The King of Diamonds. Simon Tolkien

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СКАЧАТЬ telling you because I want to,’ said Titus, reaching out and taking Vanessa’s hand. ‘Because I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. Because you matter to me, Vanessa. You know that, don’t you?’

      Titus looked into Vanessa’s eyes, sensing her response. But then suddenly the connection between them was broken as she looked away over his shoulder with a grimace, and, turning round, he came face-to-face with Franz, standing behind him in the doorway. Like my damned shadow, he thought angrily. Franz was in the way as usual, spoiling everything, just when he had had that instinctive sense that the moment had at last arrived to make a declaration to Vanessa. But then he remembered Katya lying unconscious on the sofa and he felt the injustice of his reaction. Franz was right to interrupt them. The girl couldn’t stay here. She needed to be put to bed. There would be plenty of time for romance later.

      ‘I’m sorry, Franz. I didn’t see you,’ he said in an even voice. ‘I was just coming to find you to say that Katya was all right. Vanessa here has been kindly looking after her.’

      Franz nodded toward Vanessa without saying anything. It was a formal gesture, like a military salute, empty of personal meaning.

      ‘I’ll take her up,’ he said, crossing over to Katya, but Titus put up his hand in an authoritative gesture before Franz could take hold of her.

      ‘No, Franz. This is a job for me, I think.’

      Franz winced, stepping back as if he’d been struck. Vanessa wondered at his sensitivity but then guessed intuitively that he didn’t like being given orders in front of her.

      Again Vanessa was struck by how light Katya seemed to be in Titus’s arms. It wasn’t just sleep the girl needed; it was food and drink. Vanessa knew it wasn’t her place to interfere but she felt she’d have to say something to Titus later when they were alone.

      ‘I’ll be back in a moment, my dear. Just as soon as I’ve got my Katya tucked up in bed,’ said Titus as he was going out of the door.

      ‘No problem,’ said Vanessa. ‘I’m fine here.’ But Titus was gone by the time she’d finished her sentence, and she found herself speaking instead to his brother-in-law, who stood facing her with his hand on the door handle.

      He looked at her for a moment without speaking and then, bringing his feet together as if standing to attention, he bowed his head but not his back before turning around and leaving the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Vanessa half-expected to hear a key turning in the lock, but nothing happened, and she was left alone in a sudden strange silence.

      A phrase she’d read years ago in some forgotten book floated unbidden into Vanessa’s mind: ‘Politeness is one of the most potent weapons in a civilized society.’ Franz Claes didn’t just make her feel uneasy, she realized. She actively disliked him as well.

      Vanessa screwed up her eyes and shook her head, doing her best to clear all thoughts of Claes from her head. She preferred to think of Titus. She often found it difficult to summon an image, to accurately visualize a place or a person when they were not there in front of her, but with Titus it was different. He had impressed himself on her mind’s eye from the first, long before they had started seeing each other. Nobody could say that he wasn’t a fine figure of a man. An inch more than six foot from the top of his thick wavy silver hair down to his Italian leather shoes. Generally she had never been attracted to men with beards, but with Titus it was different. The carefully groomed beard and moustache were an extension of his beautiful hair, and she liked the rough texture of it under her fingers.

      She didn’t know his exact age but she guessed him to be in his late fifties, and yet he was clearly physically very fit and never seemed tired or deflated. His bright blue eyes, perhaps his most attractive feature, were constantly alert, and sometimes it seemed as if they sparkled, lighting up his face.

      He had beautiful taste. His clothes, his house, his possessions – everything was perfect. And yet worn and possessed with an effortlessness that Vanessa had never encountered before. He liked to show her things – between two high bookshelves in his study, for example, a tiny, terrifying painting of the Gorgon’s head by Caravaggio that gazed at her malevolently out of its dark frame, or in the drawing room a silver box embossed with Cyrillic letters and a royal crest in which the last tsar had kept his cufflinks.

      ‘You know the Bolsheviks told the imperial family to get ready to go out before they shot them. Perhaps this was the last of his possessions that the tsar touched at Ekaterinburg that morning.’

      Vanessa remembered how Titus had held the box lightly between his two fingers, holding it up to the afternoon light, as he brought its significance to life with his words. It was the objects themselves, their beauty and their provenance, not his ownership of them, that he seemed to care about. He clearly knew an extraordinary amount about many different things and yet he always seemed interested in Vanessa’s opinion; he was always trying to find out what she really thought. He would press her if he sensed she was just being polite until she had told him her true opinion, and then he would weigh her words, sometimes agreeing, sometimes disagreeing with her point of view.

      On a visit to the house two weeks earlier he had elicited a lukewarm response from her to a standard-quality Italianate landscape hanging in the hall, and now on this visit she noticed it had been replaced with a wonderfully vivid, brightly coloured picture of one of the smaller canal bridges in Venice. She knew the place because she’d been there years before with her husband, and the memory had upset her for a moment before she rejected its poignancy with a surge of anger against the man she had left. She remembered the long silences at mealtimes, the empty space between them in their double bed; the way Bill had worked later and later hours down at the police station. He had had no interest in her opinion; he’d made her feel unwanted, useless, a dead weight. Not like Titus, who made her feel so vital – alive in every part of her mind and body.

      And Titus was mysterious. She had to admit that was part of the attraction. She liked his foreignness, his elaborate courtesy and the slow deliberation with which he spoke, choosing his words carefully, as if weighing each one of them before use. She realized, of course, that she knew almost nothing more about Titus than what her husband had told her and what she had read about in the newspapers at the time of the Swain trial two years earlier. He was from Antwerp. He had made a fortune dealing in diamonds and had helped Jews escape from Belgium during the war, and then afterwards he had come to England, to Oxford, and become a philanthropist and an art collector, a man of influence and standing, well respected in the town, moving in its highest social circles. So why then would he want her? Vanessa had asked herself this question a thousand times since Titus first started showing interest in her eighteen months earlier, but she had never been able to come up with a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase, the fact that she was so obviously unavailable; perhaps it was the challenge of bringing a smile to the face of someone who was so sad and lost; or perhaps it was just that Titus found her attractive. Perhaps she was beautiful and fascinating just like he said, lost to the world all those years, sitting at home in her North Oxford house, unhappily married to her misanthropic husband.

      Vanessa got up from the sofa and went and stood in front of the fireplace, examining herself detachedly in the beautiful oval gold-leaf mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. Yes, she did look different. She could see that now. Better than she’d done in a long time. There was colour in her cheeks, a new lustre in her dark brown hair, and more flesh in her face and on her body, replacing that worn-down boniness that had made her avoid her reflection for so long. The truth was that she’d begun to look after herself since leaving her husband the previous year. She’d discovered she was a good cook. Bill had always seemed to want solid British fare, but now she was free to experiment. She enjoyed shopping in the Covered Market off the High Street, buying herbs and spices with exotic СКАЧАТЬ