The fog was crouching on the ground like a cautious animal along the meadow which stretched from the manor to the grove. The smouldering morning twilight gave way to the dull white, the impenetrable night was slowly followed by an equally glum morning.
Wrapped in a dressing gown, shivering with chills, London Thameson left the bedroom and moved from one room to the next on his way to the kitchen. Here and there he tidied whatever he had left in disarray the other night. He took a cup and saucer from the study, found cold slippers in the library and reluctantly put them on. In the drawing room, he pulled a woollen plaid from the armchair and put it over his dressing gown. In the kitchen he sneezed and dropped the cup but at the last moment managed to catch it, and then hunkered down, trying to calm his heart and cope with the weakness that suddenly bound his body.
He was hungry, but with one look at the kitchen utensils he denied himself breakfast: the kind of patience required in cooking left him as soon as he made a rather miserable cup of tea.
He sat by the fireplace in the drawing room. After looking at the glowing coals, he decided to make a proper fire. But while he was busy with the fireplace, the tea had gone cold as the room had not yet warmed up. The cloud of milk in the tea reminded him of the fog outside.
It was probably worth hiring a housekeeper. After all, that wasn’t uncommon. However, Paris coped on his own even during the season of parties and dances, and besides, he had several apartments. And New York, too, somehow managed without servants in his big house. And what kind of housekeeper would go every day to the middle of nowhere? And she would have to, as Thameson wouldn’t let her live in the manor.
Struggling with the cold and shivering, but first of all, with himself, he returned to the kitchen to make another attempt at brewing tea. Again he had to stand around an old-fashioned stove, trying to warm up his sides, then his back, then his hands. This time he decided to add no milk.
The phone rang in the study. For a few seconds, he stood motionless, hoping that the caller would give up the idea, but they were exceptionally persistent. Very soon he decided that the sound of ringing would be a poor addition to his current malaise, so he trudged upstairs.
The phone stood impressively, almost menacingly on the table, its dial glittering in the dim light. Who could be calling, and at this early hour? Tapping his fingers on the bakelite case of the phone and preparing a couple of possible replies, Thameson answered.
‘Bonjour!’
He wasn’t expecting this. He froze in place as if this would make the caller instantly forget about him. He should have hung up, but hesitation deprived Thameson of any plausible reason to do it abruptly, without even saying hello.
‘M-m-Mr Thameson, is everything okay?’
The voice was so strangely distorted that it acquired a remarkable feline purr. One could almost hear a sneer or a taunt. Or was it just a smile?
Thameson felt an unpleasant scratch in his throat, swallowed and coughed. He recoiled from the phone, but not out of mercy to the caller: throwing the receiver on the table, he repeatedly punched himself in the chest, trying to get rid of the cough faster. Breathing heavily, with watery eyes, he returned to the conversation.
‘How did you get my number?’
‘You think it’s so ‘ard to get?’
‘What do you want, Delaseine?’
‘Frankly speaking, I wanted to ask you the very same.’
Thameson thought he had misheard.
‘What did you say?’
‘What shall I bring you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are we going to exchange questions?’ Delaseine sighed; he sounded grinning. ‘There’s been a rumour that you are ill. I called you at Belgrave Square about a week ago, no one answered. Then I decided to come in person, but of course, you weren’t there. And then someone told me that you can be found in an unin’abited Kenwood ’ouse.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Does it matter? I called Kenwood ’ouse, et voilà, you answered.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Listen, I’m almost on my way. Just tell me what you need.’
Struck by the shamelessness with which Paris invited himself over, Thameson could not come up with an answer. Delaseine continued:
‘I suppose you didn’t ‘ire a cook. Miserably roam around the grand un’eated maison. Duty calls you back to work, but, hélas, the neglected disease for once in a ‘undred years made you think about yourself. Now, tell me if I’m wrong.’
