At the First Fall of Snow

At the First Fall of Snow

by Ivar Rivenaes

Copyright © Ivar Rivenaes 2011

Published by Amolibros at Smashwords 2011

Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF

http://www.amolibros.com | amolibros@aol.com

The right of Ivar Rivenaes to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

With the exception of certain well-known historical figures, all the other characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

...a master entertainer with an uncanny ability to switch from subtle irony to black humour... | A truly incredible read where thriller entwines the philosophical – a landmark novel in every sense.

About This Book

The German Cardinal Karl Richter, the Vatican’s most talented theologian, politician and apologist, has been invited to spend some days with Professor Matthew O’Keefe at his home on the Gulf of Mexico.

O’Keefe nurtures one ambition – to become The Moral Voice of America. He has a particular hatred for Hypocrisy, Absence of Accountability and Deceit. In order to get national attention he needs a major cause, and the Catholic Church becomes his target. There are two other guests: the alluring and formidable Hannah Mitchell and the enigmatic novelist Angelo Vargas.

Held prisoner by his manipulative host, the Cardinal finds himself in a deadly dialogue with Vargas. Richter realises that what is at stake is not only the integrity and validity of the Catholic Church, but also the fate of innocent people.

All goes according to O’Keefe’s plan except – a potential situation overlooked by himself and Mitchell – rapport develops between the learned and genteel Richter and the irreverent Vargas with his penchant for black humour.

In this taut psychological thriller the author raises questions of personal morality and universal ethics. He dissects the human condition to show that what truly, matters is compassion and honesty, not ambition or mere intellect. We may all be victims of our past but we do not have to become its prisoners.

About the Author

Ivar Rivenaes was born in Norway and grew up during the WWII occupation 1940-1945.

His two novels in Norwegian The Man Who Walked Backwards (1968) and The Story Of Richard Kahn (1973) got rave reviews and became bestsellers.

Instead of pursuing a career as a writer he continued travelling during the decades before he settled in Hampshire in 1995. THOSE WHO LEAVE was his first novel in English.

He and his wife now divide their time between England, New Zealand and Norway.

For Colleen

‘If one tries to formalize discoveries of spiritual truth into rigid doctrines to be taught to others as a means of establishing a train of followers, then one will inevitably mislead people and impair their inner growth. If people take these truths for granted, their significance is diminished and they become mere emotional tranquilizers for the undeveloped majority of mankind.’ Lao Tzu

Chapter 1

Dolphins were breaking the crystal surface of the sea but she knew they would soon be gone. The sky began to tremble in the water and lightning illuminating the horizon drew glimpses of silver-clad nymphs dancing in the clouds. Heaven opened up and raindrops hit the balcony like pearls on marble.

She went inside.

Hannah Mitchell never tired of watching the elements and no place was better suited than her luxurious penthouse facing the Gulf of Mexico. She had bought the place in Longboat Key some years earlier, applying the swift determination that was her hallmark; she pulled out her cheque book, offered hundred and fifty thousand less than the asking price, informed the vendor that there were other places for sale and concluded with take-it-or-leave-it.

The realtor recognized a predator when he saw one. He hinted that the owner needed to sell and confirmed in his presence that there were indeed other top class condominiums available. That secured the deal.

Hannah stripped the place and bought her own curtains, carpets and furniture in various shades of white. She moved in the day the beleaguered decorators moved out.

§

Youth had come and gone but Hannah knew that she was still an attractive woman. She was content with her own existence and, apart from the odd moment feeling bored – at times to an extent that surprised her – she had few complaints about what life had to offer. In contrast to the majority of the nation’s affluent female population she refused to resort to cosmetic surgery. Her body was trim and slender from regular exercise. Her diet consisted of fruits, vegetables, fish, white meat and a variety of nuts. Her alcohol consumption was modest. She only smoked when socializing, though seldom more than five a day. She had scant regard for creams and lotions that claimed to remove lines and wrinkles. She believed in growing older gracefully; luckily, though, maturity had been kind and her lightly tanned skin was as smooth as her natural blond hair was silky and rich. The few minute visible veins and the odd tiny bits of cellulite were hidden most of the time and didn’t bother her unduly. Her teeth were white and even. A pair of deep blue eyes – her main asset – still sparkled with undiminished brightness.

