The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [74]
Christopher looked at the bed again. There was a small lump in the center of the mattress. He threw back the covers and saw a bottle of champagne lying on the sheet; there were beads of moisture on the cold glass. He stared at the bottle.
Feeling something at his back, he turned around and saw Molly standing in the doorway, pushing her tangled hair away from her face. She wore one of his T-shirts and carried two wineglasses between the long fingers of her left hand.
“Double bloody damn,” she said. “I wanted to be in bed with the wine poured when you came in. I forgot the glasses.”
Molly pushed the hair away from her cheek and smiled. “I heard the taxi in the street,” she said. “It woke me from a dream, and I looked out and saw you in the flesh, which was what the dream was about. You must have come in like a cat burglar—I didn’t hear you from the kitchen.”
She shivered and placed one bare foot on top of the other. Her eyes were defenseless with sleep. Christopher took several deep breaths, but he could not regain control of himself: he had believed for thirty seconds that she was dead. Blood poured through his heart—he felt its temperature, as hot as tears on the cheek.
“Open the wine,” Molly said. “Never too late.”
Christopher picked up the bottle and began to peel the foil off its neck. He lost control of his hands; they leaped on his wrists and he dropped the bottle. It exploded on the marble floor. He put his quivering hands in his armpits and sat down on the bed.
“Paul,” Molly said, “what’s the matter?”
“Be careful of the broken glass,” he said.
“What is it? Stop trembling, Paul.”
She knelt beside him on the bed and put her hand on his forehead, as if he might have a fever.
“You’re cold as ice,” she said. “You’ve caught a chill.”
When they made love, Christopher cried out as if he were in pain. Molly wanted to talk, but he put his fingers on her lips. After they had lain quietly for a few moments, he opened his eyes, thinking she would be asleep. But she lay on her side with her knees drawn up, gazing into his closed face. When he kissed her, she didn’t open her lips or put her hand on him. He fell asleep.
He woke before she did. Molly found him sitting on the sofa with the long strips of Yu Lung’s calligraphy spread on the coffee table before him.
Christopher rubbed her thick hair; it crackled with electricity in the damp winter air. Molly moved away from him.
“Don’t stroke me,” she said. “I’m not a cat.”
“All right. What do you want?”
“To be told. What was the matter with you when you came home this morning? I thought you were going to scream when I walked into the room.”
“I couldn’t find you.”
“Where would I be? Sleeping with an Italian?”
“I didn’t consider that possibility.”
“Then what?” Molly asked. I’ve never known anyone like you, Paul—each time you show your feelings you act like someone who’s been caught in a lie. *
“I’m trying to get over that.”
“Well, I wish you’d huny it up. I take you into my body. The least you can do is to tell me what it is that’s made you so cold when you’re not making love. When you get out of bed, you change, you know. I’d like to know whether you’re yourself when you’re lying down or when you’re standing up. I used to think it was Cathy, but it’s more than that, Paul.”
“Yes, it’s more than that.”
Something had changed in Molly. Christopher looked at her for the first time without a memory of sex or a desire for it. Molly’s personality had always been the force that lit her face or formed her gestures, something that made her physical beauty accessible to him. Now it leaped out of her flesh. There might have been two women facing him—one with Molly’s body and the other, entirely separate, a spirit that had escaped from it.
“For Christ’s sake, Paul, what is