show her appreciation, but he had his eyes on the island. There were rain clouds obscuring the heights of Mount Waialeale, as there had been the first day she'd arrived. It was just a short time since she'd been driving with Jimmy Hornbeck and they'd had their conversation about Mammon, the demon of acquisitiveness; but it seemed like weeks. No; more than weeks: another life. She'd been a different Rachel then; she'd been a Rachel who hadn't known Galilee was in the world. For better or worse, that changed everything. The jetty had an occupant when they came in sight of it: a solitary figure sitting staring out at the sea. Rachel assumed the man was fishing, and paid him little attention. It wasn't until The Samarkand was within a few boatlengths of its destination that she studied the figure more closely and realized that it was Niolopua, He'd risen now and was waiting at the end of the jetty, plainly agitated. Before the boat had even come alongside the jetty he leapt aboard. He took no notice of his father; it was Rachel he needed to talk to; and urgently. There have been messages for you, he said, from New York. About what? The woman wouldn't say-. She just told me to find you. Very important, she said. I've been looking for you since dawn. Who was it you were talking to? Mrs. Geary. Yes, but which Mrs. Geary? Was it Margaret? The man shook his head. Loretta? It was Loretta? The old one? Niolopua said. Before Rachel could confirm that yes, Loretta was the old one, Galilee had done it for her. And she didn't tell you what it was about? No. Just that… this Mrs. Geary had to call as soon as possible, because there was something she had to know. Cadmus, Rachel said. The old man was dead, more than likely. Come with me, she said to Galilee. Niolopua can go with you. I'll follow. You promise me? she said. Of course. We need to talk. I know. I understand. I'll come in a while. Let me just take care of the boat. It was hard not to look back as she and Niolopua returned to the house; hard not to fear that Galilee was lying to her, and that the moment she was out of sight he'd cast off and sail away. But she had to have some faith, she told herself. If she didn't believe the promise he'd made her, then there was no hope for them. And if he broke that promise, then there'd been no hope anyway. Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks which divided one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would be out of sight of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just one glance over her shoulder and confirm that he was still there. She resisted successfully, but the effort of doing so must have been visible to Niolopua because once they were down on the sand again, with the house almost in view, he said: Don't worry. He'll come. She glanced sideways at him. Is it that obvious? Niolopua shrugged. He's who he is. You're who you are. What's that supposed to mean? That he won't break his promise. It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a few moments, that she realized how she'd lost some of her equilibrium from being on board The Samarkand. The floor felt unreliable beneath her bare soles, and she felt oddly queasy: a strange reversal of seasickness. She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face, then asked Niolopua if he'd mind making her some hot, sweet tea while she called New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the relative privacy of the dining room and dialed the mansion, wondering as she did so how to best express her condolences. Would Loretta expect her to be tearful at the news? Surely not. The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she recognized: a man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a heavy cold. She asked for Loretta. Mrs. Geary can't come to the phone right now. Who is this? Rachel told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic-the way she felt when an elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop. The prospect of entrapment loomed. I had a message from Loretta, Rachel said. Yes. I know. Who was that I was talking to? A detective. What's going on? It's Margie… What about her? There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: She's dead, Rachel. Somebody shot her dead. The elevator lurched a second time. Oh God, Mitch… They're saying Garrison did it, Mitchell went on. But that's just bullshit. He was set up. It's just bullshit. When did it happen? Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off. Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie. You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you. I don't know anything. You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something- I don't want to come back, Mitchell. What are you talking about? For the first time in the exchange there was some emotion in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief. You've got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway? It's none of your business. You're out on that fucking island, aren't you? he said, his tone all anger now. You think we don't know about that place? You think it's some big secret? I know what goes on out there. You don't have the first clue, she said, hoping he heard the certainty in her voice. If you don't come back, the police are going to come looking for you. Is that what you want? Don't try bullying me. It won't work any more. Rachel. I'll call you back. Don't hang up. She hung up. You bastard, she said quietly. Then, more quietly still: Poor Margie. Something bad? Niolopua said. He was at the door with her cup of hot tea. Very bad, she said. He brought the tea to her table and set it down. My sister-in-law was murdered last night. How? She was shot. By… her own husband. She was laying all this out more for her own benefit than for Niolopua's; putting what was nearly beyond belief into words. Do you want me to go tell my father? Yes, Rachel said, if you don't mind. Would you ask him to hurry up? Tell him I need him here. Is there anything else before I go? No, thank you. I'm sorry, he said. She was a nice woman. So saying, he left her alone. She took a few sips of tea, which Niolopua had sweetened with honey, then got up and went to the cabinet. If her memory served she'd seen a half-emptied carton of cigarettes in one of the drawers. That's what she needed right now: a bitter lungful of carcinogenic smoke inhaled in memory of her Margie. Several lungfuls, in fact, and fuck the consequences. The carton was where she'd hoped it was, but there were no matches. Taking her tea and the cigarettes, she went through to the kitchen. The vestiges of her land-sickness remained; not the queasiness, but the unsettling sense that the ground beneath her was rocking. She found some matches and went out to sit in the veranda, where she could watch for Galilee. The cigarette tasted stale, but