Yes, she concluded as she mixed herself a dry martini; life wasn’t bad, considering where she’d come from.

Her less-than-dear and now luckily deceased father Danny Mitchell had been born and raised in South Carolina. One night his dad got shot and half a year later a new daddy moved in. The stepfather wasn’t too keen on a sixteen-year old kid hanging about and Danny left Spartanburg to seek fame and fortune elsewhere. He got as far as to Savannah. At a dance a few years later he met Jeanette Seidl, a local belle who found the adventurous young man irresistible. Danny made up his mind to settle in Savannah; the state motto of Georgia "Wisdom, Justice and Moderation" appealed to him. He married Jeanette and in rapid succession they produced four girls, whereof Hannah was the youngest, followed by three boys. Whenever anybody queried the obviously limited age difference between the seven children, Hannah’s standard reply was nine months and ten minutes, until one day her father overheard the observation and beat the daylight out of her for being impertinent.

Danny Mitchell, a reasonably god-fearing Baptist, saw himself as a cross between a missionary and a commercial marketing genius. His chosen article was the Bible and his noble duty was to throw hook, line and sinker into the murky waters of fear and superstition. The drawback was that God in His wisdom had made the competition as fierce as it was merciless. It took Danny seven meagre years before he realized what everybody else knew; as an apostle he had his limitations. His new-found self-awareness got a kick-start when his wife one day literally put a knife to his throat and demanded a life where she and her children were no longer hungry and a small, dilapidated and dusty shed did not pass for a house. Danny consented. They threw their few belongings into his clapped-out old pick-up truck, and from the age of four Hannah grew up in Chicago.

Somebody had told Danny that the city was flooded with ethnic minorities, and it went without saying that insecure immigrants needed whatever protection the free market forces could provide.

He stuck to his vocation except that he swapped bibles for life insurance policies – altruism guided the true apostle, Hannah thought – and somehow he managed to be less unsuccessful; everything was still second-hand and shabby, but they had enough to eat.

From the age of fourteen Hannah worked as a waitress during the day and educated herself at night. She left college with a degree in communications. She took elocution and etiquette lessons and headed for New York where she again worked as a waitress until she achieved her first goal and got a minor job in the marketing department of a major television company.

She kept contact with her mother but not with her father and siblings. In Hannah’s book Danny Mitchell was a failure; a useless man out of touch with realities, a parody of a patriarch and a petty and shallow character for whom she could not feign love and affection. She summed up her sentiments as one-quarter pity and three-quarter contempt, backed by a firm conviction that any feeling of losing her wouldn’t put him in an early grave, if, indeed, he had noticed her absence in the first place. For a time she tried to put a gloss of understanding over an otherwise unattractive picture; she was not a boy, and, added to this misfortune, she was the fourth and last of the girls. Deep down inside she knew that her theory of reasons did not hold water; a child should be loved for its own sake and equality in treatment was the moral duty of any parent.

Whilst still in her teens Hannah got rid of the last trace of empathy with anyone who found solace in inculcating guilt in unprepared minds. She found her emotional equilibrium by writing off her father as unworthy of daughterly love and her brothers and sisters as comparative strangers with whom she had little or nothing in common.

Hannah thrived in her job. She was a quick learner and she was street-wise. Her fine and delicate features concealed an aggressive nature, a sharp mind and unfettered ambitions. She knew by instincts honed by experience when to stand still, when to walk and when to run. Her innate talent for reading people progressed rapidly. Few men failed to fall for her refined beauty or subtle charm, or, as it commonly happened, both. Towards those who for one reason or another did not succumb to her female magic she adopted a purely business-wise and matter-of-fact attitude. In most cases the initial resistance soon broke down.

Hannah did not ignore the benefit of making herself unattainable; she never went to bed with anyone in the company, regardless of their position. Her philosophy was simple; there was no way she would come out the winner if she allowed such a situation to occur. All she could reap from a moment of dubious pleasure would be a dwindling reputation, loss of respect including her own, and, ultimately, no job.

She rose quickly through the ranks. Within five years she was head of the marketing department. Many a wise head concluded that she was shockingly young and inexperienced for such a demanding position but nobody could deny that her track record did not speak for itself.