Although Thameson was completely disarmed by both the sympathetic tone and the new, so far unknown discernment of Delaseine, he still managed to spit out ’Not miserably’, which quite amused the Frenchman.
‘Well, this makes a difference, you know!.. But I’ll be boring you with this conversation any longer. See you very soon, monsieur Thameson!’
Delaseine hung up, not bothering to listen to the other’s thoughts about his visit. Thameson stared at the phone for a long time, as if hoping that Paris would call back and tell him that he was joking. But the phone stood silent. He cursed and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Fortunately, the kettle was still hot. Not wanting to run downstairs for hot water every time, he filled a thermos and was very pleased with his resourcefulness. However, a new inconvenience was discovered in the drawing room: whether he sat down facing the fireplace or turned his back to it, he got cold and this was accompanied by an awfully runny nose. Then he decided to change out of pyjamas and dressing gown into a shirt with a vest and wool trousers. However, his legs were cold, and he also wanted to change his scratchy vest for a softer sweater…
When he had sorted out all the annoying little things, he suddenly discovered that all this time they had been distracting him from much more unpleasant thoughts about Delaseine. Then he went to the library where he spent about half an hour searching but did not find anything interesting: there were few very old books, and everything that he had already read anyway. Maybe it was worth asking Delaseine to bring something?..
To hell with Paris! How was he even doing that: hadn’t arrived yet but was already getting on Thameson’s nerves! As soon as he shows up here, he’ll roll down the hills of Hempstead Heath!..
Thameson took a deep breath and regained his cool. It wasn’t about Delaseine. To appear sick in front of anyone, to be someone’s object of concern at all and at the same time not have any control over people or situation was too much even for the resolute Thameson, who never experienced anxiety. His sickness rendered him vulnerable.
He chose a manual on growing exotic flowers, and with his thermos and cup he took place by the window. The book was thin, although it contained pencil marks here and there, and between its pages, there were pieces of paper covered with generous and neat handwriting. He lazily followed the lines and examined coloured illustrations of palm trees, vines and succulents, their fruits and flowers. Sometimes he looked out of the window as if comparing the vivid green of the images with the grey, faded grass of the lawn that descended to the pond drowned in fog. Once or twice when he seemed to see someone climbing up the hill, he froze in place just like a hound and peered tensely into the monotonous morning landscape. He caught himself thinking that despite his discontent, he was still waiting for his uninvited guest. Not because he wanted to see him or missed one familiar face in his solitude, of course not. But the phone call became a reference point, and suddenly a lone existence in the walls of a huge house had coordinates of time. Waiting for something turned out to be far more pleasant than waiting for anything. And the time itself became more tangible: every action, every movement took measurable minutes and seconds.
It took a few hours before he heard the sound of a motor and the rustle of wheels on the pavement. He put down the book and went, wistfully, into the hallway where he stopped by the window and suddenly realised he had been waiting for Delaseine. The last thought brought Thameson back to earth because the very combination of the two words was repulsive and alien.
The Frenchman drove a convertible, and despite the cold, he was riding with an open top. He turned off the engine, took out a suitcase and a huge basket, then prudently expanded the leather roof and headed to the manor. His cheeks, pink from the wind, and his brown-red jacket glowed against grey haze and bare trees. When he finally noticed Thameson in the window, he waved at him with the suitcase.
Delaseine’s entrance was accompanied by chilled air that followed him from the street, and Thameson unconsciously shivered while holding out his palm for a handshake. But Delaseine shook his head.
‘We’ll shake ‘ands another time. Right now I wouldn’t dare to freeze you! ‘ow are you feeling?’
Unexpectedly, Thameson described his medical history in a brief yet obedient manner and complained about his runny nose and headache. And when the guest smiled knowingly and silently nodded at the basket full of fruits, pastries and delicacies, Thameson felt tired from trying to be an immaculately strong man through all of his life, and at the same time an inexplicable but long-awaited relief, simply because he had complained about his health. However, neither had anything to do with Paris, he reminded himself once again.