she smoked it anyway, thinking of the countless times she'd sat happily immersed in the cloud of smoke that hung about Margie, talking with happy purposelessness. If the victim had been somebody else, Margie would have been thoroughly entranced, she knew; eager to talk over every possible scenario of how the murder had come about. She'd had no sense of tragedy, she'd told Rachel once. Tragedy only happened to people who gave a damn, and she'd never met anybody who did. Rachel had said this was nonsense. Amongst all the important people Margie had rubbed shoulders with there'd been some who genuinely wanted to make a difference. Not a one, Margie had replied; cheats, liars and thieves, every last one. Rachel remembered the conversation not for Margie's cynicism, but because there had been such disappointment in her voice as she spoke. Somewhere behind the veil there'd been a woman who'd wanted nothing more than to be proved wrong about what wretched bastards the movers and shakers of the world were. Which thought led on, inevitably, to Garrison, about whom Margie had never said one good word. According to her he'd been-among other things-selfish, pompous and inept in bed. But these were minor felonies beside the crime of which he was now accused; and it was difficult for Rachel to imagine any circumstances in which he would pick up a gun and shoot his own wife. Yes, it seemed they'd despised one another; but they'd lived in a state of mutual contempt for years. It didn't make him a murderer. If he'd wanted an end to the marriage, there were easier resolutions. She turned over what Mitchell had said, about coming home of her own volition, or having the police come and fetch her. It was nonsense, surely. She plainly wasn't a suspect, so any information she could supply would be purely anecdotal. If they needed to talk to her, they could do it by phone. She didn't have to go back if she didn't want to; and she didn't want to. Especially now, with so much to work out between Galilee and herself. She'd finished her cigarette by now, and had almost finished her tea. Rather than sit on the veranda she decided to go back inside and change into fresh clothes. She picked up some cookies on her way through the kitchen, and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror-her skin flushed from wind and sun-that she realized how strangely calm she felt. Was she simply too stunned by all that had happened in the last few hours to respond to it? Why wasn't she weeping? Her best friend was dead, for God's sake, and here she was staring at herself out of the mirror without a tear shed. She looked hard at her reflection, as though it might speak back to her and solve this mystery; but her face showed her nothing. She went to the shower, and turned it on, shedding her clothes where she stood. The flow of water was weak, but she luxuriated in it nevertheless, remembering Galilee's touches as she sluiced off her salted skin. His hands on her face, her breasts, her belly, his tongue at play between her legs. She wanted him again, now. Wanted him to be whispering to her the way he'd whispered that first night: a story of water and love. She'd even take a tale of sharks if that was what he felt like telling. She was in the mood to be devoured. Taking her leisurely time, she washed her hair and then rinsed the remaining soap from her body. She'd neglected to bring a towel from the rack, so she stepped out of the shower soaking wet, and there he was, standing in the doorway, looking at her. Her first instinct was to cover her nakedness, but the way he was looking at her made the idea nonsensical. There was nothing salacious in his stare; the expression he wore was almost childlike in its simplicity. His eyes were wide, his face almost slack. So now they're killing their own, he murmured. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. He shook his head. This is the beginning of the end, Rachel. What do you mean? My brother Lurnan predicted all this. He knew there was going to be a murder? Murder's the least of it. Margie was a sad creature, and she's probably better off- Don't say that. It's true. We both know it's true. I loved Margie. I'm sure you did. So don't say she's better off dead, because that's not right, that's not true. Nobody could have healed her. She'd been swimming in that poison for too long. So I shouldn't care that she's dead? Oh no, I'm not saying that. Of course you should care. Of course you should mourn. But don't expect any justice to be done. The police already have her husband. They won't have him for long. Another of your brother's predictions? No, that one's mine, he said. Garrison'll walk away from what he did. He's a Geary. They always find someone else to blame. How do you know so much about them? They're the enemy, he said simply. So what makes me any different? Rachel said. I've been swimming in the poison too. He nodded. I know, he said. I tasted it. She was reminded of her nakedness as he spoke. It was no accident; as he spoke of tasting the poison his eyes had left her face. Gone to her breasts; to her sex. Will you pass me a towel? she said to him. He dutifully took the largest of the towels off the rack. She reached out to take it from him, but rather than pass it over he said, Please, let me… and, opening the towel, he pressed it against her body and began to dry her. Despite the prickly exchanges they'd had of late-first in the boat, now here-she was instantly comforted by his attentions; the intimacy of his touch muted by the plushness of the towel, but all the more teasing for the fact. When he dried her breasts she couldn't keep herself from sighing appreciatively. That feels nice, she said. Yes? Yes… He drew her a little closer, carefully drying beneath her breasts, then making his way down towards her groin. When will you go back to New York? he asked her. She had some trouble concentrating on the question; even more formulating an answer. I don't see… any reason why I should. I thought she was a friend of yours. She was. But I'm no use to her now. I'm better off here, with you. I know that's what Margie would tell me. She'd say: you've got something that gives you pleasure, hold on to it. And I've given you pleasure? You know you have, she purred. Good, he said, with a kind of forced brightness, as though the idea was in equal measure pleasing and troubling to him. His hands were between her legs now. She took hold of the towel and pulled it away. Let's go to the bedroom, she said. No, he said. Here, and suddenly his fingers were inside her, and he was pressing her against the wall, his mouth on hers. He tasted strange, almost acidic; and the way he stroked her was far from tender. There was suddenly something ungainly about all of this. She wanted to call a halt, but she was afraid of driving him away. He was unbuckling his pants now, pressing