Jakob’s food has turned to ash in his mouth. He has to force the mouthful down, and takes a swig of coffee.
‘But anyway . . .’ Bettina turns her back to him and busies herself stacking plates. ‘These things happen. Only God knows how long we’re granted.’
‘Yes,’ Jakob manages to say after an age. And then, some time after that: ‘I remember her.’
Bettina puts the stack of plates on the shelf and lines up the edges. She half turns round, but doesn’t quite look at him.
‘I thought you might. That’s why I told you.’
Jefferson Shull seems to have grown even more handsome in the months since Jakob last saw him. He is wearing a new coat, and has cultivated a golden moustache. His boots gleam with the mirror brightness that speaks of twice-daily polishing. He greets Jakob with a show of bonhomie, but is not quite as friendly as he was in the north. Social and financial differences count for little in the Arctic; here, on Fifth Avenue, especially in the hushed surroundings of Shull’s club, it seems a different matter.
After some idle talk, the subject of Lester’s book comes up.
‘It’s rather good, isn’t it?’ says Shull. ‘He was saying that it should help raise money for his next trip.’
‘You’ve seen him?’ Jakob had thought Lester was on a constant round of lectures and engagements, too busy and important to talk to any of them.
‘Yes. The other day. In fact’ – Shull gives a light laugh – ‘he’s asked me to go with him again.’
‘Well, that’s great. Do you want to go?’
‘I may do. He might give you a call, too . . . He did say, though, that he wants to concentrate on the exploring next time, rather than scientific studies. “Science takes too long,” he says!’
Jakob laughs angrily. ‘They aren’t always compatible.’
After another drink, Jakob feels Shull getting restless.
‘Shull, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’
‘Dupree Land . . . That chapter in the book was the first I’d heard of it. Armitage didn’t say anything about seeing new land after the northern trip; nor did Frank. Don’t you find that odd?’
‘Oh, well, Armitage said something about that. He wanted to keep Dupree Land to himself precisely because it was so important. He didn’t want any hint leaking out before he announced it.’
‘But what about Frank? He was there. He would have told me.’
Shull glances at the door. As he speaks, his eyes stray constantly to the hand holding his cigar.
‘Ah, well . . . apparently Urbino was so done in when they reached the coast, he just went to sleep. Armitage saw the land when the fog lifted, but Urbino never did. And Armitage didn’t tell him.’
‘But in the book he says Frank was with him! He uses him to corroborate the sighting.’
‘I was about to say . . .’ Shull’s face assumes a respectful expression. ‘After Urbino passed away, Armitage thought it would be a nice gesture for the family if they thought he’d shared in the discovery.’
‘Did he say all this the other day?’
Shull shrugs. ‘I guess he knew it might raise a few questions.’
‘Well, I guess that answers mine,’ says Jakob.
‘You won’t tell Urbino’s family? You do know them, don’t you?’
‘I’m not going to do anything that would hurt them – or Frank’s name.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Shull mashes out his cigar on the copper plate that has been brought for the purpose.
Some hours later, Jakob is in a beer cellar in his old neighbourhood. He came here to get drunk, which he has achieved, but somehow it hasn’t helped as much as he thought. His fury is undimmed, but he is unable to think what he can do about it, other than go to Greenland to see for himself the mythical Dupree Land, or lack of it . . . Well, then that is what he must do. Once that becomes inevitable, there is nothing to stop the news of Cora’s death from overwhelming him. Since yesterday, he has pushed it to the back of his mind. Now he allows it to engulf him, although it has been more than eight years since he saw her, and he has rarely thought of her.
.
He should have seen the end coming. He was in his second year at City, and their liaison had been going on for many months. Jakob was just as happy as at the outset, but, once or twice, after Christmas, when the apartment’s customary odours were masked by oranges and cloves, Cora had seemed distracted, almost irritated on his arrival, turning away in silence at the door, leaving him to close it and follow her into the bedroom, wondering if he had done something wrong. If he asked her what was the matter, she would say, ‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m just tired.’ Eventually, she would consent to be taken in his arms, and things would take their usual course.
Until, that is, the evening in February, when Jakob arrived, as usual, just after seven. Cora pulled the door open and swept him inside, her tongue inside his mouth before the latch clicked home. She barely said a word, or let him speak; they knocked over a copper jardinière on the way to the bedroom. Jakob was hardly going to complain about an excess of passion, although it struck him, even at the time, as odd.
At half past nine, she rolled away from him and got up.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Jakob, who knew without having to look at the clock that they had another half hour.
‘Get dressed,’ she said, pulling on her clothes.
‘It’s only half past.’
‘I need to say something.’
He began to dress, miserably aware that something was wrong. Before he had buttoned up his shirt, she started: ‘We’re leaving New York. My husband and I are moving to St Louis. I’m sorry, Liebling, but this is the last time.’
It sounded rehearsed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’
She frowned impatiently. ‘Because he has a job there.’
Jakob either couldn’t understand the words, or didn’t believe them.
‘Is there someone else?’
Cora had an effective technique for arguing, which was to refuse to take part.
‘You don’t have to go, Cora. You don’t love him!’