They went to the kitchen, where Delaseine took over the duties of lighting a huge cast-iron stove and cooking a meal.
‘What do you prefer for breakfast?’ he asked, taking off his jacket and washing his hands. Thameson shrugged in response. Delaseine managed to look elegant even in modest clothes and looked out of place in the middle of this kitchen. Was this dandy capable of making at least a pot of tea?
‘Well, I ‘ope you won’t mind some oatmeal?’
‘You know how to cook porridge?’ Thameson couldn’t help smiling, silently developing the idea of a dandy and a teapot. Delaseine smiled, too, and although he hardly thought the same thing, replied with subtle irony:
‘Oh, it’s not difficult at all. Even you, I think, would’ve succeeded.’
He tied an apron around his waist, took off his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. The pot of porridge went on the stove along with the coffee pot; Thameson’s remark - ‘Why not use the oven?’ - was ignored. From the basket Delaseine took apples, nuts and spices. Thameson, feeling useless, sat down in front of the oven and at last, he felt warm. The Frenchman gave him a look over the shoulder.
‘’ave you ‘eard about what’s going on in Germany?’ he asked casually. Thameson didn’t want to join this conversation but he shook his head nonetheless and then realising that Delaseine hadn’t seen him, he added: ‘No.’ ‘There was an incident in Berlin on Monday. Someone set fire to the parliament building. And the next day they already banned freedom of speech, forbid secrecy of correspondence and simplified the detention of people.’
‘They know who did it?’
Paris shrugged hesitantly.
‘Communists. Or so they say in the newspapers.’
‘I don’t suppose you believe the newspapers?’ Thameson chuckled. Delaseine glanced back and answered with a smile:
‘As do you’. He continued to slice apples. ‘What I want to say is, it all looks a little misplaced and ominous, don’t you think? A man like ‘itler, in the ‘eart of Europe, at times like this…’
Although Thameson shared these concerns, he did not want to think about it at all. He criticised the Frenchman for being alarmist and reminded him of the present problem of the economic depression that had been going on for several years after the stock market crash. Delaseine didn’t reply, and although at first he seemingly wanted to talk about something else, apparently he was ashamed and fell silent completely.
The porridge smelled like a pie and tasted like one: along with apples he added cinnamon, vanilla, sugar and crushed almonds. ‘Too sweet,’ reproached Thameson, although he actually liked it. However, Delaseine was not upset at all, taking the reproach as a compliment.
During breakfast, the silence between them vanished though subjects were picked now with caution. But when Delaseine was pouring coffee from the pot, Thameson, staring at his back, asked him out of the blue:
‘How is Patty doing?’
He did not answer immediately. He put two cups on the table first.
‘She’s doing fine,’ he replied coolly.
‘Why hasn’t she come?’
‘And ‘ow would it look? A fair young woman goes at an untimely ’our to a lonely man in a manor without servants.’
‘I never knew you or her cared about reputation.’
‘I’m worried about yours, Mr Thameson,’ Delaseine replied. ‘You’re being watched.’
Although Thameson suspected this it sounded creepy, and his anxiety increased. Nevertheless, he did not flinch and remained unbothered.
But then he realised something else: Delaseine wasn’t telling the whole truth. Patty, Patricia, the female self of Paris, often assumed the personality and appearance of monsieur Delaseine to avoid Thameson.
Driven by an impulse, he seized his guest’s wrist to read his thoughts. Delaseine did not struggle, and even leaned a bit forward, staring daringly at Thameson. The memory of Patty and Thameson’s last meeting emerged, full of disappointment and fatigue. Several weeks ago, Thameson quite rightly chastised the blonde coquette for her provocative outfit and behaviour, as she had attracted too much attention, and made it difficult for him to concentrate. But when he wanted to blame the Frenchman once again, the whole absurdity came to him: the memory that belonged to Patty was at the same time a memory of Delaseine. As it turned out, Delaseine was also a participant in the incident of weeks ago, which, given the special circumstances, would have been a great scandal. Not for the first time, having become entangled this way in the thoughts of the two Delasienes, Thameson recoiled irritably.