himself so hard against her she could barely draw breath. Wait… she said to him. Please. Slow down. He didn't heed her. If anything his behavior became more frenzied. He pushed her legs open. She felt his erection jabbing at her, like something blind, poking around for its bed. She told herself to relax; to trust him. He'd made the most extraordinary love to her last night; he understood the signals her body was putting out better than any man she'd ever been with. So why did she want to push him away now? Why did it hurt when he got inside her? What had seemed like a wonderful fullness a few hours before now made her want to cry out. There was no pleasure in this; none. She couldn't govern her instincts any longer. She closed her mouth against his kisses, and put her hands on his chest to push him away. I don't like this, she said. He ignored her. He was buried deep in her, to the root, his cock brutally rigid, his hips grinding against hers. No, she said. No! Will you please get off me! Now she pushed him as hard as she could, but his body was too strong, his erection was too implacable: she was pinned against the wall. Galilee, she said, trying to look into his eyes. You're hurting me. Listen to me! You're hurting me. Was it the fact that she was shouting now, her words echoing around the tiled walls, that roused him out of his stupor? Or was he simply bored with his own cruelty, as his body language seemed to suggest? He pushed himself off and out of her like someone leaving a dining table because the food didn't suit them, his expression one of mild distaste. Get out of here, she told him. He retreated a step or two, still not looking at her, then turned and crossed to the door. She hated everything about him at that moment-his idling gait, the way he glanced down at his erection, the little smile she caught in the mirror as he slipped through the door. She closed it after him, then listened as he made his way through the house. Only when she heard the sound of the French window opened, and then being slammed as he exited, did she go to her clothes and start to dress. By the time she ventured out into the house he'd disappeared. Niolopua was sitting on the lawn watching the ocean. She went out onto the veranda, and called to him. You had an argument? he said. She nodded. He didn't even speak to me. He just went down onto the beach, looking like thunder. Will you stay here for a little while? I don't want him coming back. I'll stay, if it makes you feel more comfortable, but I'm sure he's not coming back. Thank you, she said. He'll set sail now, Niolopua said. You'll see. I don't care what he does as long as he stays the hell away from me, she said. Just as Niolopua had predicted, Galilee didn't come back. The day waned, and Rachel stayed in the house, feeling drained of any energy or desire, eating a little, drinking a little, but getting pleasure from nothing. As she'd requested Niolopua kept his watch on the lawn, coming to the veranda once to ask for a beer, otherwise leaving her alone. The telephone rang several times, but she didn't pick up. It was probably Mitch, or perhaps Loretta, trying to persuade her to go back home. In fact, since Galilee's leaving, she'd started to think that returning to New York was not such a bad idea. Certainly staying here in the house would not be wise; she'd only brood on things. Better to go back to the family, where at least she understood her feelings. After the emotional chaos of the last few days there would be something bracingly plain about being among the Gearys. They were hateful, it was as simple as that. No confusion, no ambiguity, no kisses one moment and brutality the next. Maybe she'd just get drunk and stay that way, like Margie; pronounce against the world from behind her funeral veil. It wasn't a very pretty prospect, but what did she have left? This island had been a last resort: a place to heal herself; to watch the miraculous at play. But it had failed her. She was left empty-handed. As the last of the light was going out of the sky she heard Niolopua calling her name, and went out onto the veranda to find him standing at the bottom of the lawn pointing out to sea. There was The Samarkand. Even though its sails were little more than white specks against the darkening blue, Rachel knew without a doubt it was Galilee's vessel. For an aching moment she imagined herself on deck with him, looking back at the island from the sea. The stars coming out overhead; the bed below, waiting for them. She indulged the romance for a moment only, then told herself to stop it. Even so, she couldn't turn her back on the ocean; not until he'd gone. She watched the boat get smaller and smaller, until at last it was utterly eroded by distance and darkness. Only then did she look away. So that's the end of it, she thought. The man she'd fleet-ingly imagined might be her prince had gone. And what a perfect departure he'd made, carried away by the tide; who knew where? Still she didn't weep. Her prince was gone, and she didn't weep. Yes, there was regret. Of course there was regret. However long she lived, she'd never stop wondering what would have happened if she'd better navigated the shoals of his nature; wonder what kind of life they might have had together in his house on the hill. But there was something else besides regret: there was anger. That, she finally decided, was what kept the tears from coming: her fury at the way life piled hurt on hurt.. It dried her eyes the moment they moistened. Margie's methodology had been much the same, hadn't it? By turning spite into an art form, by pronouncing loudly on the meaninglessness of life, Margie kept herself functioning. That's how things would have to be for Rachel from now oh. She'd have to learn to be just like Margie. God help them both. So Galilee sailed away; I cannot tell you where. If this were a different kind of book I might well invent the details of his route, culled from books and maps. But in doing so I would be trading on your ignorance; assuming you wouldn't notice if I failed to get the details right. It's better I admit the truth: Galilee sailed away, and I don't know where he went. When I dose my eyes, and wait for an image of him to come I usually find him sitting on the rolling deck of The Samarkand looking less than happy with his lot. But though I've searched the horizon for some due as to his whereabouts I see only the wastes of the ocean. To an eye more canny than mine perhaps there are dues even here, but I'm no sailor. To me, one seascape looks much like the next. I will confess that I tried to apply what I thought would be simple logic to the question. I took down from the shelves several maps I'd been given over the years (the older ones may even have belonged to Galilee himself; long before he left to wander the world, he loved to trace imaginary