She began by kicking out those who had begrudged her. After eighteen months in her new position she had doubled the revenue. Resentment from male colleagues began to surface and then accelerate, as she knew it would. One of the reasons for the animosity was that no one had been able to conquer her but Hannah had matured considerably and most of the time the hostility did not faze her.

Then, one day, a reporter of mediocre aptitude began whistling Hard-hearted Hannah the vamp from Savannah. Soon little singsong groups could be heard performing all over the building. An even cleverer wag replaced vamp with vampire. For a while most of the machismo army up to and including the inflated number of vice-presidents found it hilarious.

But Hannah knew what most men didn’t; any male who patronizes a woman reveals his insecurity and a good handful of his other limitations. He is the victim of a culture he never had the acumen, the sense or the guts to challenge.

She bided her time, and it came. During a mass meeting she suddenly rose and apologized to the reporter. It was entirely her own fault that she had skipped the biology lesson at school explaining the outcome of crossing a prick with an asshole. Further, she had not realized that wanky mini-schmucks could whistle and neither had it occurred to her that infertile, spasmodic and slimy little squirts could produce anything of substance, however anaemic. She apologized once more for this grave misconception and sat down.

The reporter tried to laugh it away. His efforts drowned in an avalanche of silence. The song was never heard again.

Hannah’s success continued. One day the Chief Executive said, half jokingly, that she’d better slow down or they’d have so many adverts that there would be no room for programs.

Time to move on, Hannah concluded. One of the top interviewers announced his retirement. Hannah applied for the job and got it. Within two years she was rated as one of the best the profession had ever had.

She stayed on till her forty-ninth birthday. By then she’d had enough of the turpitude of politics and big business, the casuistry and equivocation of her chosen profession and the morally anodyne and ethically indeterminate disposition of the entire television industry.

She bid her unattractive vocation farewell and added the penthouse in Florida to her collection. Behind her were a glittering career and a dead husband; the former general Abraham Forster who’d made his stars in Korea and who later became the White House Chief of Staff. His demise secured her future; the shrewd folk hero left her his entire considerable fortune. She had reached her goal which was not to create but to make the confinement of privation a distant memory.

Hannah decided to give herself a sabbatical doing nothing. Thereafter she would see the world, just travel to wherever it suited her. Gradually, she would fill her life with art and culture and she would enjoy the company of people who had values and integrity. Never again was she to become an employee and she would not re-marry. She would lead a life in total freedom; she could afford what she wanted and she was still young enough to enjoy a dream lifestyle. Gone were the days when she would allow insouciance to grow into contempt. Self-regarding imbeciles would not debase her mind any more. She felt as if she was born again. The rest of her life was so definitely going to be her own.

§

Hannah opened the sliding doors to the balcony and walked out. A heavy cloud was still dispersing its silver-blue raindrops onto the thirsty soil but on the horizon the golden-red sun threw its fading light across the purple sand. A light breeze gently ripped the surface of the Gulf.

She leaned on the banister and watched him cross the wooden gangway. He began running along the beach towards the Cabana Club a good two miles away. Hannah did not move. Her eyes followed the runner until he was barely visible.

The clouds had all but gone. She lifted her gaze towards the cerulean sky and nodded to the pelicans sailing the wind and listened to irate shrieks from gracious terns and churlish seagulls.

He had been there for three days. Thanks to a co-operative bartender she knew which apartment he rented. She knew that he went for a run every morning and every afternoon. He had a swim when he came back. Thereafter he sat on the beach for a while, always in the same position and without exception staring in the same direction, towards Mexico. An hour later he would go to his penthouse and return with a book.

He had spent the first two days in the company of his fellow writer Jack Parnell from Boston. They had come down from Las Vegas together. Then, on the third day, Parnell had left. She had taken a calculated risk and it had paid off – the man from London stayed on.

He had come to the bar on his own, found a quiet corner and ordered a drink. Twice, they had looked at each other, as by accident. It annoyed her that he did not seem to register her presence – no, what really irritated her was the uncomfortable feeling that he actually looked through her. Heavens knew that there wasn’t much competition around, but what little there was he did not look at, either. It was a small consolation but nothing more; he just sat there, seemingly impervious to his surroundings and with an air of being unapproachable. There was something monastic about him, Hannah thought; his eyes were older than his body and she knew that once again she was being drawn towards the silent world of a stranger who with or without intention created a magnetic field that had become irresistibly fascinating. She also knew that any sudden departure would prevent her from entering his world and – worse – rule out implementing her plan.

