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Canarino
Canarino
Katherine Bucknell
Prologue
Thanksgiving. The junior colleagues from the office were the first to appear. David had said he didn’t want them to feel that the party was a work event, but they evidently perceived it as such. They arrived as a tribe, wearing, Elizabeth felt certain, the clothes they had worn to the office that morning. Though some were tall and some were short, some were men, some were women, they looked to Elizabeth to be all exactly the same, in the ungraceful, wrinkled uniform of number-crunching, obedient ambition. They exuded not the least aroma of aesthetic inclination, nor even imagination. How on earth would they be able to appreciate the subtleties of David’s party? He should have taken them off on a golf outing, she thought, or maybe just given them each a wad of cash—cash which is so straightforward and which, once given, feels extremely personal.
As she shook their hands one by one, Elizabeth smiled and nodded, murmuring, ‘Hello’, or ‘I’m Elizabeth’ maybe, or ‘Welcome’, her voice hushed low so that the young men and women leaned toward her, with a polite question in their eyes, wondering just what she had said.
Elizabeth was looking for clues. The hands varied in size, in firmness, in clamminess. They told her nothing, and she disliked grasping them. She felt that the faces revealed only cowed respect. How would she remember their names? Some had European accents, some English, some American. An Indian-looking face spoke with the voice of New Jersey, and a black face spoke with the voice of Eton. It seemed to her like a globalization of youth, a sign that too many people were clamoring for the same thing.
Elizabeth also thought that they accepted champagne with uncouth excitement. And then they stood clutching the delicate flutes any old way, sipping from them in awkward silence here and there around the edges of the room as if they were expecting someone to make some kind of announcement or start a game.
Her disdain knew no bounds. Desperately, she tried to imagine her own guests making conversation with these learner bankers, these trainee human beings. There might still be time to rearrange the seating, but she was afraid to do it without David’s okay. It had been his express request that she mix everyone up, and she had spent hours with her secretary, studying CVs, searching for signs of interest in music, art, theater, books, shooting, riding, fishing, dogs, so that everyone might have common ground with his or her dinner partners.
She went on shaking hands and weakly fake-smiling, and she began to reconfigure the tables inside her head. She knew exactly how she would do it, but she needed ten minutes by herself. Her own guests, being socially blasé, hadn’t begun to arrive yet; if she could slip away now, she had time. Where was David? It must be an hour since she’d been told his plane had landed; why would there be traffic from Heathrow this late? Could she leave the junior colleagues with the catering staff? Well, why not? Wouldn’t they prefer to talk quietly amongst themselves, without her perhaps daunting presence?
She turned toward the door, softly mouthing, ‘Excuse me.’
Ah! There was a straggler, yet another junior colleague, arriving on her own. And as the young woman came through the double doors into the drawing-room, Elizabeth caught sight of David just behind, outside on the landing. She began to walk toward them. She wanted to go quickly, greet the young woman and slip past her to have a quiet word with David before he entered the room. But she restrained her hurry; it would suggest to David that there was a crisis. Then he might sense something important was afoot; he might want to discuss it, or he might resist her plan altogether. Calm was essential; calm would bring things around just the way she wanted them—the way she wanted them for the sake of the guests. And that’s what she would say to him: I think our guests would feel more relaxed if I made a few small changes…
I must greet her properly, Elizabeth was telling herself. David is watching; however I greet this one young woman is the way in which he will think of me having greeted them all. He must feel satisfied before we make these seating changes. She was already looking past the young woman toward David. Then she made herself look back again, with her tentative smile, extending her hand. She focused her eyes on the young woman’s face.
In fact, it was an attractive face. Elizabeth felt surprised. She warmed to it, unexpectedly. A rich, off-white complexion, Asian eyes—maybe Asian, Elizabeth wasn’t sure—dark in color, glistening, very large and direct. What Elizabeth most noted was the delicacy of line which traced out the features on such a strong bone structure—prominent cheekbones, a real nose. And she realized she was looking up; the young woman was tall, and her hair was long and wavy, black, curling over her shoulders, rising in a rich, natural curve from her forehead. This one has a bit of glamor, Elizabeth thought, at last!
Elizabeth repeated her inaudible hellos.
The young woman leaned toward her, alert, friendly. ‘I’m Madeleine Hartley. It’s wonderful to see you here in your own house, and you’ve made it so beautiful for us, with the autumn garlands and the harvest sheaves and those amazing old lanterns. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s your American Thanksgiving, isn’t it?’
