One Way or Another(74)
She called Marco and left a message about where she was going and why, said she would meet him at their favorite Italian restaurant at nine, and that she loved him. Oh, and by the way, would he keep an eye on Lucy? She would take care of Ghulbian.
As she jogged through the rain and the puddles up the driveway with its scrubby trees and the hulking white birds that flew over the car, checking her out, then went and flew back and hulked under the eaves again, looking as miserable as she felt, she thought Marshmallows still did not give off a welcoming aura, no matter how she’d tried to change it. Of course new trees were to be planted, truckloads of them would be arriving, their roots encased in wooden crates. Mature trees, because Ahmet had neither the time nor the patience to wait for anything to grow. Instant gratification was his watchword, in more ways than one, Martha suspected. Anyhow, the trees would make a huge difference, as would the thousands of daffodil and tulip bulbs that had been planted, the many-colored variety with the shaggy petals that she adored, when spring finally came to this part of the gray world. If it ever did.
She parked in the semicircle of what was left of the gravel in front of the steps and got out, stretching her back. The house still looked gloomy and forbidding. No one was supposed to be there, but oddly there was a light on upstairs, in an attic, she guessed, though she had never been up there, never even so much as penetrated the bedroom floor. “Downstairs” was what she had been given to do and that was where she’d worked. She wondered who could be up there under the eaves near those birds, and if it was a guest why, in this vast house, had they not been given better accommodation.
Standing on the front steps, ringing the clanging great doorbell, hearing it echo through the empty house, Martha got the uneasy feeling that Morrie was right and the place was haunted. She heard footsteps crossing the hall, took a step back, ready to turn and run. The door was flung open and Ahmet stood there, with that smile on his face.
“Oh, thank God, it’s you” was all she managed to say.
53
“My dear Martha! Had I known you were coming I would have organized a better welcome! Come in, please.” Ahmet glanced anxiously at the now circling birds. “I hope they haven’t bothered you; I promise to get rid of them before we finish the house.”
“No, please don’t, they’ve probably been here for generations, they’re a part of the place.”
Martha stopped to look back at them settling again in a row on the eaves; some held small twigs in their beaks, obviously in the process of rebuilding their nests. She thanked heaven there was something alive at Marshmallows after all. With its everlasting flat background of treeless marshland it was a hard place to love: in fact, Ahmet was probably the only man who could ever love it. She certainly could not call to mind at the moment any woman who’d want to settle here in the wilds with only the silence and the twenty-mile drive through the scrubland to find a village store with a carton of milk, a newspaper, another human being. She wouldn’t bet the TV reception was decent either, which was something else she’d better check on since it obviously fell into her area of responsibility.
“Well, this looks great,” she said to Ahmet, stepping into the hall, onto the newly finished floor, with the wide planks of chestnut she had specified, finished in the traditional way with square pegs and no visible nails. It looked spectacular, though she was not thrilled with the mahogany balustrade Ahmet had wanted to keep, and which did not look right with the chestnut. The red carpet was still there too, with the immense brass clips keeping it in place. She wondered why it had not been taken care of; she’d have to speak to Morrie about it, he had probably run out of there so scared he hadn’t even thought about it again.
“This carpet will go, of course,” she told Ahmet, standing at the foot of the steps next to him. “I’d prefer the wood to show, refinished to a more mellow tone, and with a narrow antique runner; pale, not this red that seems to be everywhere.”
She saw Ahmet frown, saw he was concerned, and impulsively touched his arm, told him not to worry about a thing, she would get it right, and in time for the ball. “The plans are well under way,” she added as she followed him into the library where, as always, a fire glowed in the hearth and the two red leather chairs awaited with a tea tray on the small table between them. She made a mental note to tell him to get rid of the huge Victorian silver set, the teapot was so clumsy she could barely lift it to pour, and the spoon handles so fancily embossed they looked to be museum quality, not everyday items of usefulness.
“We have to tone you down a bit, Ahmet,” she said as he sat in stony silence while she poured and handed him his cup. She offered the milk jug, the sugar bowl, the plate of fig cookies. He accepted none of them, sat staring off into the flames, almost, Martha thought, as though she were not there.
“Ahmet,” she said uneasily, putting her own cup back on the tray. “You are preoccupied, I can come back another time, there’s no hurry, really.…”
He lifted his head, stared irritably at her. “What is this preoccupation you and Marco have with my ‘preoccupation’? I have business matters on my mind. All I expect from you, Martha, is my house finished on time and looking exactly the way you told me it would, the way it did in the sketches, the plans. I expect the same from Marco—my portrait finished and presented on an easel in the hall. No more, no less than what I am paying you for.”