Whatever Lola Wants (7 page)

“If I could show how remarkable—”

“The
US
Narcotics Bureau would close us down. Yes, even in Sherbrooke, Quebec!” Sam Ulrich shuddered. “Forget it, Beth.”

“This is the essence of my work!”

They argued for half an hour. Finally Sam, as a friend not as Research Director, said he'd take it to the board. “Okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

The board heard Sam. They listened as well to Beth. They showed themselves more than adamant. “No way,” said the board.

What choice for Beth? Was there a legitimate lab anywhere that would take a woman whose research called for illegal substances, unlawful inquiries? A woman who for nearly three years had not, after such promise, published a single paper?

“Go home, Beth,” said the board. “Be there for your boy.”

•

Very strange, seeing all that, telling Lola about Beth Cochan.

Lola said, “Is that all?”

All. I knew there was more, but I couldn't find it. Yet, or ever? “That's all for now.”

She shook her head. “How do you do it, Ted? Is it your memory?”

“Well—it can't be. I have no memories of Beth Cochan.” But how can she even be asking about memory? Gods can't experience memory. It's just a word.

“Is it, maybe, Beth Cochan's memory?”

“How do you mean?”

“Can you see her memory? And Bobbie's memory?”

I blinked.
I had seen Bobbie's memory.
That's how I could tell Lola about Bobbie in San Francisco. I had seen what Bobbie remembered. How remarkable! Lola had figured out something I hadn't known! I wanted to hug her. I only smiled broadly. “You know, I think you're right. I did see Bobbie's memory. Lola—thank you!”

She grinned as if I'd just rewarded her with a lollipop. “Good! You're welcome.”

Again that urge to hug her, just the friendliest of hugs …

“And Beth Cochan's memory too. Two memories so close together.”

Then my belly tightened. Now Lola was wrong. Because I knew I couldn't be seeing Beth Cochan's memory because I knew, without knowing how, that Beth Cochan was dead. I'd have to figure that one out.

I closed my eyes again, maybe find Beth again. No. She wasn't there. I'd try again later.

Later too I couldn't locate her. But I did see John Milton Magnussen. In his mid-twenties. In London. Deep under the ground.

And from about the same time, Theresa's memory.

•

3. (1963)

Milton had told his sister,
Bev, about meeting Theresa on the boat, the
Princess Isabella
, second day out of New York, heading to England and France. Lots of students on board. Theresa would be working at the Hotel Boniface in Lyon after her fencing tournament in Paris. They'd spend the afternoon together tomorrow when he passed through, six hours between his train from London and the connection to Freiburg. He wanted to give her a small present. Bev said she'd take him to London's Silver Vaults.

“What're they?”

Back in the nineteenth century, Bev told him, silver dealers from Hatton Garden stored their goods overnight in underground vaults there. Then dealers began to open these subterranean warehouses to the public, and the Silver Vaults sold retail ever since.

Bev and Milton descended, grim fluorescent light overhead, lines and lines of shops along the alleyways, all displaying silver: candlesticks, samovars, cutlery, picture frames, rings, tea sets. The next shop, silver animals: rabbits, mice, beavers, a dozen different insects, a silver cockatiel, cats, dogs of all breeds.

“Down this way.” Bev led him to a store displaying smaller, less expensive items, necklaces, broaches, earrings. She knew how little money he had.

A necklace, he figured. Both intimate and general. The bald clerk laid out a dozen and more on the glass countertop. Milton examined each, his eyes returning to a delicate silver chain, links so tiny and interconnected it looked like a slender snake slithering across his palm. From the chain hung a small stone framed with silver, a bloodstone, green jasper with bright red dots spattered anarchically. Her birthstone. March 23. He'd sneaked a look at her passport.

“Chalcedony quartz,” the clerk said. “Named heliotrope, reflects sunlight brilliantly.”

“Can you try it on, Bev?”

Bev opened the clasp, took an end of chain in each hand, and brought it around her neck. The bloodstone glowed soft green against her skin, whitened by the fluorescence overhead. She attached the clasp without a problem. She raised her chin. “How's it look?”

