“He thinks you’re a provincial deacon flushed with a night’s anticipation,” said Marie. “I hope you noticed I went right to the bed.”
“His name is Hervé, and hell be very solicitous of our needs. He has no intention of sharing the wealth.” He crossed to her and took her in his arms. “Thanks for my life,” he said.
“Any time, my friend.” She reached up and held his face in her hands. “But don’t keep me waiting like that again. I nearly went crazy; all I could think of was that someone had recognized you ... that something terrible had happened.”
“You forget, no one knows what I look like.”
“Don’t count on that; it’s not true. There were four men in the Steppdeckstrasse, including that bastard in the Guisan Quai. They’re alive, Jason. They saw you.”
“Not really. They saw a dark-haired man with bandages on his neck and head, who walked with a limp. Only two were near me: the man on the second floor and that pig in the Guisan. The first won’t be leaving Zurich for a while; he can’t walk and he hasn’t much of a hand left. The second had the beam of the flashlight in his eyes; it wasn’t in mine.” She released him, frowning, her alert mind questioning. “You can’t be sure. They were there; they did see you.”
Change your hair. ... you change your face. Geoffrey Washburn, Ile de Port Noir.
“I repeat, they saw a dark-haired man in shadows. How good are you with a weak solution of peroxide?”
“I’ve never used it.”
“Then I’ll find a shop in the morning. The Montparnasse is the place for it. Blonds have more fun, isn’t that what they say?”
She studied his face. “I’m trying to imagine what you’ll look like.”
“Different. Not much, but enough.”
“You may be right. I hope to God you are.” She kissed his cheek, her prelude to discussion.
“Now, tell me what happened. Where did you go? What did you learn about that ... incident six months ago?”
“It wasn’t six months ago, and because it wasn’t, I couldn’t have killed him.” He told her everything, save for the few brief moments when he thought he would never see her again. He did not have to; she said it for him.
“If that date hadn’t been so clear in your mind, you wouldn’t have come to me, would you?”
He shook his head. “Probably not.”
“I knew it I felt it For a minute, while I was walking from the café to the museum steps, I could hardly breathe. It was as though I were suffocating. Can you believe that?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I, but it happened.”
They were sitting, she on the bed, he in the single armchair close by. He reached for her hand.
“I’m still not sure I should be here. ... I knew that man, I saw his face, I was in Marseilles forty-eight hours before he was killed!”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“Then why was I there? Why do people think I did? Christ, it’s insane!” He sprang up from the chair, pain back in his eyes. “But then I forgot I’m not sane, am I? Because I’ve forgotten. ... Years, a lifetime.”
Marie spoke matter-of-factly, no compassion in her voice. “The answers will come to you. From one source or another, finally from yourself.”
“That may not be possible. Washburn said it was like blocks rearranged, different tunnels ... different windows.” Jason walked to the window, bracing himself on the sill, looking down on the lights of Montparnasse. “The views aren’t the same; they never will be. Somewhere out there are people I know, who know me. A couple of thousand miles away are other people I care about and don’t care about ... Or, oh God, maybe a wife and children--I don’t know. I keep spinning around in the wind, turning over and over and I can’t get down to the ground. Every time I try I get thrown back up again.”
“Into the sky?” asked Marie.
“Yes.”
“You’ve jumped from a plane,” she said, making a statement.
Bourne turned. “I never told you that.”
“You talked about it in your sleep the other night. You were sweating; your face was flushed and hot and I had to wipe it with a towel.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did, in a way. I asked you if you were a pilot, or if flying bothered you. Especially at night”
“I didn’t know what you were talking about. Why didn’t you press me?”
“I was afraid to. You were very close to hysterics, and I’m not trained in things like that. I can help you try to remember, but I can’t deal with your unconscious. I don’t think anyone should but a doctor.”
“A doctor? I was with a doctor for damn near six months.”
“From what you’ve said about him, I think another opinion is called for.”
“I don’t!” he replied, confused by his own anger.
“Why not?” Marie got up from the bed. “You need help, my darling. A psychiatrist might--“ “No!” He shouted in spite of himself, furious with himself. “I won’t do that. I can’t.”
“Please, tell me why?” she asked calmly, standing in front of him.
“I ... I ... can’t do it.”
“Just tell me why, that’s all.”
Bourne stared at her, then turned and looked out the window again, his hands on the sill again.
“Because I’m afraid. Someone lied, and I was grateful for that more than I can tell you. But suppose there aren’t any more lies, suppose the rest is true. What do I do then?”
“Are you saying you don’t want to find out?”
“Not that way.” He stood up and leaned against the window frame, his eyes still on the lights below. “Try to understand me,” he said. “I have to know certain things ... enough to make a decision ... but maybe not everything. A part of me has to be able to walk away, disappear. I have to be able to say to myself, what was isn’t any longer, and there’s a possibility that it never was because I have no memory of it. What a person can’t remember didn’t exist ... for him.” He turned back to her.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that maybe it’s better this way.”
“You want evidence, but not proof, is that what you’re saying?”
“I want arrows pointing in one direction or the other, telling me whether to run or not to run.”