research requires a bit of space, you know.”
“How will you get back?”
“Why, the same way I came over. By boat.”
“At night?”
“Why not? It’s not far.”
He said this without irony, a little amazed at my amazement, as if sailing across the harbor were about the same thing as bicycling down the street. I don’t know, maybe it was, around here. Not far, he said, and for an instant I thought I glimpsed this, him, a boat, moonlight, paradise, and for the space of that instant, that minute carved away from myself, I was somebody who stepped in a sailboat and fell in love.
And the instant passed, and I was myself, Lulu, standing on firm, dry land, ribs held together by a thick layer of scar tissue, impregnable.
“Well,” I said, “be careful, that’s all.”
“I shall. Good night, Mrs. Randolph.”
“Good night, Mr. Thorpe.”
I turned to head down Bay Street to the Prince George, a few buildings down. The Royal Bank of Canada stood before me, a brick giant, all shut up for the night. As I forced my legs into stride, I heard him call out, “What did you read at university?”
“Read?”
“Study, I mean. What course of study?”
“French literature,” I said. “And a minor course in music.”
“Music? How interesting. My mother studied music.”
I made a noise of exasperation and stepped under the awning of the hotel. From the street came the sound of whistling, a bar or two, and then Thorpe’s voice, just as I crossed the threshold into the hall.
“It’s how they met, I’m told. My parents. My father heard her playing the piano and fell in love.”
Naturally I marched straight toward the bar, with the fixed intention of giving Jack a piece of my temper. I was roiled, you see, overturned by the conversation on the corner of Bay Street, while the stars gazed fuzzily on Thorpe’s bright head and the seagulls screamed. The salt air had done something to my head. I thought I was going to burst. Relief or disappointment or something, straining against the scar tissue, creaking my poor ribs.
“Jack, you son of a gun,” I began.
Jack turned swiftly. “Now, there you are, Mrs. Randolph. Fellow came for you. Gave up about a half hour ago.”
“What fellow?”
Jack reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of paper. “See for yourself.”
I took the note and opened it.
My dear Mrs. Randolph,
Should you decide to prolong your stay in Nassau after all, may I humbly bring to your notice a convenient cottage on Cable Beach, available to let on reasonable terms, local landlord.
Yours sincerely,
A. de Marigny
Part II
Lulu
December 1943
(London)
Miss Thorpe’s flat. Around the corner from the Basil Hotel it isn’t, quite, although that might have something to do with the funny route taken there by Miss Thorpe, turning corners and doubling back, until we arrive at a house surrounded on both sides by empty lots, scattered with rubble.
“The Blitz,” she says simply, jumping up the steps. She’s got her key out already and shoves it into the lock. Thank God, it opens readily. She steps back and motions me through.
“Third floor,” she calls softly.
I start up the steps while the sound of the bolt clangs behind me. Then her footsteps, tripping along as if the climb is nothing at all. We reach the landing and a single door, which she unlocks and opens, ushering me past into a hallway that smells of damp wool, just exactly as if I’m the ordinary kind of guest who drops by for tea and crumpets in the afternoon, pinky finger primed for business.
“If you’ll hang your coat and hat on the hook, there,” she says. “The radiator should dry them out. I do hope you haven’t left anything important at the hotel.”
“I haven’t. Although that fellow back there thinks I have, which should keep him busy for a bit. Assuming I haven’t killed him.”
“You haven’t,” she says dryly. “That man’s indestructible. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? You do drink tea?”
“When I must.”
She disappears through a narrow doorway into what I presume is some sort of kitchen. I hang my hat first, then the coat. Before I turn away, I pat the left breast, and the stiffness of the paper beneath, tucked inside the inner pocket, is like a miracle. “Sit,” calls Miss Thorpe, over her shoulder, and I sit, I simply collapse on one of the four chairs around the table, and it’s only then that I realize my arms and legs are shaking, my breath is so shallow in