How to Stop Time(67)

I am being totally sincere, but she laughs. ‘Fascinating? I’m sorry.’

Her laugher fades. I want to kiss her. I don’t know how to make that happen. I have been single for four centuries and have absolutely no idea of the etiquette. But I feel light, happy. Actually, I would be fine with this. This ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ moment. With a kiss forever a possibility. With her looking at me and me looking at her.

I realise I would like to solve the mystery of her just as much as she wants to solve the mystery of me and she nestles a little into me and I put my arm around her. Right there. On the park bench. Maybe that is what it takes to love someone. Finding a happy mystery you would like to unravel for ever.

We sit in silence for a while, like a couple, watching Abraham gallop around with a Springer spaniel. And I am enjoying the happy weight of her head on my shoulder, for two minutes or so. Then two things happen in quick succession. I feel a sudden pang of guilt, thinking of Rose. Of her head resting on my chest as we lay on her narrow bed in Hackney. Of course, Camille wouldn’t know this is what I am thinking, except that my body might have tensed a little.

And then my phone rings.

‘I’ll ignore it.’

Which I do. But then it rings again and this time she says, ‘You’d better see who it is,’ and I look at my phone and I see a single letter on the screen. H. I realise I have to get it. I have to do exactly what I would do if I wasn’t with Camille. So I answer it. And the moment, that brief moment of happiness, floats away like a bag on the wind.

I stand up from the bench, with the phone to my ear.

‘Is this a bad time?’, Hendrich asks.

‘No. No, Hendrich. It’s fine.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m walking the dog.’

‘Are you on your own?’

‘Yes. I’m on my own. Except for Abraham.’ I say this, I hope, quietly enough for Camille not to hear, and loud enough for Hendrich not to become suspicious. I think I fail on both counts.

A pause.

‘Good, well, listen . . . we have found someone.’

‘Marion?’

‘Alas, no. We have found your friend.’

I am confused by the word ‘friend’. I look at Camille, now frowning at me, still on the bench.

‘Who?’

‘Your man.’

I sincerely have no idea what he is talking about. ‘What man?’

‘Your Polynesian. Omai. He’s alive. And he’s being a fool.’

‘Omai?’

Even without Camille nearby, this news wouldn’t make me happy. Not because I am not interested in my old friend, but because I sense there can be nothing good from Hendrich finding him. It is very unlikely he wants to be found. The happiness of just one minute ago seems totally out of reach.

‘Where is he?’ I ask. ‘What’s the story?’

‘There is a surfer in Australia who looks just like a three-hundred-year-old portrait by Joshua Reynolds. He calls himself Sol Davis. He’s becoming a little bit too known in the surfing community. This good-looking thirtysomething going on three hundred and fifty. And people are talking about how he doesn’t age. People are talking about that. It’s in the online comments, for fuck’s sake. Someone saying, “Oh, that’s the immortal guy who lives near me who’s looked the same since the nineties.” He’s dangerous. People are getting suspicious. And apparently that’s not all. Agnes’ source in Berlin says they know about him. The institute. He could be in real trouble.’

The wind picks up. Camille rubs her shoulders, to mime to me she is cold. I nod and mouth the words, ‘I’m coming.’ But at the same time I know I must look like I am not hurrying Hendrich.

‘This is—’

‘You have a holiday coming up? A half-term?’

This is sounding ominous. ‘Yes.’

‘I can get you on a flight to Sydney. Straight through. Just a two-hour stop in Dubai. Some airport shopping. Then, Australia. Week in the sun.’

Week in the sun. He’d said the same before Sri Lanka.

‘I thought you said that was it,’ I say. ‘I thought you said I could have this life for the full eight years. No interruptions.’

‘You are sounding like a man with an anchor. You’ve no anchor.’

‘No. Not an anchor. A dog, though. I have a dog. Abraham. He’s an old dog. He won’t last the eight years. But I can’t just leave him.’

‘You can just leave him. They have dog sitters nowadays.’

‘He’s a very sensitive dog. He gets nightmares and separation anxiety.’

‘You sound like you’ve been drinking.’

I knew I couldn’t endanger Camille.

‘I had some wine earlier. Enjoying life’s pleasures. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?’

‘On your own?’

‘On my own.’

Camille is standing up now. She is holding the lead. What is she doing? But it is too late. She is already doing it.

‘Come on, boy!’

No.

‘Abraham!’

The dog runs over to her.

Hendrich’s tone becomes steel. ‘Is that your anchor?’

‘What?’