Victor starts the account. Edgar is too far gone, still hunched over, his face pinched now in a way that robs it of all pretensions to beauty. This is how he’ll look when he’s old, Lucy can picture it: the deep lines that have formed from nose to lip, the pallor that’s overtaken him.
‘I went to see Gabriela this morning.’ Lucy takes a moment to catch on; Gabriela’s grave is what he means. An image of a headstone comes into her mind. Flowers. A man standing, his head bowed. ‘She was perfect,’ Victor continues. ‘The kindest woman you could meet. Everyone loved her. She was truly—’
‘She was my wife,’ Edgar interrupts, ‘and I didn’t look after her properly. It’s a short story, really, though there’s no end to the pain it’s caused. One of my students – she became obsessed with me. I didn’t know. She was bright, I was helping her with her dissertation. Anyway, she found out that Gabriela was pregnant, and she lost her mind. I came home from the university one evening to find Gabriela dead. Killed.’
‘It was all planned. She was stalking her. It was murder,’ Victor says, his face grim. ‘Premeditated murder.’
‘It wasn’tplanned, Victor. She didn’t know what she was doing.’
‘Who is “she”?’ Lucy says, but they ignore her.
‘Edgar,’ Victor says, as if in warning. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘I still can’t accept what you told me,’ Edgar says.
She can’t look away from him, from the way he’s glaring at Victor, his face full of anger.
‘Wait till you see the notebook,’ Victor says. ‘Then you’ll change your mind.’
‘I have seen it. I got the scans you sent.’
‘It’s different when you see it for real. The way the pen digs into the paper, the anger . . . it’s obsessive. It changes everything.’
‘I will not change my mind. You’re the one who’s changed. This goes against everything I’ve ever taught. We can dress it up in academic theory as much as we want, but it comes down to forgiveness. Redemption. Without them, there’s nothing,’ Edgar shouts, sitting up now. He’s practically standing, hands clenched into fists as they rest on the table.
Lucy is finding it hard to breathe; so much emotion in the air she wants to shut her eyes, cover her ears. Make it all go away. Edgar shakes his head as if to throw it off, at least the worst of it. Gradually, he sits back, unclenches his fists. Then he drinks some wine, his eyes closed.
‘What happened next? After the . . . death?’ Lucy says, finally getting her breath back enough to be able to speak.
Victor takes over again. ‘As I said, the woman confessed. No need for a trial, that was something. Sentenced to life.’
Without stopping to think, Lucy says, ‘Ten years ago – does that mean her killer is out now?’
A tremor runs through Victor – she can feel it, as if there’s a source of tension in the air. ‘No,’ he says. ‘That’s why I’m here. I want to make sure she never gets out.’
Lucy digs her nails into the palms of her hands. Edgar doesn’t reply, drinking what’s left in his glass and refilling it before sitting back down. The bottle is empty, and he waves it in the direction of the waiter, who swiftly brings a replacement. Edgar glances down at the menu before ordering quickly, shared platters of tapas and chips.
The subject is clearly closed. There’s so much more that Lucy wants to know, wants to ask, but she’s not going to get anywhere. At least for now.
29
The mood lifts when the food arrives. They’ve had a decade to deal with this, Lucy reminds herself as she finds herself judging Edgar for the alacrity with which he’s throwing food into his mouth, trauma apparently forgotten. Victor eats less, she notices, but he’s still chatty. The conversation moves on to his work, what he’s been doing since his return to Bolivia, his subsequent move to the US, the difficulties he faces in getting either country to reconsider the punitive nature of their penal systems.
She’s more shaken than either of them, the weight of the revelations lying heavy on her. She’s trying to make sense of what the men were discussing, what new information Victor thinks might change Edgar’s mind. She doesn’t dare ask for it herself.
Despite all the wine, she feels totally sober. She can’t be, though. Edgar has drunk the lion’s share of it, but still, they’ve got through the second bottle, nearly finished a third. She’s relieved when Edgar says no to an aperitif, orders coffees instead and asks for the bill. It’s still early, not yet nine, but she’s exhausted.
Victor pulls out his wallet to pay, but Edgar waves it away.
‘This is on me,’ he says. ‘Now look, you can’t go vanishing without telling me where you’re going. I’m not losing touch with you again.’
‘I’m going back to Oxford tonight. I need to get back for something,’ Victor says. ‘I’m staying for a few more days, but I really wanted to see you. I went round to your house earlier but obviously you weren’t there – I only came here because I saw you were on the programme for this conference.’
‘What’s so urgent?’ Edgar says, though there’s a resigned note to his question.
‘You know what’s so urgent,’ Victor says. ‘I want you to look at this. Please.’ He reaches down into the bag by his feet and pulls out an A4-sized brown envelope containing something small and rectangular.
‘Is that . . .?’
