67

Nona had insisted. We could get out of the cab and walk across the Pont-Neuf.

“I don’t want you getting too tired,” I said.

“Don’t be silly.”

So we were holding hands, gazing down at the river, figures stepping quickly past, people walking small dogs. It had stopped raining. The clouds broke into dozens of fragments, like flagstone flung down into bits.

The plane trees had grilles around their trunks, ironwork that does not constrict the tree so much as give it definition, like the lace collars in a Flemish portrait. The quays along the Seine were pocked and dimpled with fossil shells.

“Why did I bring an umbrella? It’s totally unnecessary,” said Nona. She wore an overcoat Anna Wick had designed, and a beret that had arrived in a box with a note from Anna herself.

The note had displayed the quick, dashed-off look of a message that has been carefully considered: “You deserve every good thing from now on.” I had thought the note, in its fortune-cookie rhythm, betrayed either jealousy or a stylistic clumsiness.

Notre Dame shivered in the Seine. The city was suspended, upside down, an imperfect memory of itself. A barge, as long as a black building, approached the bridge. The coal glittered.

“Dr. Valfort doesn’t think you’re coming,” she said.

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t know you the way I do.”

“He’ll be surprised.”

“And pleased.”

We leaned on the railing of the bridge. “Are you all right?” she asked.

The feeling kept returning: This was all about to end.

I reassured her. No, I saw nothing, heard nothing, only Paris around us. Except—perhaps they would come for me now, at this moment of happiness. Maybe this is the hour they would select to seize me.

Seeing Stuart again had been a cause for joy, but afterward I had felt a strange combination of happiness and dread. Before Stuart’s return I had begun to believe that the visions were a symptom of mental illness, that there were no Powers, no soul.

Now I was not sure of anything.

I understood, now, how little I had known about my father. I had kept myself from truths I must have known, in one part of my mind. Now I fully possessed my memories, but I had, at the same time, lost the fiction of a wise, loving father.

I could not shake the feeling that the night of my good fortune was over.

The barge passed under us, on its way south.

I insisted on taking a taxi at last. There was a disagreement. The distance was too short, said the driver, but Nona reassured him, and the man drove without further complaint. I paid him what must have been quite a bit, forgetting to even count the money, not caring. He was cheered by the amount. In English, speaking carefully, he wished us good luck.

The reception was a hive of people accustomed to power. I recognized two foreign secretaries and a number of people whose wealth was legendary. Security people circulated, mixing with the crowd.

The thought kept repeating: all about to end.

“You’ll never be able to sell your ideas to a group like this.”

I knew the voice well. I turned and a thin, tanned woman offered me her hand. “It’s good to see you,” I said, and I meant it. I introduced Nona to Margaret, my ex-wife.

“Stratton can do anything he wants to do,” said Nona.

“Can’t we all?” asked Margaret. She gave Nona a moment in which to say something barbed, but Nona held my hand and gave Margaret a pixyish smile.

I considered Margaret’s words, and then said, “Margaret refined iron to an airy thinness years ago. She has a special brand of pessimism.”

“Men like a hard woman,” said Margaret, and gave a toss of her head, a mannerism I recognized as meaning, in this case: Who cares what men like?

“Men have always been especially fond of you, Margaret,” I said. I could not help noticing how dissimilar the two women were.

“I think everything should be done to help kids. I’m interested in issues,” said Margaret, her eyelids half closed. “Sick kids, dead whales. It’s just—look at these people. Oil people. Politicians. A few of the politicians even have a future. My husband—you see him over there with the sunburn.” She spoke with a careful lifelessness. “But Stratton—let’s face it. These people are here so their wives can stock up on perfume and lingerie.”

“I used to find Margaret’s brand of boredom attractive,” I said, turning to Nona, but then giving Margaret a smile I knew she would recognize as: It was nice seeing you—now go away.

Margaret acknowledged the smile with a sigh. “Stratton—I was sorry about Rick. Poor Rick. And he was always so charming. I suspected he was disturbed, of course,” she added, leaning close to Nona but not lowering her voice.

Once again I was out of practice, not prepared for Margaret’s breathtaking lack of feeling.

“Stratton’s been good to me,” said Nona. “And he misses his brother very much.”

“Anyway,” Margaret said after a pause, “I look forward to your speech, Nona.”

“Strater’s doing the talking,” said Nona.

“Stratton’s going to convince all these people to give away their money? This will be interesting. Good luck,” said Margaret in the way that means: You don’t stand a chance. She withdrew a cigarette from her handbag, and she held it in a way that seemed to indicate that she expected someone to light it for her.

Someone did, a man in a DeVere tux, snapping a DeVere platinum lighter.

“She likes you,” said Nona, when we were briefly alone together.

“She doesn’t ‘like.’ She enjoys herself, though. And we’re even friends, in a distant, steel-lined sort of way.”

At the edge of the crowd Margaret joined her husband. She said something to him, something about Nona and myself, I sensed from the way she nearly glanced over at us. The red-faced man laughed aloud.

Valfort shook my hand, his grip strong. “I am a little surprised,” he said.

“You had no faith in me.”

“I was a fool to worry.”

“I’m afraid I don’t like my speech, though.” I had it in my pocket, blue index cards fastened with a paperclip.

“Ah,” said Valfort, that single sound indicating an entire chapter of feeling, anxiety, regret, hope. I could sense how badly Valfort needed me, just then, how badly he wanted the meeting to go well.

I was embarrassed. I should not have been so frank. I had worked hard on my remarks, but I thought that Margaret might be right. I did not have a chance.

“Stratton has what it takes,” said Nona. “Don’t worry about him.”

All about to end.

The Salle du Haut Conseil was crowded. There were worry beads and silk burnooses, there were dark-suited figures, there were security guards every few paces against the windows. Beyond was the distant view of Notre Dame, her flying buttresses keeping her in place under the dissolving clouds.

Valfort gave opening remarks in French, and then there was polite applause as he said my name. I slipped the blue notecards from my pocket.

Useless. How could I possibly succeed? And Nona needed me. Children needed me. I felt my faith in myself, which had been weakening, crumble completely.

I stood behind the rich mahogany of the lectern. I could see curiosity—a questioning study from this distinguished crowd that was not altogether friendly. They had heard about the death of my brother to the point that they were all probably weary of hearing his name. The reputation of my family was great enough that I would have received polite attention in any event. Now, however, the attention was mixed with respect and a kind of vague pity. I was one of those common figures in public life, the survivor of a series of famous tragedies.

I slipped the paperclip into my pocket. I surveyed the words on the cards. I stacked the notecards into a neat pile and looked up again at the blur of faces. This collection of earnest platitudes about the importance of children would sound lifeless. A row of translators leaned forward at a side table, ready to translate whatever I was about to say.

Nona’s eyes encouraged me from the front row. Valfort sat beside her, his hands folded, his eyes expectant.

I glanced down, ready to speak. And there, on the lectern, diagonally across the first card of notes, was a glowing blue feather.

Someone did this.

Someone playing a trick.

The room was hushed, one person fiddling with the receiver in his ear, a security guard crossing his arms at the back of the room.

There was a movement, a subtle quickening of the air. A figure entered the room from a side door. It was a woman in a flowing gown, a garment of vibrant white.