‘Jake . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t expect you to understand now, but one day you will.’
He realised with horror that he was going to cry in front of her. He became angry. He begged.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Listen, my dear boy, I didn’t tell you before because we would both have been sad. We’ve had a good time, no? Now it’s over. Sooner or later, you will fall in love with a girl your own age. That will happen, whether I’m here or not. I would rather not see it.’
‘No! I won’t . . . Cora, don’t . . . please . . .’
He knew nothing he said would make a difference. He had never had any influence over the course of things. As he left, his dignity in tatters, she said, ‘Nothing lasts forever, Liebling. Nothing good; nothing bad. You’ll see.’
.
Thinking the St Louis story might be false, he spied on her apartment for the next two weeks, but never caught a glimpse. Clumsily casual enquiries proved that they had, in fact, moved to St Louis. The simple, horrible truth was that he hadn’t mattered that much to her. He stewed in misery for nights on end, convinced that no one had ever felt as wretched as he. Hendrik and Bettina would hold discussions in hushed tones that broke off whenever he entered the kitchen. They couldn’t know the reason; he had never told anyone, other than Frank, and even Frank did not know her name.
Cora was right: as spring galloped into the city, he began to recover. He would fall asleep even as he was admiring the depth and nobility of his suffering, and surprised himself one day by walking past her street without a qualm. He allowed himself to believe that, since the affair with Cora had come to him so easily, the same t
hing would happen again before too long, and his life would contain (maybe!) a whole succession of Coras: accommodating, seductive women, undemanding yet passionate. He waited. But the time that healed his hurts proved this hope erroneous.
The respectable young women he did meet, like Frank’s sisters, were quite out of reach – unattainable, except through marriage, for which he had not yet the inclination, or the money, and he would not stoop to deception to get what he wanted. There had been other women, eventually – even a couple, like Swedish Kate, of whom he had been really fond – but no one has ever been as good to him, as forthright, as sensual, as Cora Gertler – and now she is dead.
By ten o’clock, the beer cellar is crammed with people in various stages of dishevelment, night has fallen and he is maudlin, allowing himself the indulgence of remembering Cora in the most sentimental way possible. Some time later, he is astonished to hear his own name spoken. The astonishment doesn’t extend to responding in any way, but he is surprised to feel his shoulder being shaken, not gently.
‘Mr de Beyn . . . Mr de Beyn . . . Jake! Good heavens, are you all right? What sort of a state is this?’
He looks up to see a vaguely familiar face.
‘It’s Lucille. Lucille Becker.’
‘I know,’ he says with dignity. ‘Hello, Miss Becker.’ His voice sounds sepulchral, as though he is speaking from the bottom of a well.
She shakes her head in exasperated concern.
‘Don’t you think it might be time you went home?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Here? I’m buying beer. Does that shock you?’
Jakob shakes his head, and then stops, as it makes him dizzy.
‘Will you go home now? Are you all right to walk?’
Jakob is sure he said yes, but the next minute she is pulling him to his feet, her arm, thin and surprisingly strong, around his back.
‘No, no . . .’ he protests mildly. Standing up, he has discovered, is a bad idea.
‘Come on. You need some coffee. We only live round the corner. And it’s always better to talk to other people, I find, rather than yourself.’
.
Somehow they make their way out – accompanied by humorous comments on all sides – into the cool night.
Jakob lets Lucille steer him round the corner, insisting he can walk on his own, that he is all right, really, not that drunk . . . But when she lets his shoulder go, he falls over his feet, and she seizes his arm again in a vice-like grip.
‘Here we are,’ she says at last, letting them into an apartment building. Vinegary smells waft down the stairwell – disturbingly similar to the Gertlers’ building. For a terrible second, he thinks he is there, before noticing that the stairwell winds the other way.
‘Don’t mind the smell,’ Lucille says. ‘It doesn’t make it into the apartment.’ She rattles keys and pushes him inside, calling out, ‘Clara? We have a visitor!’
There is no sign of anyone in the apartment. Lucille leads him into a tiny kitchen with a tiny table, where she makes him sit. He sinks into a chair with relief while she boils a pan of water. When she has made coffee, she pours two cups and places one in front of Jakob, who has to concentrate to stop himself slumping forward and resting his head on the table.
‘Drink that.’
‘Where’s Clara?’
‘I don’t know. She may have gone to her parents’.’
‘Is she coming back?’
‘Well, if she has gone to her parents’, I shouldn’t think so, now.’
As if aware of what she has said, and feeling the shadow of impropriety descend, she grips her coffee in both hands and leans against the stove.
‘I probably shouldn’t have spoken to you at all, the state you’re in, but you seemed so upset. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Oh . . . it’s just . . .’ Jakob considers brushing it off, but the prospect of feminine sympathy is too tempting. And there is something so straightforward and intelligent about Miss Becker that he finds himself telling her . . . well, almost everything. She is a modern, sensible girl – she doesn’t seem shocked to hear of the death of his former lover; indeed, she is sympathetic. Encouraged, he finds himself rambling incoherently about Frank and Lester and his suspicions, although he thinks she struggles to follow his reasoning.
