The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic 0)(80)
There was no reason for the authorities to doubt that Dr. Walker had been beaten and robbed. After the investigation he was given another ticket to Germany and a new passport. He and Franny knew they could not see each other in case one or the other was being watched. Still they dared to meet one last time, in Central Park, at night. It was easy enough to disappear into the lilac-colored shadows on paths they knew so well. The leaves on the trees looked blue, the bark violet. Franny had Vincent’s dog with her. Harry walked slowly, for he had aged since Vincent’s disappearance. All the same Franny kept him on a leash, for fear he’d take off and search for his master. She tied the dog to a bench when Haylin came up the path in the dark. They climbed the rocks above Turtle Pond and sat with their bodies so close they were touching. The water was green and luminous.
“Should we swim?” Haylin said.
It was a joke, but neither laughed. They wished they could go back to that moment when Franny didn’t dive in and change what could never be changed. Franny rested her head on his chest. His heart seemed too loud. Lewis was in the tree above them. Looking down, he made a clacking sound.
“He’s a funny pet,” Haylin said. “He’s so aloof, yet he follows you everywhere.”
“I’ve told you before. He’s not a pet. He’s a familiar. And you’re the one he’s following. He’s never really liked me. We’re too much alike. Two crows in a pod.”
“I see.” Haylin threaded his fingers through her hair. “You’re a beautiful bird.”
He was still a drowning man every time he was with Franny, and now he had to give her up again. They would not be able to write or see each other, lest Hay’s involvement with Vincent’s disappearance be reexamined. He had done enough. Franny would not ruin him any more, although he very much wished that she would.
They did what they should have done years earlier; they took off their clothes and dove into the pond. Even in the shallows it was freezing, but once they went all the way in, they forgot the cold. The branches of the plane trees moved in the wind. There were snowbells, which bloomed for only ten days. Soon everything would be in leaf, a green bower as far as the eye could see. Tonight the city smelled of regret. Franny floated on her back, and Haylin came and took hold of her, pulling her to him. To want someone so much could be a terrible thing, or it could be the best hope a man could have.
“I can’t be drowned, so don’t even try,” Franny teased. She could feel his sex against her and she moved so that he could enter her. She gasped because she felt the loss of him even now when he was inside her.
“Yes you can,” he said, holding her closer. He would be going overseas and felt there was nothing to lose. To hell with the curse and the government and all the rest of the world. There were turtles below them and above them the firmament was starry. “Anyone can drown.”
He walked at night, in a black coat acquired at a flea market. His hair was cropped, his complexion pale. He knew enough French by now to manage, but in truth, he rarely spoke. He had stayed only a short time in Frankfurt, where he’d practiced magic in a lonely room, then tried West Berlin for a month before heading for France, where he’d instantly felt more at home. He lived in a small hotel in the Marais, a good place to hide out. In France, no one asked who you were or what you were doing there. They simply wrapped up the loaf of bread you bought, handed over the drink you ordered in a dive bar, and nodded when you bought cheese or meat. He was nervous when he saw Americans. He feared being caught for some ridiculous reason, a fan from Washington Square would recognize his face and bring attention to him in a public place. He’d forget to pay for an apple in a shop and be arrested and then found out.
What saddened him most was seeing people walking together in the hush that came to Paris only at certain dim hours of the day. He’d be wandering back to his hotel, having been out all night, eager to return to his room and sleep through till the late afternoon, but then he’d see lovers together and he’d feel a stab of loss cut through him. He couldn’t help himself from missing William, but in response he’d turn his back to the scene that troubled him and keep walking, any idea of sleep shattered. If he thought too much about all he’d lost, he wouldn’t be able to go on. Several times he’d come close to phoning William, but he couldn’t take the risk of incriminating him.
Many times he’d thought of Regina, who was already nine. Likely he would never see her again, and that was most surely in her best interest. He couldn’t ruin her with his love. The past seemed a distant thing, unreachable, as gone from him as ash. Once, in a bakery, he’d heard his own song, recorded at the Monterey Pop Festival. Someone other than William must have taped it and sent it out and now it had resurfaced. Vincent had turned and walked out. Soon the radio was muffled by street sounds and his frantic heart calmed down.
It was all so long ago, the golden hillsides in California, the dock where the sky was so blue. He was here, now, away from everyone he’d ever known in a place that also yielded beauty at every turn. He tried not to see that either; closing his eyes to the radiant light, and to the wood doves plummeting from the trees to the grass, and the lovers who didn’t bother to hide their passion. This is why he usually walked at night, when the world was rife with blue-black shadows and pools of lamplight turned the streets yellow.
On evenings when Vincent felt the need to escape his room earlier than usual, he didn’t bother to wait for nightfall. His hotel was musty, and there were times when he wanted freedom from his makeshift home. He went where no one knew him. It was dusk and he was having wine at a café in the Tuileries. The last of the daylight was sifting down in shades of orange. It was an illuminated world; one had to squint to see behind the paths. He knew William would have appreciated the beauty of the place; he would have enjoyed hearing the ringing of a bell tied around the neck of a goat there to eat grass, which was why Vincent himself could hardly tolerate any of it. Most of the young men in the city looked like Vincent: dark hair, bearded, dark coats and boots. He fit in well. He could be anonymous. He carried a newspaper, though he could not yet read French well enough to make much sense of the articles.