The sun dipped into the sea and the indigo sky turned crimson before fading into polished copper and matt blue in the east.

Hannah went inside. She had invited three of her golfing partners to dinner at Sonny’s Crab. She decided it was time for a rest before she had a shower and got dressed.

That evening, coming out from the restaurant, she saw him wandering about. He carried a bookstore plastic bag in his hand and seemed to have nothing better to do than to observe the modest nightlife of the St. Armand’s Circle. She prayed that he would come to the bar. He did not.

The next day she saw him sitting on a bench in the Avenue of the Flowers with a Publix shopping bag, reading the Miami Herald. She passed less than a yard away but still he ignored her.

Hannah returned to her penthouse feeling angry with herself. All right, she thought, filling her fridge without concentrating; his writing is interesting because of its clinical dissection of man, societies, cultures and civilizations and – don’t fool yourself now, Hannah – because he is uncharted territory. Do not turn him into an obsession. Has not life taught you that no man is worthy of infatuation? Yes, it certainly has. You know already that he is a reserved and private person who appears content with whatever goes on in his own mind, a man with little or no need for company. Such people are almost as rare as orchids in the Antarctic but they do exist. It is not your destiny to have a hang-up about self-centred eccentrics. You had enough of that with your late Abraham for the short while the marriage lasted; a fascinating man and a bit of a bastard, but – in retrospect – not quite deserving a crush. The best thing about Abe was the fortune he left behind.

And – apart from everything else – your man from London is here for a reason. You did not become part of the coup of the century only to blow it away because you allowed your hormones to take over.

She slammed the door of the fridge and sat down on her large and comfortable sofa. Her fingertips touched the soft white leather and she stared at the green jade box containing her cigarettes. Go ahead, she thought; an indulgence, at this time of the day, but you need to hold on to something whilst you clear your head.

Her eyes followed the thin blue smoke drifting towards the open balcony doors. She leaned back and curled up. The sound of lazy waves nuzzling the beach filled the room.

It was evident that he wasn’t going to make the first move. Had he figured out how come he’d ended up in Longboat Key? He probably had. She would have to make progress. Time was not on her side.

A while later Hannah went to her bedroom. She lay down on her back and closed her eyes. The few thread-like lines on her forehead had gone.

§

He came into the bar with midnight two hours away. His favourite corner table was occupied and he sat down at the end of the bar. The bartender produced a straight Irish whiskey with a knowing smile.

Hannah was in a party of five. They would soon break up. She did not look at the mirror trying to make eye contact. She wore a long, black and sleeveless dress and expensive jewellery. She had been drinking little.

He kept an eye on the corner table and walked across the moment the young couple got up to leave. Hannah’s four friends retired shortly after. She waited for a few minutes before she turned to the bartender and said, Ted, I’ll have another one – over there, please.

Hannah slithered towards the table and avoided his stare until she stopped.

She said, Excuse me, but would you mind if I sit down?

He stood up, pulled out a chair and waited till she was seated. Impeccable manners, she thought. Thank you. I am Hannah Mitchell. She did not extend her hand. He gave the briefest of nods and remained silent.

He does a good job of pretending not knowing who I am, she thought. And your name is – ? she asked as if he had simply forgotten to introduce himself.

He looked at her. Their faces were two feet apart. It disturbed her that she could not define the expression in his eyes. Neutral, she thought.

He said, Don’t play dumb. You know what you need to know.

Careful now, Hannah thought. Say nothing. Smile. Consider the game amusing.

He took an olive from the small crystal bowl and said, Next time you bribe a bartender make sure you also buy his silence.

Hannah laughed. The tension was broken – at least her own. Point taken, Angelo Vargas.

Point being you should have known better. He speared another olive and added, Discretion is not so much an art form as it is a question of common sense. Nice olives. She took one. The diamond on her finger sparkled in the rays from the overhead spotlights. She smiled sweetly. You are a wise man, Mr. Vargas. My insight borne by necessity and raised by experience tells me that you have seen much on your odyssey through life.

Irony is an art. To master it requires an eye for substance and a talent for pinpointing. My impression is that you possess neither.