‘You should talk to Clara about this.’
‘Yes. I know.’
He stares up at her. She now has her arms folded in a protective – or defensive – gesture. He has previously thought of her as amiable and jolly, but rather simian in appearance: one of those women one assigns, almost without thinking, to the category of lifelong spinster. But now, as if a veil has been torn from his eyes (dissolved in beer, perhaps), he notices the honey-coloured skin of her neck where it vanishes into her dress, the spirals of dark hair escaping from her bun. The way her bodice moulds itself over little, pointed breasts. His throat constricts with lust. He focuses on his coffee, horrified, embarrassed – he has never found her alluring before, but then he never before noticed, well, certain things about her.
‘More coffee? Is it helping?’ Without waiting for an answer, she refills his cup. It is strong and bitter, and is having the effect, if not of sobering him, then of taking the edge off his sottishness. ‘You can probably go home soon, if you’re feeling better. I have to work tomorrow.’
‘You’re very kind,’ he blurts out. ‘To listen to me like this, I mean.’
‘Oh, well. I’m sorry about your . . . finding out like that. It must have been a shock.’
Both her hands are holding her coffee cup: pretty hands, delicate and slender.
If he had been either less drunk or more drunk than he is at this moment, Jakob would not have done it. He reaches out and touches one of Lucille’s hands. She freezes, but doesn’t move it away. He looks up into her face, which is turned to one side, as if she doesn’t dare look at him. Her lips are parted; her throat moves as she swallows. Emboldened, with his other hand he takes her cup and puts it on the table. More than anything, he longs to put his arms around a warm, female body and to feel arms around him in return. As he stands up – swaying – he pulls her towards him, and then he is conscious of her head against his shoulder, his hands stroking her thin back, and her arms close around him. She is so slender and little, the top of her head barely reaches his chin.
‘Lucille . . .’ he begins, trying to think of some appropriate words, and she tilts her head up towards him, and her mouth brushes softly, primly against his. Electrified, he opens his mouth against hers, parts her lips with his tongue and, completely inflamed, presses her body against his, throwing restraint, caution, manners to the winds, swept along by a hot flood of desire . . . It is too much; almost instantly, he is aware of her twisting away from him, pushing fiercely at his chest.
‘Stop!’ she hisses.
‘Please . . . You’re so . . .’
As he becomes aware of the noises in the hall, Lucille shoves him in the chest, which, on a drunken man, has the effect of overbalancing him and pushing him back into the chair. His elbow meets the wall with a sharp rap. He bends over the table, his heart racing. Lucille picks up her cup, wipes her mouth, assumes the position of someone leaning casually against a stove, and manages to look calm as Clara walks into the kitchen.
‘You’re still up . . . My goodness! Jake!’
Clara peels off her gloves, looking at him with a mixture of puzzlement and – he is sure – suspicion. He blinks at her, realising with despair just how drunk he is. He speaks very carefully to make up for it.
‘Hello, Clara. I must apologise to you both. Miss Becker found me in a rather sorry state, and was kind enough to bring me here to, well, sober me up.’ He smiles at her. ‘I’m afraid I’ve bored her sadly with my troubles.’
Clara looks at them both. Jakob is cold with horror. His elbow hums wit
h pain, which he can’t account for. He also seems to have bitten his tongue.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Becker. I’m ashamed of myself. I’m fine now.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ Clara’s gaze flicks from his face to Lucille’s and back, like the spike of a metronome. ‘Does he, Lucy? You can’t walk home in this state. You’ll fall in the river, or end up in an alley with your throat cut. We have a truckle bed. You can sleep in my room, and I’ll go in with Lucy. No, it’s fine. We’ve done it before.’
‘But the neighbours . . .’ Jakob says weakly, as he now desires nothing more than to lie down – even on the floor; the corner of the kitchen would do, or the hall outside . . .
‘Oh, I think the damage is done there,’ says Clara.
.
Lying in Clara’s bed, in the dark, head spinning, he despairs of sleep. His mind is a mess of thoughts, mostly sad and unpleasant, but his body is full of the impression of holding Lucille in his arms, and he seizes on it as a way of blocking out the rest. How slender she was, how meagrely fleshed (not really his type at all); she felt like a fragile, sharp-boned bird, but full of warmth . . . And she had kissed him – seemed, at first, to welcome his effrontery. In his blurred, drifting state, his hand closes around his warm, tumescent penis (more for comfort than anything else), but then he imagines Lucille unbuttoning in the next room, just the other side of the partition wall, Lucille welcoming him, revealing her hot, secret places . . . It is only when he is breathing quickly and his heart is racing that the consciousness of what he is doing breaks upon him – and that he is doing it in Clara’s bed. Sickened, but past the point of no return, he finishes with a strangled gasp, a half-spoilt climax and a wave of self-disgust, holding the bedclothes away from himself in an attempt not to defile them. Panting, he reaches for his jacket; his handkerchief has mysteriously (and yet unsurprisingly) vanished. He finds his shirt in the darkness and wipes himself with the shirt tail, wondering if the loss of self-respect now afflicting him will be temporary, or fatal.