journeys) and having spread them out on the floor of my study I walked among them with a book on celestial navigation in one hand and a volume on tides and currents in the other, trying to plot the likeliest course for The Samarkand to have taken. But the challenge defeated me. I set his course north past the island (that much I remember seeing, through Rachel's eyes); I began to calculate the prevailing winds at that time, and set The Samarkand before them, but I became hopelessly distracted by the very charts that were supposed to be anchoring my imagination. They were, as I said, old charts; made at a time when knowledge was not so vigorously (some would say calamitously) divided from the pleasures of fancy. The makers of these maps had seen nothing wrong with adding a few decorative touches here and there: filigreed beasts that rose out of the painted ocean to foam at passing ships; flights of windy angels poised at every quarter, with streaming hair and trumpeters' cheeks; even a great squid on one of the maps with eyes like twin furnaces and tentacles (so the note informed me) the length of six clippers. In the midst of such wonders, my pathetic attempts at rational projections went south. I left off my calculations and sat in the midst of the maps like a man trading in such things, waiting for a buyer. Galilee had been in love before, of course, and survived to tell the tale. But he'd only once before been in love with a Geary, and that made all the difference in the world. Loving a woman who belonged in the family of your enemy wasn't wise; there were plenty of tragedies that testified to that. And in his experience love always ended up a bitter business. Sweet for a time yes, but never for long enough to justify the consequences: the weeks of self-recrimination, the months of lost sleep, the years of loneliness. Every time a romance ended, he'd tell himself that he'd never fall again. He'd stay out at sea, where he was safe from his own appetites. What did he want from love anyway? A mate or a hiding place? Both perhaps. And yet hadn't he raged again and again against the witless contentment of his animal self, smug in its nest, in its ease, in the comfort of its own dirt? He hated that part of himself: the part that wanted to be wrapped in the arms of some beloved; that asked to be hushed and sung to and forgiven. What stupidity! But even as he railed against it, fled it, out to sea, he shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead, now that love was gone again. Not just the loneliness and the sleepless nights, but the horror of being out in the fierce, hard light that burned over him, set there by his own divinity. As he guided The Samarkand out into the ocean currents, he wondered how many more times he'd be able to sail away before the toll of partings became intolerable. Perhaps this was the last. That wouldn't be such a terrible oath to take: to swear that after Rachel there'd be no more seductions, no more breaking of hearts. It would be his mark of respect to her, though she'd never know he'd made it: to say that after her there would only be the sea. That said, he couldn't readily put the woman from his mind. He sat out on deck through the night, while The Samarkand was carried further and further from land, thinking about what had passed between them. How she'd looked, lying in the carved bed that first night; how she'd talked to him as he told the story of Jerusha and the river-man, asking questions, prodding him to make the story better, finer, deeper. How she'd imitated the child bride while she lay there, pulling the sheet off her body to show herself to him; and how exquisite that sight had been. How they'd touched; how he thought of her all the time they were parted, wondering whether to risk bringing her on board the boat. He'd never let a woman set foot on The Samarkand before, holding to ancient superstition on the matter. But her presence made such fears seem nonsensical. What boat would not be blessed to have such a creature tread its boards? So, Galilee sailed away, and-as I said-I don't know where he wandered. I do know where he ended up, however. After three weeks The Samarkand put into the little harbor at Puerto Bueno. There had been storms all along that coast earlier in the month, and the town had taken a severe battering. Several houses close to the quay, repeatedly assaulted by waves breaking over the harbor wall, had been damaged; and one had collapsed entirely, killing the widow who'd lived there. But Galilee's house at the top of the hill was virtually unharmed, and it was here he returned, climbing the steep streets of the town without speaking to anyone he encountered, though he knew them all, and they all knew him. The roof of the Higgins house had leaked during the storms, and the place smelled damp. There was mildew everywhere; and much of the furniture in the upper rooms had begun to rot. He didn't care. There was nothing here that mattered to him. Any vague dreams he might have once entertained of bringing a companion here, and living a kind of ordinary life, now seemed foolish; laughable. What a perfect waste of time, to indulge dreams of domesticity. By chance the weather brightened the day after he appeared-which fact did nothing to harm his reputation as a man of power among the townspeople-but the scene from the windows of his house-the clouds steadily sculpted to nothingness by the wind, the sea glittering in the sun-gave him no pleasure. He'd seen it all before. This, and every other glory. There was nothing new to watch for; no surprises left in earth or heaven. He could close his eyes forever, and pass away without regret, knowing he'd seen the best of things. Oh, and the worst. He'd seen the worst, over and over again. He wandered from one stagnant room to the next, and up the stairs and down; and everywhere he went, he saw visions of things he wished he'd never witnessed. Some of them had seemed like brave sights at the time. In his youth, bloody business had excited him; why did its echoes now come to bruise him the way they did? Why when he lay down on the mildewed bed did he remember a whorehouse in Chicago, where he'd chased down two men and slaughtered them like the cattle they made such profit from? Why, after all these years, did he remember how one of them had made a little speech as he lay dying, and thanked his murderer for the ease of it all? Why when he sat down to empty his bowels did his mind conjure up a yellow dog, which had shit itself in terror, seeing its master with his throat cut on the Starrs, and Galilee sitting at the bottom of the flight, drinking the dead man's champagne? And why, when he tried to sleep-not in the bed but on the threadbare sofa in the living room-did he remember a rainy February night and a man who had no better reason to die than that he'd crossed the will of one