Oh dear, she thought, he doesn’t hesitate with his poisoned darts. This can turn out to be an interesting evening. She knew that her eyes were laughing when she said, Do I detect a suspicious mind? Believe me, I didn’t mean to sound derogatory. I apologize for repeating myself, but my intuition does tell me that you have encountered the bad more than you have met with the good. Her long eyelashes touched her cheeks. Then, quickly, she looked up. Haven’t you?

On and off.

See? I was right. I can always tell when somebody is more familiar with hell than he is with heaven.

Your perception is amazing.

Oh well, not entirely. I have read your books.

He looked at her as if he wondered what had produced her.

Talk about drawing blood from a stone, she thought, thank God there isn’t a television camera nearby. What a flop that would have been. Her eyes scanned his face. She could not work out why he seemed vaguely amused.

Time for another test, she thought. I, too, have had an interesting life, including my share of problems and agonies. Would you like to hear about it?

Not particularly.

I hope they threw away the mould when they made him, she thought with a pang of exasperation. He actually manages to stonewall me without being outright hostile. She said evenly, Your mind is airtight, Mr Vargas?

You forget that what is interesting is entertaining but not necessarily vice versa.

That’s very illuminating. Ever contemplated becoming a psychiatrist?

He crushed out his cigarette and reached for his glass. I live with my past and my problems, he said and swallowed the rest of his drink. I don’t socialize with them.

You find me a bit of a pest, don’t you?

You ask too many questions. Without giving her a chance to reply he added, I am having another drink. Care to join me?

For a moment she was taken aback by his apparent change in attitude. That is very kind of you, but you don’t have to…

He raised his arm, two fingers in the air, and got the attention of the bartender. You were saying –? he said and looked at her.

Hannah laughed. You are a strange man, Mr Vargas. I am sorry if I gave the impression of probing. Professional habit, I guess.

When he did not comment she went on, "I used to be a television interviewer. I was extraordinarily successful, famous from sea to shining sea and outrageously well paid. I was known as the one who could extract practically anything from even the most private of persons. There was virtually no limit to what people were prepared to reveal when facing my soft and sympathetic approach. I always edited with tact and discretion, of course. For years I was the name. Nobody could get the guests that I could get. Nobody could match my reputation. A self-deprecating smile fleetingly crossed her face. It’s called being brilliant at your job, I think."

Emotional grave-robbing.

His remark stunned her. That was a very cruel thing to say.

"Don’t confuse cruelty with realism. The actuality, as you just unwittingly outlined, was that you made a good living out of delving into other peoples’ innermost lives. Condensed, that is cruel reality under a halo of false compassion, but I can understand if you prefer a more palliative conception of your sepulchral and fame-seeking activity."

Hannah stared back. She could not recall the last time a man had spoken to her in such a direct and uninhibited manner; nakedly, stripped of finesse and sensitivity, his tongue like a knife cutting her soul and leaving her bleeding and perplexed on the ground. He seemed to take pleasure in pushing her about, in humiliating her and exposing her as nothing but an overpaid scavenger.

She took one of his cigarettes and his lighter and saw to her satisfaction that her hand was steady. Come on, Hannah, she thought, where is the tough kid from the back streets of Chicago? Where are the redoubtable interviewer and the woman who always bounces back – never allowing anybody to get the better of her? This man isn’t superior to me, by any yardstick; he is just an unusual, venomous and interesting animal using his vocabulary as his fangs and his rudimentary mannerisms as his claws.

She smiled and said, Your sympathy is appreciated.

Vargas studied her for a moment. Let me complete the picture. You made a living from other peoples’ mindless vanity. Those who expose their lives in public deserve what they get. Does this embalmment soften the blow to your ego?

Yes, thank you. Why did I for a moment believe you were totally inhuman? Anyway – one day I walked out and never looked back. For the past few years I have been busy adapting to a better and spiritually more rewarding life. I have also travelled a bit, getting acquainted with the world, but there are still so many places I want to see and so much I want to absorb and learn. Don’t you find that praiseworthy?

My respect knows no bounds.

She touched a lock of hair that had got close to her mouth and went on, I am the owner of a superb Japanese restaurant in Sarasota. I have opened two art galleries, one here and one in New York. All in all not bad for someone who began life as an urchin in Chicago, don’t you think?

Admiration is paralyzing my tongue.

