Turning Back the Sun(40)

He heard alarm in his voice. “What”s wrong?”

Her recurring need to be alone had always taken other forms than this; he would sense it in the self-contained way in which she moved about the house, with averted head. But her turning away tonight was tinged by petulance and accusation. In the oppressive heat, tiny bulbs of sweat glistened along her hairline, and she kept touching her knuckles against her eyes.

“I”m just tired,” she said. “I”ve got period pains.”

He offered to drive her to her flat, but knew she would refuse. Then she said, “I wish you hadn”t been so superior with Felicie.”

He repeated irritably, “Superior?”

“She”s distraught about the club. It”s becoming a desert, and she said you looked pleased.”

“I wasn”t pleased.”

“You told her I could always do another job.” She stooped down and gathered up the cat. “But I don”t want any other job.”

Then Rayner realized what had angered her: he had belittled her vocation. And as she walked away down the road, with the cat glaring over her shoulder, she was flaunting her independence because she felt he had discounted it. He wondered, too, if the presence of the natives was starting to oppress her. Not that they imposed themselves—they were eerily quiet—but both Zo? and he had felt recently that the house was being watched.

They squatted outside the back door, as usual, in the sultry shadows. But the girl had changed. She sat very upright and still, with her hands spread in her lap. Across her forehead dangled a string of little green stones, and two circles of corkwood dye opened up her eyes into a black stare. When she shot her meaningless smile at him, the effect was of a portrait”s canvas splitting. It brought a shock of emptiness.

Rayner sat beside the old man and took his blood pressure, which had been stable for a week now. “In two days you”ll be able to go.” But as he scrutinized the encircling trees, his relief was followed by a nagging disquiet. Anybody scaling the fence and parting the foliage might see the natives here. He said, “You haven”t noticed anybody watching?”

“My eyes not so good now.” The old man turned to the girl. “But her eyes young, and she seen nothing.” He continued looking at her, while her painted gaze stayed fixed on her lap.

Rayner supposed he should remark on her, but her impact was unsettling. He said formally, “She”s looking pretty.”

The girl glanced at him, as though she understood. Then she and her father conversed together, he in a growling, sibilant flow, she in her abrupt jabber. They might have been speaking separate languages. The old man tapped Rayner”s forearm; it was the first time he had voluntarily touched him. “She says she”s glad you like her.”

Rayner imagined this a native courtesy—and soon the girl got up and went into the villa. Behind them the sun had dropped like a red millstone into the mountains separating the town from the west. For the first time in weeks a shudder of wind arose, then stilled, and three bats came whispering out of the trees. Over the sky, too hazed and light for stars, the violet air was disappearing into indigo, and a trail of birds crossed out of the wilderness.

Then a small cry sounded from the house, and the old man said to Rayner, “The girl want you to go in to her.”

Rayner did not believe that this was what he imagined. “What does she want?”

But the native only repeated, “She wants you to go to her.” His expression was lost under its blue-black skin.

Rayner got up, mystified. He went past the cooled fire in the annex and entered the room. In a corner glowed two rush candles. The girl had taken off her headband and was combing out her hair with a wooden comb. As she turned her stare on him, the loosened hair fell short and thick round her face. For a moment she stood looking at him. Then her hands lifted to her shoulders and she matter-of-factly eased the white dress down her arms and dropped it to the floor.

Their misunderstanding was complete.

Momentarily her body, backlit by the candlelight, was visible only in silhouette, but Rayner felt a rush of anguish at her humiliation. He took the two steps to her and began, “Look …” He was about to tell her she was pretty, but that he could not touch her. He had forgotten that they knew no word of one another”s language. His hand came up and held her shoulders, and he tried to look into her face. But she gazed back unfathomably. He had thought of her as a girl, but of course she was a woman. He supposed she had made herself pretty for him. She was wearing only a plaited cane armlet, and she smelled of sandalwood grease.

Her body was now fully lit in the weak light. It was lissome and coppery. Her young breasts brushed against his wrists. Her closeness had become unbearable. His fingers were kneading her shoulders, despite himself. He had an idea that by this—their only common language—he was telling her that he admired her, but would not sleep with her. But she just stared through her black-circled eyes, waiting for him to begin, while his desire and his torment at her innocence mounted.

It was as if only her movements—fleet and sudden—expressed her. She darted to the bed and lay on it, her legs a little apart, her face tilted at the ceiling. The shift of light woke a glistening patina over her skin. He could not tell if she wanted him at all. Perhaps her father had persuaded her to it. Was it an act of gratitude, some kind of repayment? He had no idea.