Paris examined his face, raising his eyebrows and grinning.
‘Don’t even start,’ Thameson warned.
‘I’m just wondering, what did you expect?’
‘I didn’t expect anything, I just…’
‘You tried to kiss her, changed your mind for some reason, and then you made it look like she was the one who behaved frivolously, and you even made a scene right there in the restaurant.’
‘Yes. She was.’
Delaseine tilted his head slightly and looked at him curiously.
‘You don’t ‘ave to lie. I was there with you, in a sense.’ London winced at the very thought. ‘And you know it perfectly well, Mr Thameson. So many times we ‘ave explained already ‘ow it works... ‘ow we work. But we both understand that your acceptance can take years.’
‘Acceptance of what?’ said Thameson through gritted teeth. Paris took a moment to think.
‘Good question. Well, either the fact of my existence – or your obvious affection for Patty.’
London gasped with shock.
‘How fucking dare you! What are you even implying? I don’t have any affection!’
‘You’ve just asked ‘ow she’s doing.’
There was a pause. Thameson sighed audibly.
‘This is not affection,’ he replied firmly, glaring furiously into the mocking amethyst eyes of Delaseine. ‘If you need to know, that’s exactly why I didn’t kiss her. Because I – don’t – want – it.’
Although Delaseine was still smiling, his expression changed slightly. He was thinking about something, absent-mindedly stirring his coffee, was about to respond but changed his mind. Thameson who hated to open up suddenly felt such determination that he drank his coffee in one gulp and did not twitch from its bitterness. The secret that had come to light finally ceased to weigh on him, and he at once felt free from any rules and conventions which he used to apply to himself.
‘I’m sorry, mon ami, I was deeply mistaken about you,’ Delaseine said cautiously. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But now that you’ve said it… I’m afraid, to your chagrin, I like you a lot more.’
Thameson laughed nervously, and it made him cough.
‘Why on earth would that be?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘It’s not ‘ard to guess what are usually mens’ intentions when they get to know Patty. Or what ladies expect from me besides money and entertainment. But you... You’re interested in me as you’re interested in her. Since we’ve known each other, you’ve never refused to talk to us, and you yourself love to start a conversation. Whenever possible, you read ‘er thoughts and mine.’ He paused, then added quietly, ‘In two thousand years, no one else showed interest in what we both think, Mr Thameson.’
‘Then forget it,’ replied London resentfully and wrapped himself tightly in his sweater, although he wasn’t cold: blood rushed to his cheeks, and he tried to hide his face in a wide knitted collar. He stared into the emptiness of the kitchen, ignoring Paris’s gaze on himself and hoping that he would change the subject, damn it. In the end, he decided to do it himself.
‘Well. Who do you think is following me?’
‘Germans, Russians, Swiss,’ Delaseine sighed. ‘French.’
‘Are they watching right now?’
Paris frowned.
‘I’m not a spy and I’m not following you if that’s what you mean.’ That was exactly what Thameson meant. ‘But I managed to find you thanks to secret agents.’
‘And they just told you everything, didn’t they?’
‘I was persuasive.’
‘Persuasive how?’
‘I said I’ve been following you my entire life and even became your friend in order to uncover your secrets.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘I ‘ave no profit in lying,’ Paris extended his hand. ‘You can always read my thoughts.’
Thameson did exactly that. He never considered it shameful to demonstrate his distrust. And although Delaseine was telling the truth, again there was something else in his thoughts.
London was watched for a reason, and it had been going on for several years. He had stayed too long in one workplace, arousing suspicion, and now a number of people inside and outside of the kingdom were intrigued by the ageless, unchanging man. In the shaky post-war period, which gave impetus to science, such a phenomenon with no explanation could not but attract attention. If he had gone low he could avoid it. Eventually, Paris also came into view: he was being watched now too and was even approached to be recruited. He refused.