Hannah felt more at ease; perhaps she had exaggerated what she’d sensed as animosity, and had he not smiled, just about, when he’d offered his embalmment? She continued, Are you interested in art?

For a split second she thought she saw a shadow passing his face but then the bartender stood next to her with the drinks.

Briefly, Vargas said and handed his glass back to the bartender. No ice.

Sorry, sir. I’ll be back in a sec.

Have you seen the Ringling Museum? Hannah asked.

No.

Don’t. It is absolutely awful. Art purchased on the basis of dollars per square inch. Even the building is appalling. It’s got no style and no charm. It is totally uninviting. She removed the cherry from her glass. I know this sounds horrible, but I think poor old Mabel Ringling was lucky – she died before she got the chance to move in.

Her observation caused no reaction. Fine, she thought, let’s try something else. Vargas, she mused, Angelo Vargas. With a name like that you must be either Spanish or Mexican. Not that you look like either, but looks can be very deceptive, I’ve learned.

He placed his fingertips against his glass and lifted it till the rim touched his chin. A pity you never picked up some manners and learned to curb your curiosity.

A faint metallic echo followed Hannah’s voice when she said, "Manners? Isn’t that a bit rich coming from you? She drew her breath. And yes, I am incredibly inquisitive and this is an incredibly one-sided conversation."

Really? I thought we were doing quite well.

Once again Hannah saw an evanescent glimpse of humour in his eyes. He has yet to laugh, she thought, but who knows, it could still happen. She said, I accept that you are a closed book, either by nature or because you have your reasons, or both. You clearly do not take to people easily. You come and you go on your own and you sit on your own. Contact with other human beings you deem unnecessary or simply unwanted. The obscurity of your life is your own business and any infringement of privacy is taboo. Something like that?

The darker the background the clearer the mirror. Did you not know that?

You are not a mirror. You are a black wall. She moved her head a few inches closer to his. Why are you writing under an assumed name?

How do you know it is assumed?

Well, I –

He tapped her diamond ring with his lighter. Although you summed it up in a tiny nutshell half a minute ago, allow me to elaborate on my philosophy when it comes to writing and privacy. Are you ready?

Hannah was speechless. She wet her lips and nodded.

Vargas smiled. Don’t look so perplexed. You, with your background, should know that nothing is more alluring than a captive audience. Correct?

Hannah’s lips parted. She gave it some seconds before she said, Please go ahead. I’m all yours.

"That’s nice. For a second I thought you’d said you’re all ears. Yours is distinctly more alluring. Anyway, the anatomy of privacy is a most fascinating one and in particular when associated with the written word. As you know from your profession, and otherwise, I presume, exhibitionism is a prominent human characteristic. Placing oneself on display is fine for those who so wish, but media people should bear in mind that it is not an obligation. My conclusion is that the right to be reserved is on a par with the desire to be inquisitive."

You have gone further than that. To classify you as a hermit would be a massive understatement.

Being of a private disposition is often confused with being secretive. The two adjectives are not synonyms. Why can’t we agree that being an exhibitionist is anybody’s prerogative and so is being a recluse?

Hannah shrugged. Don’t push it now, she thought. How do your publishers feel about your attitude?

Publishing a book is a commercial transaction. Readers have paid for the right to read it. They have paid for the right to think whatever they like about it. What they have not paid for is access to the writer’s personal life. In other words, the product is available on the market. The procedure and the producer are not.

They can’t be happy about your reluctance to give interviews?

I do give the odd one but being selective or fastidious is a birthright. It’s not my duty to make publishers happy beyond writing books that find a market. Anybody else’s interpretation is irrelevant.

That’s all there is to it?

You got it, Hannah.

She stared straight at him. What does it take for you to warm to somebody, Angelo?

He sipped his drink but did not put his glass down.

He looks at me as if I am a reptilian remnant of a pre-historic era, she thought, something that has caused a flicker of detached academic interest but nothing more. If he’s still trying to annoy me he is beginning to succeed.

Then he said, Compare me to a rusty old diesel engine. You start it up and the next morning it is hacking away half-heartedly. A week later it’s running not too badly.

Ambiguous? She didn’t think so. He does not strike me as a skirt-chaser, she thought, someone looking for a one-night stand and then on to the next one. Neither does the words next morning nor the way he said them imply carnality.

