feels panicky. Yes, he minds. Winterâs coming. The bed, without her, will be a tomb.
âWhen?â
âAs soon as possible. Iâd get a flight from Bordeaux, if we can afford it. Or, if not, the Thiviers train to Paris, then on to Boulogne and the ferry. I thought you might fix it tomorrow, Larry.â
âYes. Iâll fix it.â
âNadia offered to come with me, but I donât want anyone.â
Larry recognises this statement for what it is, a warning. He understands. If Leni must die, then Miriam wants to be the sole custodian of that death.
âWhatâs she dying of, Miriam?â
âHeart. Her heart.â
âIs she being cared for?â
âYes. Thereâs a nurse. And Gary will be there.â
âOh, Gary, Still calls Leni âMotherâ, does he?â
âI donât know, Larry.â
âI suppose it flatters her. What a trial he must be to live with, though. Worse than a house plant.â
âSheâs fond of Gary.â
âIs she? Iâm amazed. Still, better, old Gary at her bedside than me, I suppose.â
He didnât mean to say it. Christ. Why couldnât she have died one spring? Itâs the winter that makes it bad.
âSorry, Miriam. Sorry.â
âI know you donât like me going. For anything else, anyone else I wouldnât.â
âI know. Yes, I know . . .â
âI couldnât live with myself if she died and I wasnât with her.â
âI know , Miriam.â
âI may only be for . . . quite a short time.â
âYes.â
Useless. He feels useless. When they talk about Leni, itâs as if thereâs some faceless higher authority, some Politburo kind of thing slamming them each in separate cubicles. Leni waits in the corridor, listening, knowing. Itâs so lonely in his cubbyhole, he could die.
âHow did Nadia get to know?â
âShe called in. She saw Iâd been crying.â
âHave you cried?â
âOf course Iâve cried.â
Thereâs silence in the small room outside, Larry can hear one of Gervaiseâs guineafowl screech.
âBest if you fly, Miriam. Iâll telephone Air France from Nadiaâs.â
âThank you, Larry. How were the pool people? Helpful?â
Heâd forgotten Ducellier Frères . He feels too anxious to reveal the subtle ways in which this firm showed its mistrust of him.
âSo-so. Iâll work something out with them.â
âOh, I meant to ask you, have you got a name for the new company?â
âOh, Aquazure again. Iâll stick with that. No danger of anyone here pronouncing it âAquaishaâ.â
âI think you should change the name altogether.â
âWhatâs wrong with Aquazure ?â
âItâs tainted.â
âWith what?â
âWith the bad luck.â
Larry gets up. He must go and pour himself a gin. Heâs seasick with this day. Up, down, up, down. God Almighty. He could kill Leni Ackerman. Stick a knife in her bony chest. He hopes, as he goes down the stairs, that sheâll die quickly, before Miriam can reach her bedside.
That evening, towards six oâclock, the wind settles and dies and the air seems suddenly warm, like a summer night. Gervaise watches the pale, bulky shapes moving slowly in the dark field and feels grateful that time has brought her to this meadow, to this September.
Larry sits alone on his terrace. Thoughts slide and slip. This is his third gin. He feels flushed and breathless, his face a pink lamp in the quiet descending dusk. Heâs trying out the solitude to come. Wearing it. He admires the slow declining of light. His silly, shiny face like a beacon embarrasses him. Heâd like to decline with the dusk. Become weightless, invisible. Slipslidinâ away  . . . Damn Miriam for loving her mother. Why had there never been a daughter, his daughter, who