‘You refused to spy on me? How nice of you,’ Thameson couldn’t help but sneer. ‘So, why did you come here in the first place?’
Delaseine drew his hand away. He looked at him silently, as if Thameson should have read his thoughts at a distance. Then he said:
‘You, mon cher monsieur Thameson, will never ask for ‘elp, even when you need it,’ he shrugged. ‘Therefore, the ‘elp came to you. When you feel better in a couple of days, I’ll get you out of ‘ere and ‘ide you if necessary.’
He put away the cups and coffee pot and tidied up a bit. Thameson watched him with both incredulity and surprise. He had long forgotten what it was like to be cared for and worried for. But part of him considered it unthinkable to entrust himself to the troubles of Delaseine, in London’s opinion, an extremely frivolous and flighty young man.
It was decided to go upstairs to the library. Thameson filled the thermos, and Delaseine took out pastries and a tin of biscuits from his basket.
‘How do you entertain yourself ‘ere?’ Paris asked, bringing back an air of ease and nonchalance. ‘My previous visit to Kenwood House was connected with a reception ‘osted by le grand-duc Michel Mikhaïlovitch, who, as you probably remember, married…
Delaseine named all the guests, the dishes served that evening, and all the ladies he had invited to dance at the ball. In the end, he complained that he had hoped to meet Thameson, but it did not happen.
‘I don’t like such gatherings,’ he responded grumpily, settling down in his favourite place by the window.
‘But are you comfortable alone in a large estate?’
‘I was hoping that no one would find me that far away.’
‘’empstead isn’t Covent Garden, of course, but it’s not that remote. And the manor’s up on a ‘ill, it is quite noticeable. I bet it looks good through field glasses…’ Delaseine poured them tea, put the tin on a coffee table and, sitting down in an armchair nearby, noticed the book that Thameson was still carrying with him. ‘I didn’t suspect you ‘ad a passion for gardening.’
‘The library’s rather poor here.’
He gave the book to the Frenchman and took a pain aux raisins from him.
The guest, having flipped through the book and found a written piece of paper, smiled happily.
‘Who would’ve thought! I know the author of these notes.’
Thameson, occupied with tea and a soft fragrant bun, looked at him sceptically.
‘One wing of this résidence is the library in which we are sitting right now, and the other one used to be a green’ouse. And what a garden there was! During the memorable reception, the green’ouse was open but did not attract any other guests, except yours truly.’
‘How is it that none of the ladies who had the honour to dance with you kept you company?’ London chuckled.
‘They were all married.’
‘As if you cared. But please continue. Although wait, let me guess… So, alone, you went to look for cacti... and made friends with a midnight jardinier?’
Delaseine’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
‘’ow perceptive you are. Only I didn’t meet a jardinier, but a jardinière.’
He broke into a smug smile. Thameson was chewing absently on the bun. Delaseine found a romantic adventure at every ball and reception, and sometimes more than one in an evening.
‘I do hope the poor girl had the mental strength to survive the breakup.’
‘Actually, it was more difficult for me. And she wasn’t a girl anyway. I arranged a place for ‘er at le Jardin de plantes de Paris, where she sadly passed a few years later from a chronic disease.’
Thameson looked at his guest for a long time without saying a word, then turned his head to the window.
‘It amazes me how you, recklessly interfering with the lives of mortals, are of no concern to anyone for years, and I, a completely boring, ordinary officer, am suddenly a person of interest.’