mightier, and he, Galilee, no better reason to commit murder than that he served that same will? Oh that was a terrible memory. In some ways-though it was not the bloodiest of his recollections-it was the most distressing because it had been such an intimate encounter. He remembered it so clearly: the car rocking as gusts of wind came off the ocean; the rain rattling on the car roof; the stale heat of the interior, and the still staler heat that came off the man who died in his arms. Poor George; poor, innocent George. He'd looked up at Galilee with such confusion on his face; his lips trying to form some last coherent question. He'd been too far gone to shape the words; but Galilee had supplied the answer anyway. I was sent by your father, he'd said. The confounded look had slipped away and George's face had become oddly placid, hearing that he was dying at the behest of his father; as though this were some last, wretched service he could render the old man, after which he was finally free of Cadmus's jurisdiction. Any ambition Galilee might have entertained of fathering a child had gone at that moment: to be the father's agent in the murder of a son had killed all appetite in him. Not simply the appetite for parenthood-though that had been the saddest casualty of the night at Smith Point Beach; the very desire to live had lost its piquancy at that moment. Destroying a man because he stood between your family and its ascendance was one thing (all kings did it, sooner or later); but to order the death of your own child because he disappointed you: that was another order of deed entirely, and to have been obliged to perform it had broken Galilee's heart. And still, after all this time, he couldn't get the scene out of his head. The hours of the whorehouse in Chicago, and his memories of the yellow dog shitting on the stairs, were bad enough; but they were nothing by comparison with the memory of the look on George Geary's face that rainy night. And so it went on for a week and a half: memories by day and dreams by night, and nothing to do but endure them. He ventured out of the house at evening, and went down to check that all was well with The Samarkand, but even that journey became harder as time passed; he was so exhausted. This could not go on. The time had come to make a decision. There was no great heroism in suffering, unless perhaps it was for a cause. But he had no causes, nor ever had; not to live for, not to die for. All he had was himself. No, that wasn't true. If he'd just had himself he wouldn't have been haunted this way. She'd done this to him. The Geary woman; the wretched, gentle Geary woman, whom he'd wanted so badly to put out of his heart, but could not. It was she who'd reminded him of his capacity for feeling, and in so doing had opened him up as surely as if she'd wielded a knife, letting these unwelcome things have access to his heart. It was she who'd reminded him of his humanity, and of all that he'd done in defiance of his better self. She who'd stirred the voice of the man on the whorehouse floor, and roused the yellow dog, and put the sight of George Geary before him. His Rachel. His beautiful Rachel, whom he tried not to conjure but who was there all the time, holding his hand, touching his arm, telling him she loved him. Damn her to hell for tormenting him this way! Nothing was worth this pain, this constant gnawing pain. He no longer felt safe in his own skin. She'd invaded him, somehow; possessed him. Sleeplessness made him irrational. He began to hear her voice, as though she were in the next room, and calling to him. Twice he came into the dining room and found the table set for two. There was no happy end to this, he knew. There would be no escaping her, however patiently he waited. She had too strong a hold on his soul for him to hope for deliverance. It was as though he were suddenly old-as though the decades in which time had left him untouched had suddenly caught up with him-and all he could look forward to now was certain decline; an inevitable descent into obsessive lunacy. He would become the madman on the hill, locked away in a world of rotted visions; seeing her, hearing her, and tormented day and night by the shameful memories that came with love: the knowledge of his cruelties, his innumerable cruelties. Better to die soon, he thought. Kinder to himself, though he probably didn't deserve the kindness. On the sixth evening, climbing the hill to the house, he conceived his plan. He'd known several suicides in his life, and none of them had made a good job of it. They'd left other people with a mess to clear up, for one thing, which was not his style at all. He wanted to go, as far as it were possible, invisibly. That night, he made fires in all the hearths in the house, and burned everything that might be used to construe some story about him. The few books he'd gathered over the years, an assortment of bric-a-brac from the shelves and windowsills, some carvings he'd made in an idle hour (nothing fancy, but who knew what people would read into what they found here?). There wasn't a lot to burn, but it took time nevertheless, what with his state of mind so dreamy and his limbs aching from want of rest. When he had finished, he opened all the doors and windows, every one, and just before dawn headed down the hill to the harbor. His neighbors would get the message, seeing the house left open. After a couple of days some brave soul would venture inside, and once word spread that he'd made a permanent departure the place would be stripped of anything useful. At least so he hoped. Better somebody was using the chairs and tables and clocks and lamps than that they all rot away. The wind was strong. Once The Samarkand was clear of the harbor, its sails filled; and long before the people of Puerto Bueno were up and brewing their morning coffee or pouring their breakfast whiskies their sometime neighbor was gone. His plan was very simple. He would sail The Samarkand a good distance from land, and then-once he was certain neither wind nor current would bear him back the way he'd come-he'd surrender his captaincy over both vessels, his body and his boat, and let nature take its course. He would not trim his sails if a storm arose. He would not steer the boat from reef or rocks. He would simply let the sea have him, whenever and however she chose to take him. If she chose to overturn The Samarkand and drown him, so be it. If she chose to dash the boat to pieces, and him along with it, then that was fine too. Or if she chose to match his passivity with her own, and let him linger becalmed until he perished on deck, and was withered by the sun, then that lay in her power too, and he wouldn't lift a hand to contradict her will. He had only one fear: that if hunger and thirst made him delirious he might lose the certainty that moved him now, and in