The Japanese Lover(48)
She went on speaking about Nathaniel, of how good he was, of his ability to solve problems and confront difficulties, of how he had been and still was her guardian angel.
“It’s only a figure of speech, Irina, personal angels do not exist!”
“Of course they do! If I didn’t have a pair of guardian angels I’d be dead by now, or in jail.”
“What strange ideas you have, Irina! In the Jewish tradition angels are God’s messengers, not bodyguards for humans, but I do have one: Nathaniel. He always looked after me, first like a big brother, then as the ideal husband. I could never repay him for all he did for me.”
“You were married for thirty years, Alma, and had a son and grandchildren. You worked together at the Belasco Foundation, and you nursed him through his final illness. I’m sure he felt just the same way, that he could never pay you back for all you did for him.”
“Nathaniel deserved far more love than I gave him, Irina.”
“Do you mean you loved him more as a brother than as a husband?”
“Friend, cousin, brother, husband . . . I don’t know the difference. When we got married there was gossip because we were cousins, and it was considered incest; I think it still is. I suppose our love always was incestuous.”
AGENT WILKINS
On the second Friday in October, Ron Wilkins appeared at Lark House, looking for Irina Bazili. He was an African--American FBI agent, aged sixty-five, with a big belly, gray hair, and expressive hands. When Irina asked with surprise how he had found her, Wilkins reminded her that being well informed was an essential part of his job. They had not seen each other for three years but were in the habit of talking on the phone. Wilkins would call from time to time to hear how she was. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. The past is behind me, I don’t even remember all that stuff,” was her invariable reply, although they both knew this wasn’t true. When Irina first met him, Wilkins appeared to be about to burst out of his suit from his ripped muscles; eleven years later, those muscles had turned to flab, but he still gave the same impression of solidity and energy as in his earlier days. He told her he was a grandfather and showed her a photo of his grandson, a two-year-old with much lighter skin than his grandfather. “His father is Dutch,” Wilkins explained, although Irina had not asked. He added that he had reached the age of retirement, which was almost compulsory in the Agency, but that he was still tied to his desk. He couldn’t bring himself to hand in his badge; he wanted to pursue the particular crime to which he had dedicated most of his professional life.
Wilkins arrived at Lark House midmorning. The pair of them sat on a wooden bench in the garden to have a cup of the watery coffee that was always available in the library though nobody wanted it. Wisps of mist were rising from the ground, still damp from the night’s dew, and the pale autumn sun was just beginning to warm the air. They were alone and could talk in peace. A few residents were already attending their morning classes, but most of them got up late. Only Victor Vikashev, the head gardener, a Russian with the looks of a Tartar warrior who had worked at Lark House for almost nineteen years, was singing softly to himself in the vegetable garden, and Cathy sped past in her electric wheelchair on her way to the pain clinic.
“I’ve got good news for you, Elisabeta,” Wilkins told Irina.
“No one has called me Elisabeta for years.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Remember that I am Irina Bazili now. In fact, you helped me choose that name.”
“Tell me, Irina, how are things going? Are you in therapy?”
“Let’s be realistic, Agent Wilkins. Do you know how much I earn? Not enough to pay for a psychologist. The county only pays for three sessions, and I’ve had those, but as you can see, I -haven’t committed suicide. I lead a normal life; I work and am thinking of taking classes on the Internet. I want to study therapeutic massage; it’s a good profession for anyone with strong hands like mine.”
“Are you under medical supervision?”
“Yes, I’m taking an antidepressant.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Berkeley, in a good-sized room that’s cheap.”
“This job here suits you, Irina. It’s peaceful, no one bothers you, you’re safe. I’ve heard very good things about you. I talked to the director and he said you’re his best employee. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I did have, but he died.”
“What? My God, that’s all you needed, I’m so sorry. What did he die of?”
“Old age, I think; he was over ninety. But there are other old men here who’d be happy to become my boyfriends.”
Wilkins was not amused. They sat awhile in silence, blowing on and then sipping their coffees from paper cups. Irina suddenly felt overwhelmed by sadness and solitude, as if this good man’s thoughts had penetrated her mind and mingled with her own, and a lump rose in her throat. As if responding to a telepathic signal from her, Wilkins put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward his broad chest. He smelled of a rather cloying cologne that seemed out of place on such a big man. She could feel the warmth coming from Wilkins like a stove, the rough texture of his jacket on her cheek, the comforting weight of his arm, and rested for a couple of minutes feeling protected, breathing in his cheap cologne, while he patted her back, as if he were comforting his grandson.