Elizabeth smiled; she smiled broadly. She could hear David approaching, and she felt somehow that the evening might get better. Madeleine seemed natural, at ease. There would be plenty of time to deal with the seating; maybe some of it could be left as it was.
Then suddenly, everything went drastically wrong.
As Madeleine let go of Elizabeth’s hand, and as they both turned toward David, Madeleine reached up and pushed back a few strands of her glossy hair, curling them behind her right ear.
There on her translucent, ecru earlobe was a fossil snail set in a curve of gold with a pearl at the tip. Elizabeth froze, staring at it.
David put a hand on Madeleine’s back and said, ‘I see you two have met.’
Then he stepped closer to Elizabeth, bent toward her, and kissed her dryly on the cheek.
Elizabeth didn’t move; she went on staring at the earring. She went hot all over; then she turned to ice.
Madeleine stood very still. She glanced at David, but she said nothing. She didn’t smile; she looked wary.
David’s face clouded with dread. Something was amiss already, he was thinking. He looked across the room at the baleful herd of youngsters, abandoned, drifting uncertainly. They were waiting for him, waiting for Madeleine.
Then he looked back at Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s face was like a piece of marble, white, motionless, and it seemed to be resisting some awful metamorphosis, as if she were about to turn into a howling beast, a creature of ugly misery, but was somehow warding off the expression of pain that was trying to take her over.
Her long, pale hand fluttered to her neck and dabbed at her necklace, catching hold of it, covering it.
Then she said, ‘You arrived together, did you?’
David felt taken aback. His eyebrows went up. He shrugged almost involuntarily and started to laugh, though he didn’t mean to.
Madeleine smiled. ‘I’m awfully sorry that we’re late. The French air traffic controllers—’
But David cut her off. He was embarrassed, and his embarrassment which had launched the involuntary laughter now made him angry. He said brusquely, ‘We were on the same flight from Rome, so I gave Madeleine a lift.’
‘And you’re working on the same deal, in Rome?’
Madeleine studied Elizabeth’s face with concern. She took a halfstep backwards, as if to disengage. But her eyes were drawn to Elizabeth’s hand as it fidgeted at her throat. Then as Elizabeth’s hand continued to move over the pendant on her necklace, Madeleine caught sight of it, part of it anyway, and her long, thinly etched black eyebrows furrowed. She took another half-step backwards, turning her body toward David even as she moved slightly away, and she leaned almost imperceptibly in the direction of their colleagues.
The doorbell rang. David flinched, but the three of them continued to stand locked together in a triangle of tension. There was an aroma of destruction rising among them like smoke.
Finally, David said as slowly and quietly as if he were explaining something immensely complicated to a lunatic holding a gun, ‘The deal’s not in Rome, Elizabeth. We work on lots of things together, Madeleine and I. I work with all these kids, all the time.’
There was a pause. He went on in a brighter, dismissive tone, ‘I told you, they are fantastic. Brilliant. Really, really special. So let’s get this party sparkling now, shall we? What about champagne for you two? Shall I get you some?’
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She let go of the pendant on her necklace and reached up with both hands around the back of her neck to the clasp.
David stared at the pendant. At last he, too, saw what it was. A large pewtery disk of fossil in the tightly spiralling shape of a snail, a horn-shaped ammonite, gold-mounted and embellished with an off-round, baroque pearl so luminous and fresh that its dimpled, opalescent layers seemed to be still dripping down it like viscous wet paint. His eyes went to Madeleine’s ear, then back to the necklace.
Elizabeth unhooked the necklace quickly, and as she swung it past the Pre-Raphaelite loop of her hair, she caught it on something, a hairpin maybe, and her hair tumbled down wildly around her shoulders.
She held the necklace out toward Madeleine in her shaky right hand and said ever so quietly, ever so clearly, with a courteoussounding upward lilt, ‘I think this is yours?’
Madeleine didn’t move, so Elizabeth dropped the necklace on the floor between them. It made a concentrated thud on the parquet, a heavy, focused clunk; a few people turned to look. David stepped backwards and bent down to pick it up. Madeleine crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes lowered, watching him.
The ammonite was cracked through.
Then, before David could stand up again, Elizabeth swept out through the double doors, passing two of her guests on the landing without acknowledging them, her long blonde hair flashing crazily, her chiffon layers floating and trembling on the air as she quickly, jerkily mounted the stairs.
For Boband for Ted
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Prologue
Dedication
PART I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
PART II
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
PART III
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART IV
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
Acknowledgements
Books Edited By Katherine Bucknell
Copyright
About the Publisher
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