a moment of weakness attempt to take control of the vessel again, so he scoured the boat for anything that might be put to practical use, and threw it all overboard. His mariner's charts, his life jackets, his compass, his flares, his inflatable life raft: all of it went. He left only a few luxuries to sweeten these last days, reasoning that suicide didn't have to be an uncivilized business. He kept his cigars, his brandy, a book or two. Thus supplied, he gave himself over to fate and the tides. Most murder, as you're probably aware, is domestic. The conventions of popular fiction tell an untruth: the person most likely to take your life by violence is not some anonymous maniac but the man or woman with whom you breakfasted this morning. So I doubt that I'm spoiling any great mystery if I confirm here that the man who murdered Margie was Garrison Geary. He didn't do it because he despised her, though he did. He didn't do it because she had a lover, though she had. He did it because she refused him knowledge, which may seem like an obscure reason for slaughtering your spouse, but will probably be one of the lesser strangenesses ahead. By the time Rachel got back to New York, Garrison had confessed. Not to cold-blooded murder, of course, but rather to an act of self-defense in the face of his wife's crazed attempt on his life. According to his testimony it had happened like this: he'd come home to find Margie in a drunken state, wielding a Colt .38. She was sick of their life together, she'd told him, and wanted an end to it all. He'd tried to reason with her, but she'd been in far too inflamed a state to be talked down. Instead she'd fired at him. The bullet had missed, however, and before she could fire a second time Garrison had attempted to disarm her. In the struggle the gun had gone off, wounding Margie. He'd called the police instantly, but by the time medical help arrived it was too late. Her body-weakened by years of abuse-had given up. There was a good deal of evidence in support of Garrison's account. The first and most potent piece was this: the gun was Margie's. She'd bought it six years ago, after one of her drinking circle had been attacked on the street, and died in the resulting coma. Margie hadn't concealed her pleasure in the weapon; it was a pretty gun, she'd said, and she'd have not the least hesitation in using it should the occasion arise. According to Garrison, she had. She'd intended to kill him, and he'd done what anybody would have done under the circumstances. He didn't make any false show of grief. His marriage to Margie had been little more than a duty for years, he freely admitted. But if he'd wanted her out of his life, he pointed out, there were less foolhardy ways to engineer that than to shoot her in his own bathroom. Divorce, for instance. It didn't make any sense for him to murder her. It only jeopardized his liberty. Portions of his testimony appeared on the front pages of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, along with quotes from a number of sources that suggested his arguments carried weight. Nor could most of the commentators refrain from reporting some unflattering anecdote about Margie's alcoholism, which had been public knowledge (and on occasion a public spectacle) for a decade or more. Of course there was also no scarcity of gossip pieces, both in magazines and on television, raking up some of the less savory stories from Garrison's past. Two of his former mistresses consented to be interviewed, as did a number of sometime employees. The portraits they drew weren't particularly flattering. Even if only half of what they were remembering was true Garrison still emerged as self-centered, autocratic and on occasion sexually compulsive. But when each of them was asked the important question-in your opinion, was this self-defense or murder?-they were all of the opinion that the man they'd known would not have shot his wife in cold blood. One of the mistresses even added that Garrison was very sentimental about Margie. He'd always be telling me how it had been when they were first in love. I used to tell him I didn 't want to hear about all that, but sometimes I think he couldn 't help talking about her. It used to make me a little jealous, but looking back I think it's sort of sweet. The other subject that came under close scrutiny during this period was the family itself. The Garrison Geary Murder Case gave the press across the country, from the most high-minded journals to the lowliest gutter rags, a perfect excuse to dust off all their old stories about the Gearys. As rich as the Rockefellers and as influential as the Kennedys, the piece in Newsweek began, the Geary family has been an American institution since the end of the Civil War, when its founding fathers came to a sudden and impressive prominence which has not diminished since that time. Whatever the demands of the age, the Gearys have been their equal. Warmongers and peacemakers, traditionalists and radicals, hedonists and Puritans; it has sometimes seemed that within the ranks of the Geary clan an example of every American extreme could be found. With the police investigations into the murder of Margaret Geary ongoing, a cloud of doubt hangs over the family's reputation; but however those investigations are concluded one thing may be reliably predicted: the family will survive, as will the American public's endless fascination with its affairs. Rachel had not told anybody she was on her way back, but she didn't doubt that word would precede her, courtesy of Jimmy Hornbeck. She was right. The Central Park apartment was adorned with fresh flowers, and there was a note on the table from Mitchell, welcoming her home, and thanking her for coming. It was a curiously detached little missive, not that far removed from a hotel manager's note of thanks to a returning guest. But nothing about Mitchell surprised her any more. She was perfectly sanguine about what lay before her. Whatever new grotesqueries she was about to witness she was determined to view them with the same amused detachment that she'd seen in Margie. She called Mitchell in the early evening to announce her arrival. He suggested she come to the mansion for some supper. Loretta would like to see her, he said; and so would he. She agreed to come. Good, he said, he'd send Ralphie to pick her up. There are reporters outside the home all the time, he warned. Yes, they were waiting for me when I came back here. What did you tell them? Absolutely nothing. Who the hell's telling them our business, that's what I want to know. When all this is over, I'm going to find out who the fuck these people are- And do what? Fire then- asses! I'm so sick of having cameras everywhere and people asking stupid fucking questions. She'd never heard Mitch exasperated this way before; he'd always accepted scrutiny as the price