Hannah knew the signs and she did not recognize anything that pointed towards an ulterior motive leading to a cunning erotic scheme. That pleased her but she was candid enough to admit surprise. She had known since the age of twelve that men found her seductive. During the years she had become world-wise; she had developed the art of making men feel irresistible. Few had escaped falling for her charm, her wit and her cool intellect combined with tact. What baffled her admirers was a part of her character that their vanity prevented them from discovering until they had verbally overstepped; they found to their boundless amazement that Hannah was not promiscuous; on the contrary – she was as fastidious as she was ruthlessly selective. They were incapable of comprehending that wealth, power, fame and looks were jointly or separately unimportant. They could not understand a woman who judged a man by his character and who found everything else irrelevant, and it was beyond them that attraction was a function of personality.

Nice to notice that you can be quiet, Vargas said.

What? Oh – Hannah laughed. My mind – it wandered for a moment.

Not a bad pastime.

You puzzle me, she thought, and that’s nice. Is it because you appear to show no particular interest in me? Or is the real reason that I am being drawn towards the secrets behind your stony mask? I want to know who you are. I want to learn what you have been through in life. What did you do before you became a writer? I need to discover what you have got to offer and why this reluctance to leave your cave. I shall find out, and soon. I cannot risk that suddenly you vanish as quietly as you arrived – after all, you are here because I need you. What I have in mind is simply too intriguing and too monumental to allow anything or anybody to affect the structure. Not for one second must I forget that I’ve only got a few short weeks to implement my earth-shattering scenario to its glorious end. But thereafter, my dear Angelo? That’s it, thereafter – who can tell?

She looked at her Piaget watch. Time for my beauty sleep. Thank you for a most interesting evening. I have truly enjoyed myself.

Vargas stared for a second before he said, Nothing to it.

He rose as she made a move to get up. She used both hands to smooth away imaginary creases on her dress. When she finished she threw her head and her hair touched his face.

Good night, Angelo, she said with a small but confident smile and walked off.

A bellboy opened the massive glass door. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked through.

He was staring ahead. His chin rested on the thumbs of his pyramid-shaped hands.

§

Hannah was up before the sun had burned off the mist floating like an off-white veil over the sea. She could hear the coughing of the small fishing vessels returning to shore. She opened the balcony doors wide and inhaled the salty air blended with the sweet aroma from exotic flowers.

The beach was deserted. She put on a pair of white shorts and a dove-grey top and tied up her hair. She found her favourite jogging shoes.

Time had come to make progress.

The beach was still empty when she crossed the gangway. She waded for a while, studying shells and busy little crabs and the odd fish that been washed ashore. She got out of the water, sat down and put her shoes back on.

When he was close enough she said, A glorious morning, isn’t it?

So it is. How is your collection of shells coming along?

It isn’t easy to find a perfect one. Most of them are broken. I have found a few beauties for my bathroom, but – she laughed – maybe I am too finicky.

Stay that way.

Hannah got up. I want to apologize for last night. I should not have been so snoopy. It is – was – a professional habit, to my excuse.

Not to worry – something I don’t think you do too much of, anyway.

Shall I take that as a compliment?

Do that.

His laconic attitude irked her. I shall forever more control my inquisitive and aggressive self.

Abrasive, would be more correct.

She threw a shell into the water. Ever come across a quote from the Bible about stones and glass houses?

No, I have not. The quote does not exist in the Bible. That said, there is no crime so hideous that it cannot be defended by a quote from your bible. My reference to your occupation was an observation, not a condemnation. But, to conclude, I agree with you – objectivity is as widespread as a hundred percent operational brain. The minus, in your case, is that your conclusion is subconscious.

You could have made it big in television. Your ability to insult is in a class of its own.

If you feel insulted it is because you do not distinguish between an irrational sentiment and a clinical assessment. In other words, it is a perceived insult, and that’s not to your credit.

Do you talk like this to everybody?

I hardly talk to anybody.

No wonder. Your attitude isn’t the most endearing I’ve ever come across.

When did the naked truth become acceptable? Read history, Hannah.

Is it not possible to combine truth with tact?

It has been tried. Truth, whatever the essence, and tact, however meek, ends with crucifixion.

She put on her sunglasses. I am beginning to believe that loneliness actually appeals to you.