‘Per’aps in fact that’s I who lead a completely ordinary life, which seems – well, seemed uninteresting to spies, and you, a lonely man shunning acquaintances, attract much more attention. After all, you are an officer only on Mondays and Wednesdays…’
London, remembering that maintaining the conversation would only strengthen the Frenchman’s sympathies, bit his tongue, but the desire to prove Delaseine wrong turned out to be far too strong to resist. For twenty minutes they had a heated discussion about how convincing their professions could seem to mortals. However, later Thameson had to regret it as he was starting to have a headache. At first, he tried to carefully change his position, but any movement caused a sharp pain in his temples. Clutching the cup in his hands, he closed his eyes, and briefly detached from the talk.
At some point, Paris turned out to be very near. He said something softly; his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. After a moment, Thameson opened his eyes, and his consciousness abruptly returned to reality.
‘…better to lie down?’ Delaseine asked, trying to catch his eye.
‘It’s fine,’ London said dryly. His guest smiled with disbelief.
‘Are you sure? I recommend you take a look out the window.’
The subdued light of the overcast sky promised rain. The bare trees were at rest without wind. A pink-and-blue thick fog hung over the lawn.
Thameson squeezed his eyes shut for a second and rubbed his face; but he wasn’t imagining things. Barely concealing his shock, he stared at Delaseine, who patiently explained:
‘This ‘appens sometimes when we are sick.’
‘We?’
‘You and me. And the like.’
‘How to make it go away?’
‘You need to rest and get well, Mr Thameson.’
‘Why didn’t it happen before?’
‘Maybe it ‘appened and you didn’t notice. Let’s maybe put you to bed after all?’
‘But those agents! They are probably watching! They’ll know something’s going on.’
‘I don’t think anyone will believe their stories about a bit of colourful fog. But let’s not provide them with more substantial evidence in favour of your otherness.’
Thameson, still staring at the fog on the lawn, got up from his seat and, reeling, clutched Delaseine’s shoulder. With his help, he crossed the library and got to the door, but on the stairs the dizziness took over, and the migraine made him nauseous. After climbing a couple of steps, he began to fall – and then became completely weightless. The pain was throbbing in his head, and a foreign heartbeat sounded completely out of sync with that rhythm. To hear it better, he burrowed deeper into something soft, smelling like vanilla warmth and the crisp apple freshness.
Weightlessness was replaced by the cool cloud of bedding. He cowered, shaking with chills, the thick blanket wasn’t enough to warm him. And then at one moment it became unbearably hot. He would fall into a restless nap and wake up to his own voice echoing off the walls. Jumping from his sleep, he inevitably saw Delaseine next to him who would always say some soothing nonsense, and Thameson, to his surprise, succumbed to it. Sometimes he gave him a glass of water or a spoonful of some medicine, and London really wanted to ask what was in there, but as he turned on the other side, the slumber took him. And when the dream dragged on, turning from surreal but harmless into a dramatic nightmare, the foreign yet familiar heartbeat emerged at the periphery, and the dream froze like a film in a movie projector. Other images came to life: a blonde in a shiny dress and a tall man who resembled her were dancing the charleston; they opened dozens of Christmas gifts, laughing together and throwing the wrapping into the air; like children, they messed and played with a golden retriever, and the dog named Trésor licked their hands and faces… London watched all this from the side, although he also wanted to open the gift, he wanted to pat the dog’s ear, shake its paw–
Thameson woke up and stared at the ceiling. There was something clutched in his hand, and he relaxed it a second before he realised that they were Delaseine’s fingers. He pretended he was just waking up and turned to the window. It was still day; he hardly slept for more than an hour.
Delaseine walked quietly around the room and looked out of the window. He turned around for a second, slightly alarmed.
‘How’s the fog?’ Thameson asked.
‘Mmm,’ the Frenchman replied vaguely.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Let’s just say: thickened. And took the form of a very cheerful retriever.’ And without giving time to reply he added, ‘This will pass, and you’d better get some more sleep.’
‘But the agents?–’
‘I’ll take care of it. Now go back to sleep.’
Delaseine pulled the curtains over the windows, and the bedroom plunged into a cosy twilight. Thameson fell asleep soon enough, returning to Trésor and his owners who he’d been dreaming about.