of living the high life. You know some sonofabitch got a photograph of Garrison in jail, sitting on the can. And some fucking rag printed it! A picture of my brother taking a dump in a cell. Can you believe that? The outburst shocked her; not because somebody had taken a picture of Garrison relieving himself, but because until this moment she hadn't imagined his being behind bars. She'd just assumed that Cecil, or the phalanx of lawyers the family had hired to defend Garrison, had secured his release on bail. When does he get out? she asked him. We're pressing for that right now, Mitch said. I mean, he's innocent. We all know that. It was a horrible accident and we all wish it hadn't happened, but it's ridiculous keeping him locked up like he was a common criminal. A common criminal: that went to the heart of it. Whatever else Garrison might have been, Mitchell seemed to be saying, he was American royalty, and deserved to be treated with appropriate respect. It was an impression Rachel had reinforced when she went over to the mansion: the atmosphere was one of besiegement; the drapes closed against the curious eyes of the hoi polloi, while the noble Gearys debated their response to the crisis. Loretta set the tone for these exchanges. The imperiousness was intact, but it was shaded now with a certain bruised melancholy, as though some martyrdom had been visited upon her which she was bearing with fortitude. She welcomed Rachel back with a dry kiss. They gathered for supper around the dining room table, with Loretta at one end and-rather pointedly positioned, Rachel thought-Cecil at the other. Besides Deborah, Rachel and Mitch three other members of the clan were present. Norah was there, tanned and brittle; George's brother Richard had come up from Miami, where he'd just successfully defended a man who'd cut up a hooker with an electric carving knife, and Karen, flown in from Europe. She was the one member of the group Rachel had not met; she'd been out of the country during the wedding. She was a contained woman, her body, her gestures and her voice neat and unassuming. Rachel had the impression that she'd not come back out of love for either Garrison or the family, but because an edict had gone out, demanding her presence. She certainly had little to contribute to the debate. In fact she said scarcely a word throughout the supper, seldom even looking up from her plate. There was no doubt as to the star of the evening: it was Loretta. She made a statement of intent the moment they all sat down. We're going to start acting like a family again, she said to everyone. This business with Garrison is a wake-up call, to us all. It's time to put our differences aside. Whatever problems we have with one another-and they're bound to come along in the best of circumstances-this is the time to forget about them and show people what we're made of. Cadmus, as I'm sure you know, is now bedridden, and I'm afraid he's very weak. In fact, some of the time he doesn't even know who I am, which is of course very painful. But he has periods when his mind's suddenly very lucid, and then he can be astonishingly acute. Earlier this evening he started talking about hearing voices in the house. And I told him that yes, we were having a little family gathering. I didn't tell him why, of course. He doesn't know about… what happened… and I don't intend to tell him. But he did say to me, when I explained to him that we were all gathering together, that he was going to be here with us. And I think in a very real sense he is. He should be our inspiration right now. There were murmurs of assent around the table, the loudest coming from Richard. We all know what Cadmus would say if he knew what was going on, Loretta said. Fuck 'em all, said Mitch. Norah laughed into her wine glass. Loretta moved on without glancing in her stepson's direction. He'd say: business as usual. We have to demonstrate our strength as a family. Our solidarity. Which is why I'm particularly grateful to you, Rachel, for coming back at such short notice. I know things between you and Mitchell aren't very easy at the moment so it means a lot to me personally that you're here. Now, Cecil, why don't you tell us all the situation as far as Garrison's bail is concerned? The next hour was dedicated to legal issues: the history of the judge who would be presiding over the hearing, supplied by Richard; brief assessments of the prosecutors from Cecil, then onto the business problems arising from Garrison's temporary indisposal. Rachel didn't understand many of the issues under discussion, but there was no doubt that despite Loretta's talk of business as usual family affairs were hard to keep on track without Garrison to give the orders. A dozen times, maybe more, a question had to be left unanswered because it fell into Garrison's area of expertise. Finally, the conversation returned to Rachel. Has Mitchell told you about the fund-raiser on Friday night? Loretta asked her. No, I… Loretta threw Mitchell a weary look. It's for the hospital. The pediatric ward. It was about the only charity Margaret had the slightest interest in, and I think it's important we have a presence there. I was going to talk to Rachel about it later, Mitchell put in. Later's no good, Mitchell, Loretta said. We've had too much 'later' in this household. Things being put off and put off… What the hell was she talking about, Rachel wondered. We've got to get on and do what we need to do. Even if it makes us uncomfortable or- All right, Loretta, Mitchell said. Calm down. Don't you condescend to me, Loretta replied, her voice monotonal. You're going to listen to me for once in your pampered little life. We're in a mess here. Do you understand me? Mitchell just stared, which inflamed Loretta all the more. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? she yelled, slamming her palm down on the table. All the silverware jumped. Loretta- Cecil said softly. Don't you start pouring oil, Cecil. This isn't any time to be making nice. We're in terrible trouble. All of us. The whole family. Terrible, terrible trouble. He'll be out in a week, Mitchell said. Is this willful or are you just too stupid to see what's right in front of your nose? Loretta said, her voice not quite so loud, but still several notches above the conver sational. There's more to all this than what happened to poor Margie… Oh don't start your Cassandra act, for God's sake, Mitchell said, his voice thick with contempt. Mitchell, Cecil said, a little respect… If she wants some respect she should start being practical, and not telling us it's all in the fucking stars. That's not what I'm saying, Loretta said. Oh I'm sorry. What is it today? Tarot cards? If your father could hear you- My father thought you were as crazy as a coot, Mitchell said, getting up from the table. And I'm not going to waste my time sitting