“Good.” He nodded to the clerk. “You have a little box to put it in?”

Bev undid the clasp.

He paid. Her birthstone. It would be for Theresa only. Until the boat had sailed away, taking her on to Le Havre, leaving him on the dock at Southampton, he hadn't understood how deeply smitten he was. Three days ago. Her absence had left him acutely alone. Even with Bev appearing as planned outside the Immigration Hall to take him in hand.

He pocketed the package and they left the shop.

“You know,” Bev said, “in India they grind bloodstones into powder. You drink it down in water. It's an aphrodisiac. It gives you strength. They say.”

Strength is what he'd hoped for on the boat. He'd noticed Theresa the second day at dinner, the chair at her table in the dining room back to back with his own. At one point she'd pushed backward, tapping his chair. He'd turned. She'd grinned, said, “Sorry,” stood, and walked away. A tall woman, a couple of inches shorter than his own six feet. But elegantly curved. Had he been brave enough, he'd've gotten up and followed her out and demanded a mock apology. Instead he merely watched as she left the dining room, hair just down over her collar, light tight red sweater, straight khaki skirt to her knees, low heels. All evening that image tickled in his memory. Coming in to breakfast, he saw she was already seated, her back to him. He took the chair directly behind her and sat, careful not to tap hers. After a sip of coffee he pushed backward. As their chairs touched he turned, just as she did. “Revenge.” He smiled.

She looked puzzled, then tittered.

A strange sound to come from between such lovely lips. He introduced himself: “Milton. Magnussen.” He reached out his hand.

She stood, looking down on him, suddenly at attention, saluting, heels clicking together. “Theresa. Bonneherbe.”

He stood. “At ease, Lieutenant Theresa.”

She clasped her hands behind her back and took him in. At her height she could rarely look up to a man's face. Most of the guys she'd dated had been shorter, too often a big deal for them. In Milton Magnussen she liked what she saw: a man maybe a couple of years older, thick black hair parted in the middle, a sturdy forehead, bulky eyebrows, gentle brown eyes, generous lips, close-shaven cheeks and chin, face more round than long, a broad, strong body. Only the small chin marred his face. She would suggest a beard. What? Oh dear, already making plans …

So their conversation began. They spent most of their waking time together over the rest of the voyage. They learned about each other's lives. Agreement about films and wine, books and skiing, roaring fires and pizza, the poetry of Archibald MacLeish and e.e. cummings, Oscar Wilde and W.B. Yeats, and the pleasure and irritation at having a single sibling. She knew nothing of farming, he not a thing about fencing. They described their set-in-stone plans for their European summers—he first to England to spend a couple of days with his sister, then to Freiburg to improve his German so he could read Goethe, Heine, and Rilke in their own language during long winter evenings at the Grange; she a few days in Paris, then to Lyon for her fencing tournament, next to a hotel a few miles north of Lyon where she would work and live in French. And afterward? She to Harvard University, a Ph.D. in philosophy; he back to the Grange, to help his father farm the land as his father had helped his own father. Lives to be lived.

He would disembark in Southampton. They met before dawn as the
Princess Isabella
glided into the harbor, up to the dock. There at the rail he kissed her, their first time.

“It's been fun,” she said.

“And funny,” he said.

They both laughed at the same moment.

“Will you have any time when you pass through Paris?” she said.

“A few hours.”

“Want to spend it together?”

He said, “I'd love to,” and it sounded in his ears, I love you.

Theresa drank Paris
down in huge gulps, using her greed for it all to drown away that other undeniable thirst—lust was not too strong—for Milton Magnussen. It must have already been there when they were both still on board the ship, but hidden away in some mental gap. Hiding on its own or hidden by her? Whichever, it had leapt out and screamed at her as the
Princess Isabella
steamed away across the Channel: And what if he gave you the wrong train time? Or if he decided to spend more time with his sister? Or if he fell and broke his leg and couldn't travel? She couldn't tell him the hotel where she'd be staying in Paris because she didn't have it yet. How could you be so dumb!? She had stared back toward Southampton, and her eyes welled. The closest thing to an address she had for him was the university in Freiburg. Maybe he just didn't want to see her again. A shipboard friendship, hardly a romance? But hadn't he known how much more she must be feeling when she kissed him there at the rail? Come on, Theresa, be fair. You hadn't known, how could he?