It has the magnetism of tranquillity in its purest form.

He is sending a message all along, she thought. This is working well.

The sun rose over the condominium block behind them. They walked all the way to the Cabana Club. Hannah listened as Vargas talked about the bird life that was not as rich as it used to be since their natural habitat had gradually been sacrificed on the altar of development. He talked about the turtles, the manatees, the dolphins, the sharks and the barracudas. She heard approval in his voice when he mentioned the Pelican Man and what he did for injured birds. It went through her mind that her new-found friend had opened up because he could talk about something that was close to him and yet impersonal. An interesting clue, she thought, and not one to be ignored.

Do you go deep-sea fishing? she asked.

No.

You haven’t got a stuffed swordfish on your wall?

No.

Good. Of all vanities that must be the most reprehensible. She saw a crab getting close to a hole in the sand and stepped aside. You don’t like killing, do you?

Vargas resisted a smile. No, he thought, I never got much of a kick out of what I was paid to do. It was a profession. How would you feel if you learned that my last assignment was the one that made you a widow?

He said, Tearing wings of butterflies does not appeal to me.

What does appeal to you?

Listening to the cooing of a dove. Seeing a wolf running free. Walking the forests and hear the wind singing through the trees. He pointed towards a bench under a thatched umbrella. I usually sit here for a few minutes with something from the small delicatessen around the corner. Would you like a cup of coffee?

He came back with two Styrofoam cups.

You know how to organize yourself, she said.

One learns.

Hannah took care not to sit too close. What do you think of my plan to get another couple of galleries doing Oriental art exclusively?

I think you should do what you want to do.

I am seriously contemplating opening one in Washington D.C. next fall. You know, paintings and carvings and the whole lot. I thought I’d start with Japan. Have you ever been there?

Vargas gave his years in Japan a fleeting thought. I dropped in once.

What is your opinion?

The Japanese are now so influential here that you can’t fail.

Yes, Hannah said and added enthusiasm to her voice, "you see, I want my galleries to represent what I stand for. I’m not in it for the money and I can be very patient if that is what it takes. Oriental art is so – so delicate. I find it extraordinarily appealing."

I am moved. The purity of your soul is like the soft breeze caressing the cherry blossom tree?

She threw her head back and laughed. "Good Lord, Angelo, you don’t take anything seriously, do you?"

Not much.

She stretched her arms towards the sun. Who knows, I might discover an Oriental Andy Warhol. Do you like him?

Immensely. Andy is to art what a hamburger is to gastronomy.

Hannah shook her head. A flock of pelicans came in for landing on the pier and made her think of sumo wrestlers attempting the opening scene of The Nutcracker.

Vargas went on, Another detail worth considering is that artists with little or no talent go abstract expressionist, like Pollock, for instance. That is a wise move. There are millions of dormant buyers whose understanding of art equals the self-appointed artists’ ability to perform. When the potential investor goggles silently at an assortment of colours splashed across a canvas you know you’ve got a client.

Hannah laughed. Christ, Angelo, you’re a born iconoclast. She shaded her eyes with both hands. Give me your version of criteria.

A creation that does not contain intellectual, emotional and aestethic qualities has got nothing to do with art. Sorry for being so vague.

Her eyes smiled at him. Then tell me, oh vague Oracle, what is your preference in art as seen through the shroud of your amorphous soul?

Sisyphus.

She turned and looked at him. A thin line showed between her dark eyebrows. Did she imagine things or could it be that his equanimity hadn’t been so rock solid for a split second? Her voice was soft and melodious when she said, Excuse me?

Sisyphus – the unfortunate king of Corinth. A most harrowing image for anyone looking for art to mirror life. Or vice versa.

Ah, she said and left her hands in the air, I am with you – the chap with the stone up and down the hill. It’s a long time since I read about him. I did not immediately associate the myth with what we are talking about.

Art and preferences.

Yes, I know that, but – she shrugged and looked at him.

He said, Art that genuinely reflects life’s agonies appeals to me.

She widened her eyes and glanced at him from an angle. That’s a pretty grim concept.

So is life.

She turned away. How long would it take to thaw the ice in his veins, she thought – or was it ichor? I should be alarmed that I do feel a desire to do so. Why am I close to letting this saturnine hermit becoming a fetish? I even enjoy the