Schiavi explained, with an appearance of perfect truthfulness, that the writer had invented the garrulous ex-servant from his own fertile brain. Clearly the whole setting of the story, the bridge, the poignant dawn meeting, was false, and yet to maintain its internal logic the poor persistent father must have got his vital information from somewhere. And where more likely than such a chance encounter, as any reader would accept might easily happen in a tavern between two men with something important in common: a far-distant birthplace.
In reality, his writer friend, Schiavi said, had been introduced by him to the man, the so-called bereft father, so that he might portray him credibly. They had conversed briefly, the three of them, and in less romantic circumstances than the story showed, and Spry had spun his story from what he had been told. Had he not done wonderfully well? Max agreed rather hollowly that indeed he had.
So, then, there were two possibilities that Max could see. One: Schiavi had done his work too conscientiously, had indeed found someone from Martinique, and by the most malign of chances this person had known some part of the story of his own birth, or had at least been acquainted with Celestine. That could be. It was not a large island, and coincidences happened. Celestine, of course, was not his birth mother, though he owed her his life as much as if she had been, or more. To call her his mother was a lie,then, but it was – by accident or design – a clever one. The cleverest untruth that might be devised, since she was dead and so it could not now be disproved by anyone. Shehadcome to England with a child, and he was that child. If the world accepted this as true, if this man knew no more or at any rate said no more, Max could not doubt that he was safe at last, and free to marry the woman he loved, and live a life such as he’d never dreamed of.
But the other possibility… Max jumped to his feet, and paced restless up and down the room, the paper still clutched, forgotten, in his hand. He knew what he had to do; this time intermediaries could not help him.
49
He had the direction of the inn where Jacques Martin was staying, or had been. Schiavi, without being asked, had assured Max that the tale of him leaving on the next day’s tide was but another part of the poetic licence the writer had allowed himself; it made a good ending, full of pathos, like to make a reader of delicate sensibility shed tears.
Perhaps the clever old man knew that when it came to it, he, Max, could not help but seek him out. He’d looked for a father before among such men, obsessively and always without success, and the Italian knew it. How could he resist this last desperate chance?
He strode through the busy London streets to the inn, which was a thriving coaching establishment in a respectable enough street in Holborn. It was a couple of miles only; the exercise helped calm his restless spirit a little. He’d be cautious, and not enquire for the man he sought, or otherwise draw undue attention to himself. All sorts of people passed through a coaching inn, and nobody noticed them unless they caused a bustle. Hewouldn’t. There’d be a taproom; he’d have a peaceful drink, as anyone might, and look about him warily.
It was quiet just now, in the middle of the evening, no stages having recently arrived or being due to leave. There were only two or three weathered men standing at the bar, conversing in low tones, coachmen perhaps, and a similar number of assorted characters seated at tables, eating the solid fare the place offered, minding their business.
One of them was the kind of man he’d seen in the streets over the years, the kind of man who’d snag his eye, always, and make him wonder. A man of colour. He was the right age, or appeared to be, tall and well-made. He looked up from his pie, caught Max’s eye, and nodded, almost as if he’d been expecting to see him, or waiting, even. Mr Severin experienced a moment of sudden disorientation, but with an effort of will he pushed past it, forced his feet to move.
When Max approached a little closer, the man said calmly, ‘I wondered if you’d come.’ He was speaking Matinik. Of course he was.
Max sat down opposite him. He didn’t introduce himself; there seemed no need. ‘I thought I might as well. The name Celestine, which came from you, I assume, captured my attention and made me wonder.’
‘Poor Celestine,’ Martin said soberly. ‘I didn’t know her very well, just met her once or twice. My attention was elsewhere, you could say. But I believe she’d have been happy to claim you as hers, if she’d thought it would help you. Make you safer. She seemed like a good woman.’
‘She was. The best.’ Max was having a little difficulty getting the words out.
His companion forked a piece of meat, and chewed and swallowed, then said, ‘Oh – I have something for you. Saves mesending it back, when it might easily go astray.’ He reached into his pocket and took out money – quite a large sum – which he set down and pushed across the table. ‘I don’t need it or want it, but it seemed better to let the odd old man think I did. People trust greed, I’ve found; they think they understand it.’
It was everything he’d been given, to the last shilling, Max guessed, though he wasn’t inclined to count it. He didn’t pick it up, or push it back. ‘How did he find you?’
‘I found him, in point of fact. I heard he was looking; there aren’t so many of us here, you know, so word gets about. It’s funny. He has no idea how well he succeeded in his task.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that; you never know, with him. Was it true, what you said, about your life… since?’
‘About the navy? Yes, more or less, that’s where I’ve been, but it wouldn’t have made any difference, would it? She was never going to marry me, live with me in some shack, spend her days gutting fish and singing you lullabies. Not her. And even if she’d wanted to, they wouldn’t have let her – they had other plans for her. God knows what her family would have done to me if they’d caught me. I wasn’t so much pressed as volunteered, surprising them with my enthusiasm. It seemed safer.’ A pause. ‘You have her eyes. I hadn’t realised. Very distinctive – they shook me for a moment, when I saw them. Took me back across the years. Dangerous.’
‘Not any more, I hope. Thanks to you.’ There was a great deal to say, in some ways, and in others very little.
‘It’s the first thing I’ve ever done for you, son. About time, really. I abandoned her, and you. You don’t need to tell me that. It hasn’t sat well with me, all these years. But I’ve told myself – maybe it’s been easy to do so, but it could still be true all the same – that the best thing I could do for her was keep my mouth firmlyshut. And I have done, always. All these years, all through everything.’
‘You’ve never been tempted?’ Max looked around the taproom, imagining, which was simple and terrifying enough. ‘Never been in a room, or on one of your ships, surrounded by men, drinking, or by whores, and thought to stand up and shout,Ihaveasecret you won’t believe…?’
‘Never,’ his father said in level tones. ‘I don’t drink much, or otherwise indulge, for that very reason. I can do that for Rose, at least. Rose as she was.’
‘I met her,’ Max told him. It seemed important to say, though he didn’t know why. ‘I went to see her, near Paris, I expect you know where. It was crazy, but she wanted it, apparently, and so I went. She spoke fondly of you, of what she remembered, when I asked. But I wasn’t sure if she was spinning me a pretty tale to make me feel better. Now I think maybe she wasn’t, and I’m happy to know it.’
The older man smiled. He had a good smile. ‘When?’
‘Three years ago, or thereabouts.’
‘The peace – of course. How did she look?’
‘Beautiful. Rich. Tired.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s easy, for all the jewels and the rest of it. Sweet Jesu, can you even begin to picture what it must be like, living with him all these years? And all the more now, since there hasn’t been a child of his and isn’t all that likely to be. She’s two and forty, same as me, more or less. June, her birthday – I don’t have one, not so precise.’ There was a little silence between them. ‘He’d have you dead, of course, in a heartbeat. You know that. And her too, for that matter. If I have helped prevent that, son, I’m glad.’
‘You have. Thank you. I’m going to be able to get married,because of what you’ve done. Have a life of my own. I couldn’t risk it, before, you understand.’