He hadn't known. Likely he didn't care. Clearly he didn't. But she'd be at station when the train arrived, 11:25 in the morning.

She took Paris literally by stride, walking everywhere in her uniform, short-sleeved blouses, khaki skirt, white socks, and sneakers. The Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysée, the Grand Palais, and the Musée du Petit Palais. The Seine from the Palais de Chaillot, the Eiffel Tower, the Palais Bourbon, the Musée d'Orsay. And finally on Wednesday, Gare du Nord.

She woke early, lay still for a while, glancing about her narrow room. It was a tight five-floor walk-up, hers on the fourth, a hard climb the first time with her backpack and the case for her foil, mask, and padding, compact enough but clumsy on the thin stairs. And no help from the concierge, a sharp-nosed woman with thin gray scraggle on her head. Now Theresa washed, combed her hair, the light blue blouse? The white skirt definitely …

She lay back on her bed. Would he be on the train? Did he really want to see her again? As much as she wanted to see him? Not likely. She had it bad. Hadn't happened to her like this before, not even with Simon, good in bed and a nice guy but she'd never before felt this—this longing. Love? Just, right now, a huge desire. She pictured Milton as best she could, black hair, sturdy forehead, broad strong body. Funny. Kind. Generous. Taller than her so one day when she wore high heels she'd be almost as tall. One day? Leaping ahead, are we? Today is the only day. Ten to ten. She stood, straightened her skirt, brushed her hair again, glanced in the mirror. What she saw was what he'd get. Walk to the Gare du Nord, get there early, trains don't arrive early but you never know. She left, passing the concierge and her ever shifty glance.

She paced the grimy platform from 10:48 to 11:27. She saw the engine pulling into the huge hollow gray-black station and positioned herself to be parallel with the first car, likely not Milton's, she didn't expect him to travel first class. Though it'd be a good joke. She noted a luggage cart, no porter. She climbed up. The train wheezed steam, and stopped. A couple of minutes and the platform filled with passengers. She couldn't see him, couldn't make out distinct faces. Her glance panned the approaching people, bits of color on the gray platform. No Milton. The last of the passengers were already halfway down the train's length, still coming on, no Milton. He wouldn't be here today. Or ever. Maybe he'd missed— “Hello, up there!”

She spun around so quickly she nearly fell off. He raised a hand to her, she grabbed it. “Hello, down there. Thought you could get by me, did you? Ha.”

He laughed. “You coming back to solid land?”

“Catch me.” She jumped, he caught her by the waist, she bounced, her face to his face, she threw her arms about his neck and they kissed; all unplanned. “Mmm,” she said after a few seconds, “we're starting up where we left off.”

“A good place.” He brought his arms around her and held her. “A very good place.”

Her face against his neck felt right. “I'm glad you're here,” she whispered. She pulled away. “Oh! Where's your luggage?”

“I shipped it through. To Freiburg. It'll be transferred to the other station. I don't have to do a thing. I just paid somebody.”

“Oh.” Of course he was going on to Freiburg. “And when's your train?”

“Tonight. Seven-thirty. I'll claim my luggage when I get there.” He opened his arms wide. “So you see? Nothing to carry. Except”—he reached into his jacket pocket—“this.” He handed her a small cardboard box. “For you.”

“What is it?”

“Take it. Then I won't be carrying anything.”

She took it. Very light. “You sure there's something in here?”

“Open it.”

She did. Beneath a layer of tissue paper, on another layer, a delicate chain with a pendant attached. She recognized the stone and a flush took her. How could he have known she'd lost her bloodstone in her first semester? How for that matter did he know this was her birthstone? Coincidence all? She took out the chain. The stone dangled. “Thank you, Milton.”

“It's okay?”

“It's wonderful.” She stood on her toes and gave him quick light kiss.

“Put it on.”

She handed him the chain and stone. “Will you?” She turned, her back to him. She felt his forearms on her shoulders as he draped the chain and stone around her neck …She turned.