The Secret History - Donna Tartt [248]
“It was a mistake,” said Francis. “He has to understand.”
“Maybe,” I said. I couldn’t conceive of his finding out, but as I tried to visualize myself explaining this catastrophe to someone, I realized that we would have an easier time explaining it to Julian than to anyone else. Perhaps, I thought, his reaction would be similar to my own. Perhaps he would see these murders as a sad, wild thing, haunted and picturesque (“I’ve done everything,” old Tolstoy used to boast, “I’ve even killed a man”), instead of the basically selfish, evil act which it was.
“You know that thing Julian used to say,” said Francis.
“Which thing?”
“About a Hindu saint being able to slay a thousand on the battlefield and it not being a sin unless he felt remorse.”
I had heard Julian say this, but had never understood what he meant. “We’re not Hindus,” I said.
“Richard,” Julian said, in a tone which simultaneously welcomed me and let me know that I had come at a bad time.
“Is Henry here? I need to talk to him about something.”
He looked surprised. “Of course,” he said, and opened the door.
Henry was sitting at the table where we did our Greek. Julian’s empty chair, on the side by the window, was pulled close to his. There were other papers on the table but the letter was in front of them. He glanced up. He did not look pleased to see me.
“Henry, may I speak to you?”
“Certainly,” he said coldly.
I turned, to step into the hall, but he didn’t make a move to follow. He was avoiding my eye. Damn him, I thought. He thought I was trying to continue our earlier conversation in the garden.
“Could you come out here for a minute?” I said.
“What is it?”
“I need to tell you something.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You mean, it’s something you want to tell me in private?” he said.
I could have killed him. Julian, politely, had been pretending not to follow this exchange, but his curiosity was aroused by this. He was standing, waiting, behind his chair. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I hope nothing’s wrong. Shall I leave?”
“Oh, no, Julian,” said Henry, looking not at Julian but at me. “Don’t bother.”
“Is everything all right?” Julian asked me.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I just need to see Henry for a second. It’s kind of important.”
“Can’t it wait?” said Henry.
The letter was spread out on the table. With horror, I saw that he was turning through it slowly, like a book, pretending to examine the pages one by one. He hadn’t seen the letterhead. He didn’t know it was there.
“Henry,” I said. “It’s an emergency. I have to talk to you right now.”
He was struck by the urgency in my voice. He stopped, and pivoted in his chair to look at me—they were both staring, now—and as he did, as part of the motion of turning, he turned over the page in his hand. My heart did a somersault. There was the letterhead, face-up on the table. White palace drawn in blue curlicues.
“All right,” said Henry. Then, to Julian: “I’m sorry. We’ll be back in a moment.”
“Certainly,” said Julian. He looked grave and concerned. “I hope nothing’s the matter.”
I wanted to cry. I had Henry’s attention; I had it, now, but I didn’t want it. The letterhead lay exposed on the table.
“What’s wrong?” said Henry, his eyes locked on mine.
He was attentive, poised as a cat. Julian was looking at me too. The letter lay on the table, between them, directly in Julian’s line of vision. He had only to glance down.
I darted my eyes at the letter, then at Henry. He understood in an instant, turned smooth but fast; but he wasn’t fast enough, and in that split-second, Julian looked down—casually, just an afterthought, but a second too soon.
I do not like to think about the silence that followed. Julian leaned over and looked at the letterhead for a long time. Then he picked up the page and examined it. Excelsior. Via