here listening to you chatter on like you understand a damn thing about the way the business life of this family works. You're the one who's out of his depth, Loretta said. There you go again with your inane little threats! Mitchell yelled. I know what you're doing! You think I don't see you trying to get Rachel over to your side? Oh for God's sake- Sending her off to that stinking little island, thinking it's some kind of secret. Rachel caught hold of his hand. Mitch, she said. You're making a fool of yourself. Shut up. He looked as though she'd just slapped him, hard. He pulled his hand out of her grip. Are you in with her then? he said, looking at Rachel but pointing at Loretta. Is this some fucking conspiracy? Cecil? Help me out here. I want to know what's going on. Nothing's going on, Cecil said, wearily. We're just all tired and stressed out. And sad, She isn't sad, Mitchell said, looking back at Loretta, who was wearing an expression of regal inviolability. She's fucking glad Margie's dead and my brother's in a jail cell. I think you should apologize for that, Cecil said. It's the truth! Mitchell protested. Look at her! Now it was Cecil who rose. I'm sorry, Mitchell, I can't permit you to talk to Loretta that way. Sit the fuck down! Mitchell yelled. Who the hell do you think you are? Cecil did and said nothing. You know what happens when the old man goes? It's Garrison and me. We're in charge. And if Garrison stays in jail, then it's just me. He made a tight little smile. So you'd better watch yourself, Cecil. I'm going to be looking very hard at the kind of support I'm getting. And if I see a lack of loyalty, I'm not going to think twice. Cecil glanced down at his plate. Then he sat down. Better, Mitchell said. Rachel. We're leaving. So go, Rachel said, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Mitchell hesitated. I'm not coming with you, Rachel said. It's up to you, Mitchell replied, with an unconvincing show of indifference. I know, Rachel said. And I'm staying here. Mitchell made no further attempt to convince her. He left the room without another word. Brat, Loretta remarked quietly. I'd better go and calm him down, Richard said. Why don't we all just go home to bed? Norah suggested. I think that's probably a very good idea, Loretta said. Rachel… would you stay just a couple of minutes? I need to have a word with you. The rest of the company departed. When the last of them had gone, and the door was closed Loretta said: I noticed you didn't eat. I wasn't hungry. Lovesick? Rachel said nothing. It'll pass, Loretta went on. You'll have plenty to distract you in the next few days. She sipped on her white wine. You've got nothing to hide, she said. We've all felt what you're feeling now. I don't know what you're talking about. Him, Loretta said quietly. Galilee. I'm talking about Galilee. Rachel looked up, and found Loretta's eyes there, ready to read her. Was he all you wanted him to be? she asked. I told you. I don't… know… Loretta looked pained. There's no need for deceit, she said, lie to Mitchell, by all means. But not to me. She kept looking at Rachel; as if waiting for her to spill her pain. Greedy for it, in fact. Why should I lie to Mitchell? Rachel said, determined to deflect this interrogation by gaze. Because it's all he deserves, Loretta said flatly. He was born with too many blessings for his own good. It's made him stupid. If he'd had a harelip he'd have been twice the man he is. So I take it you think I'm rather stupid too. Why would I think that? I married him. Brilliant women marry perfect clods every day of the week. Sometimes you have to do that to get on in the world. If you're a shoe-girl in a shoestore and if you don't get out all you'll ever do is sell shoes then by God you do everything in your power to change your circumstances. There's no shame in that. You did what you had to do. And now you're finished with him. And there's no shame in that either. She paused for a moment, as if to allow time for Rachel to respond; but this little speech had left Rachel dumbstruck. Is it really so hard to admit to? Loretta went on. If I were you I'd be proud of myself. I really would. Proud of what? Now you're being obtuse, Loretta said, and it's not worthy of you. What are you afraid of? I just don't know… I don't know why you're talking this way to me when we scarcely know one another and… well, to be honest I thought you didn't really like me. Oh I like you well enough, Loretta said. But liking isn't really the point any more, is it? We need one another, Rachel. For what? For self-protection. Whatever your dense husband thinks, he's not going to be running the Geary empire. Why not? Because he's inheriting a lot more than he'll be able to deal with. He'll crack. He's already cracking because he doesn't have Garrison to hold his hand. What if Garrison gets off? I don't think there's any 'what if?' about it. He'll get off. But there's other stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. His women, for one thing. So he has a mistress. Nobody's going to care. You know what he likes to do? Loretta said. He likes to hire women to play dead. Doll themselves up to look like corpses and lie there and be violated. That's one of his milder obsessions. Oh my God… He's been getting more indiscreet over the last year or so. In fact, I think he wants to get caught. There are some photographs… Of what? You don't need to know, Loretta said. Just take it from me that if the least disgusting of them was to be made public Garrison's little circle of influence would disappear overnight. And who has these pictures? Loretta smiled. You? Rachel said. You've got them? Loretta smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her tone completely detached. I'm not going to sit back and watch a necrophile and his idiot brother take charge of all this family owns. AD this family stands for. She looked up from the smoothed linen. The point is: we all have to take sides. You can either work with me to make sure we don't lose everything when Cadmus dies, or you can run to Mitchell and tell him I'm conspiring against the two of them, and take your chances with them. It's up to you. Why are you trusting me now? Rachel said. Because Margie's dead? God, no. She was no use to me. She was too far gone. Garrison again. God knows what he put Margie through, behind locked doors. She'd never have put up with- With playing dead on a Saturday night? I think a lot of women do that and a lot worse to keep their husbands happy. So you still haven't answered my question. Why are you telling me all this now? Because now there's something you want and I can help you get it. There was a long silence. Then Rachel said: Galilee? Loretta nodded. Who else? she said. In the end, everything comes back to Galilee.<p align=center>
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