twenty–seven

It was now almost one and the old woman brought us another two cups of tea which was the colour of rust and too hot.

‘I’ll arrange a meeting between you and Justine. But it will have to appear accidental. Justine, of course, must have no idea what is going on. After that it is up to you. I am not going to give you background material on her to help you. That isn’t the way. It will sound false. She’s too clever for that.’

I wondered how long Juliette had waited for someone like me to come along.

‘What I said about Justine being secretive was true. She doesn’t like anyone, including me, to know where she is at any given time. But she does go to one place regularly. In order to write. It is a private library in St. James’s Square called the London Library. You might have heard of it. People are always putting it into their novels.’

It was early morning before I got back home to Kensington Gardens. I was relieved to return to the aesthetic sanity of my rooms. Deeds that took place in elegant surroundings somehow seemed less morally accountable. The atmosphere of Juliette’s flat and the café had given a shabby air to the enterprise. After taking a bath, I lighted candles and reverently placed them on the mantelpiece below the portrait of Justine.

I felt violated by the act of sex that had taken place in Juliette’s flat. That Juliette had been using her body as a means to an end made the whole encounter seem even more obscene. I lay down on the sofa and fell asleep in front of the painting.

That night I dreamt again that I am driving along the avenue of trees. I am experiencing exactly the same sensations as I have had in the previous dream, feeling the same breeze and the same sunshine on my face. But this time my sense of exhilaration begins to be replaced by a feeling of menace as I approach the house. The maze is still to the right of the house. The dream doesn’t stop where it did before. I switch off the engine of the car and begin walking towards the steps of the main entrance. Then a window high up in the house catches my eye as suddenly the rays of the sun hit the glass. I cannot tell if the window is barred or whether the shafts of reflected light shine the illusion of bars across it. Someone is watching me from behind the glass. Immediately a cloud goes across the sun and the window is plunged into darkness. And I know, in the sudden realization that often takes place in dreams, that the person who is watching me from behind the window is the reason why I have come here.

I woke up the next morning, still on the sofa, my limbs aching, looking straight into the painted eyes of Justine. I leapt up from the sofa with an energy I had not felt since childhood and drew a long hot bath. This was the morning I had decided to visit the London Library.