Dead Lines

Peter sat on the green couch, knees spread comfortably, and rested his big, dry hands on them; an easy workman’s way of sitting, not a gentleman’s, and for once, he was acutely aware of the difference. Sandaji pressed her gown again with a downward stroke of her hand and returned to the plain wooden chair. She sat straight and with knees together, not as if manner dictated, but equally in comfort. Her long fingers continued to shape precise smoothing motions, drawing the clinging velvet down an inch as she made a small contraction in the corner of her mouth. Human, that contraction said; no matter what else you see or feel, I am merely human.

Peter was not so sure. He could not take his eyes off her. She seemed utterly at peace. Her eyes remained fixed on his.

‘I do odd jobs for Mr Benoliel,’ Peter said. ‘He told me to come here.’

Sandaji obviously appreciated the effect she had on men and probably on other women, but it did not in the final balance seem to mean a lot to her. She raised her brows with an expression that said, how nice. ‘There’s so much pain to be soothed, so much confusion to be guided into useful energy.’ Her voice was tuned like a cello. Peter could imagine himself swimming in that voice.

‘I’m sure,’ he said. Then, without willing it, he added, ‘My best friend died today.’

Sandaji leaned forward and she held her breath for an instant before exhaling delicately through her nose. ‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ she said.

‘He was a writer, like me,’ Peter added.

‘You both have qualities,’ Sandaji said. ‘You are valued, that I can see. So many people – women in particular, I think – have placed an astonishing faith in you. That is something special, Peter.’

‘Thank you. I like women,’ he said. ‘They seem to like me. And around me, well … I can’t …’ He could not stop talking. Embarrassing. His hands clutched his knees.

‘I understand,’ Sandaji said. ‘I commit only to my work now. That confuses some who need the kind of love we can’t afford to give, for different reasons.’

Peter chuckled uncomfortably. ‘Well, it isn’t because I’m successful and devoted to my work.’

‘No?’

‘More like I’ve never grown up.’

‘There’s a charm in youth, and a sting,’ Sandaji said. ‘We let go of youth for a great price. Life does not offer the price to all.’

Ah, Peter thought, and felt a measure of control return. I’m getting her range. She’s very good, but she is not impenetrable. Still, she is very good. ‘Sorry. That just slipped out. I’m not here to talk about me.’

‘I see.’

‘My employer has a question.’ ‘

We have time.’

‘Michelle told me that earlier. Mrs Benoliel.’

A wrinkle formed between Sandaji’s pale brows. ‘She worries for her husband.’

‘All rich wives worry,’ Peter said, feeling defensive now, and not because of the implied analysis of Michelle. He could feel the spotlight of Sandaji’s attention moving around his personal landscape, touching points he might not want illuminated.

She looked to his left, then leaned back in the chair. ‘Your daughter,’ she said, and the wrinkle between her brows deepened.

Peter stiffened until his neck hurt. ‘I didn’t ask about my daughter,’ he said.

Sandaji opened and closed her hands, then folded them on her lap, dimpling the black velvet. She seemed agitated. ‘I assure you, I’m not a psychic, Mr Russell.’

‘I’m here on Mr Benoliel’s behalf. Why bring up my daughter?’

‘Please ask … your question.’ She looked up at the ceiling, frowning self-critically. ‘I’m so sorry. I did not mean to intrude. Please forgive me.’

Peter looked up as well. Light flickered there, as if reflecting from a pool of water somewhere in the room.

Sandaji moved – jerked, actually, as if startled – and the light vanished.

That, and mention of his daughter, and Sandaji’s unexpected discomfiture, made Peter nervous. The house was no longer welcoming and Sandaji’s enchantment had evaporated. She suddenly looked fragile, like chipped china.

It was time to get this charade over with.

‘Please,’ Sandaji insisted. ‘The question.’

‘Mr Benoliel asks if a man can live without a soul.’

She dropped her gaze to look over his shoulder, then slowly returned her focus to Peter. ‘He asks if a man …’ The wrinkle between her brows became a dark valley. She was starting to look all of her years, and more. ‘Live without a soul?’

‘No,’ Peter corrected himself, getting flustered. ‘He said “someone”, actually. Not “a man”, but “someone”.’

‘Of course,’ Sandaji said, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. Peter blinked. For an instant, a shadow seemed to fill the room, sweeping across walls and ceiling and then hiding behind the furniture.

Sandaji appeared shocked and frightened. She stopped smoothing her gown. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I did not expect … I am not feeling well. Could you call my assistant?’

Peter started to get up from the couch. Before he could reach for her, she slumped forward like a dying ballerina. Her hands fell limp against the worn oriental carpet. A copper bracelet dropped and lodged around her wrist. Her grey hair slipped and pooled. Peter kneeled, decided it would not be wise to touch her – she appeared stunned, half conscious.

He shouted, ‘Help!’

Jean Baslan entered with a prim, pale look and together they lifted Sandaji back into the chair. ‘No, this isn’t very comfortable,’ Baslan observed, her face a tight mask of concern. They picked the woman up by her arms and helped her to the couch, where she lay back gracefully enough, skin waxy and hair in disarray.

‘Of course,’ Sandaji said as she opened her eyes.

‘What happened?’ Baslan asked Peter.

‘She just spoke a few words and fell over,’ Peter said. ‘She must have fainted.’

‘I saw her,’ Sandaji said. She angled her head to stare straight-on at Peter. Her green eyes were intense. ‘I am not a psychic,’ she repeated. ‘I do not have visions.’

‘Did you slip her something?’ Baslan accused Peter. ‘In her water?’

‘Water? No, of course not,’ he insisted to her steady glare.

‘Did you see her?’ Sandaji asked. Both women stared at Peter.

‘There was a reflection,’ he said. ‘That’s all I saw.’

‘It’s time for you to leave, Mr Russell,’ Baslan said.

Sandaji made an effort and sat up. ‘I’m so sorry. This has never happened before. I’m usually a strong, healthy woman.’ She tried to resume control, but it was a poor effort.

‘Let’s go,’ Baslan insisted to Peter. She took his arm and started to drag him away.