Dead Lines. Greg Bear
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the left. ‘We respect each other,’ he said.
‘Is he married?’
Peter smiled. ‘Mostly I run errands and take meetings. That sort of thing.’
‘How intriguing …’ She lifted her hand. ‘Sandaji will know what to tell him, I’m sure.’
They had passed through a dining room and into the rear portion of the house. He saw a sleeping porch with two women sitting in warm darkness on wicker chairs. Their eyes glinted at him as he passed. For a moment, he half imagined them in long silken dresses. The effect was at once charming and disconcerting.
‘You know what our greatest difficulty is?’ Baslan asked. ‘Discouraging proposals. For marriage, you know. The men who come to Sandaji find her so comforting. But then, she is beautiful, very much so, and that confuses many.’
Peter said he was looking forward to meeting her. Personally, however, he had never found age much of an aphrodisiac.
The house was a work in progress and in these back rooms, it looked more like a middle-class grandma lived here than a very rich aunt. Past the dining room, tables, couches and chairs were not antiques. The jambs and rafters still supported decades of paint, rather than being stripped to native wood as in the restored sections.
The first thing Peter noticed as Jean Baslan opened the last door was the scent of freshly crushed herbs: thyme, rosemary, and then spearmint. Aromatherapy, he thought. Oh, goodie.
Sandaji was pressing her dark velvet gown down over her hips, having apparently just stood up from a plain wooden chair. Peter saw her first, and then the room she was in. Later, trying to remember the room, he would be hard-pressed to describe what was in it. The rest of the house remained clear, but from this moment, all he truly remembered was the woman. She stood six feet tall, hair a grey curly fountain tamed by clips and a ribbon to flow down her back. The black gown she wore ended at mid-ankle and she was barefoot, her feet bony but well formed, like the rest of her; hips protruding, though she was not excessively thin, roll of tummy pronounced but not obtrusive, faint nubs on not particularly small breasts. As Peter’s eye moved from bare feet to shoulders, he received the impression of a willowy college girl, and then Sandaji turned her head to face him, and he saw the mature woman, well past her fifties but surely not in her seventies, observant eyes relaxed in a face lightly but precisely seamed by a subset of whole-life experiences. Her lips, still imbued with natural color and utterly lacking in lipstick, bowed into a knowing Shirley Temple smile. She seemed wise but mischievous, awaiting a cherished playmate, inviting speculation that she might be won over to a deeper friendship; his eyes moved down in reappraisal. The black gown covered a trim, healthy body, promising rewards beyond the spiritual. She enjoyed his appreciation.
Peter had met many beautiful women. He knew what they expected, the charming dictates they imposed on all their unequal relationships. Somehow, however, he did not think his experience would be much help with Sandaji.
‘This is Peter Russell,’ Jean Baslan announced. ‘Representing Mr Joseph Adrian Benoliel.’
Sandaji narrowed her eyes like a cat settling in for a coze. ‘How is Mr Benoliel?’ she asked, and looked back at the table. ‘It’s a pity we will not meet this evening. I understand he has a question.’
‘He does,’ Peter said.
Sandaji looked around the room, pink tongue tipping between her lips. ‘That’s a good seat,’ she said, and pointed to the forest green couch against the wall, beyond the glass-topped table, all of which Peter now noticed. ‘Please feel at ease.’
‘I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes,’ Jean Baslan announced with a wink, as if she were a liberal-minded duenna leaving her charge in the trust of a gentleman. She closed the door behind her.
Peter sat on the green couch, knees spread comfortably, and rested his big, dry hands on them; an easy workman’s way of sitting, not a gentleman’s, and for once, he was acutely aware of the difference. Sandaji pressed her gown again with a downward stroke of her hand and returned to the plain wooden chair. She sat straight and with knees together, not as if manner dictated, but equally in comfort. Her long fingers continued to shape precise smoothing motions, drawing the clinging velvet down an inch as she made a small contraction in the corner of her mouth. Human, that contraction said; no matter what else you see or feel, I am merely human.
Peter was not so sure. He could not take his eyes off her. She seemed utterly at peace. Her eyes remained fixed on his.
‘I do odd jobs for Mr Benoliel,’ Peter said. ‘He told me to come here.’
Sandaji obviously appreciated the effect she had on men and probably on other women, but it did not in the final balance seem to mean a lot to her. She raised her brows with an expression that said, how nice. ‘There’s so much pain to be soothed, so much confusion to be guided into useful energy.’ Her voice was tuned like a cello. Peter could imagine himself swimming in that voice.
‘I’m sure,’ he said. Then, without willing it, he added, ‘My best friend died today.’
Sandaji leaned forward and she held her breath for an instant before exhaling delicately through her nose. ‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ she said.
‘He was a writer, like me,’ Peter added.
‘You both have qualities,’ Sandaji said. ‘You are valued, that I can see. So many people – women in particular, I think – have placed an astonishing faith in you. That is something special, Peter.’
‘Thank you. I like women,’ he said. ‘They seem to like me. And around me, well … I can’t …’ He could not stop talking. Embarrassing. His hands clutched his knees.
‘I understand,’ Sandaji said. ‘I commit only to my work now. That confuses some who need the kind of love we can’t afford to give, for different reasons.’
Peter chuckled uncomfortably. ‘Well, it isn’t because I’m successful and devoted to my work.’
‘No?’
‘More like I’ve never grown up.’
‘There’s a charm in youth, and a sting,’ Sandaji said. ‘We let go of youth for a great price. Life does not offer the price to all.’
Ah, Peter thought, and felt a measure of control return. I’m getting her range. She’s very good, but she is not impenetrable. Still, she is very good. ‘Sorry. That just slipped out. I’m not here to talk about me.’
‘I see.’
‘My employer has a question.’ ‘
We have time.’
‘Michelle told me that earlier. Mrs Benoliel.’
A wrinkle formed between Sandaji’s pale brows. ‘She worries for her husband.’
‘All rich wives worry,’ Peter said, feeling defensive now, and not because of the implied analysis of Michelle. He could feel the spotlight of Sandaji’s attention moving around his personal landscape, touching points he might not want illuminated.
She looked to his left, then leaned back in the chair. ‘Your daughter,’ she said, and the wrinkle between her brows deepened.
Peter stiffened until his neck hurt. ‘I didn’t ask about my daughter,’ he said.
Sandaji opened and closed her hands, then folded them on her lap, dimpling the black velvet. She seemed agitated. ‘I assure you, I’m not a psychic, Mr Russell.’
‘I’m here on Mr Benoliel’s behalf. Why bring up my daughter?’
‘Please ask … your question.’ She looked up at the ceiling, frowning self-critically. ‘I’m so sorry. I did not mean to intrude. Please forgive me.’
Peter looked up as well. Light flickered there, as if reflecting from a pool of water somewhere in the room.
Sandaji