The experience, though harrowing, had not broken her. She had given one of her greatest performances on the night that she had received the news, but she had withdrawn from men, there was no doubt about that. There was too much hurt involved and it would not have needed a particularly bright psychiatrist to find out why. In spite of success and fame and the privileged life her position brought her; in spite of having constantly at her shoulder the powerful presence of Maslovsky, she was still, in many ways, the little girl on
her knees in the rain beside the father so cruelly torn away from her.
Along the Champs Elysees and into the Place de la Concorde she went, walking steadily.
‘Jesus, but she likes her exercise,’ Devlin observed.
She turned into the cool peace of the Jardin des Tuileries and Hunter nodded. ‘I thought she would. My hunch is that she’s making for the Louvre. You go after her on foot from here. I’ll drive round, park the car and wait for you at the main entrance.’
There was a Henry Moore exhibit in the Tuileries Gardens. She browsed around it for a little while and Devlin stayed back, but it was obvious that nothing there had much appeal for her and she moved on through the gardens to the great Palais du Louvre itself.
Tanya Voroninova was certainly selective. She moved from gallery to gallery, choosing only works of acknowledged genius and Devlin followed at a discreet distance. From the Victory of Samothrace at the top of the Daru staircase by the main entrance, she moved on to the Venus de Milo. She spent some time in the Rembrandt Gallery on the first floor, then stopped to look at what is possibly the most famous picture in the world – Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’.
Devlin moved in close. ‘Is she smiling, would you say?’ he tried in English.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked in the same language.
‘Oh, it’s an old superstition in the Louvre that some mornings she doesn’t smile.’
She turned to look at him. That’s absurd.’
‘But you’re not smiling either,’ Devlin said. ‘Sweet Jesus, are you worried you’d crack the plate?’
‘This is total nonsense,’ she said, but smiled all the same.
‘When you’re on your dignity, your mouth turns down at the corners,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t help.’
‘My looks, you mean? A matter of indifference to me.’
He stood there, hands in the pockets of the Burberry
trenchcoat, the black felt hat slanted over one ear and the eyes were the most vivid blue she had ever seen. There was an air of insolent good humour to him and a kind of self-mockery that was rather attractive in spite of the fact that he must have been twice her age at least. There was a sudden aching excitement that was difficult to control and she took a deep breath to steady herself.
‘Excuse me,’ she said and walked away.
Devlin gave her some room and then followed. A darling girl and frightened, for some reason. Interesting to know why that should be.
She made her way to the Grande Galerie, finally stopped before El Greco’s ‘Christ on the Cross’ and stood there for quite some time gazing up at the gaunt mystical figure, showing no acknowledgement of Devlin’s presence when he moved beside her.
‘And what does it say to you?’ he asked gently. ‘Is there love there?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘A rage against dying, I think. Why are you following me?’
‘Am I?’
‘Since the Tuileries Gardens.’
‘Really? Well, if I was, I can’t be very good at it.’
‘Not necessarily. You are someone to look at twice,’ she said simply.
Strange how suddenly she felt like crying. Wanted to reach out to the incredible warmth of that voice. He took her arm and said gently, ‘All the time in the world, girl dear. You still haven’t told me what El Greco says to you.’
‘I was not raised a Christian,’ she said. ‘I see no Saviour on the Cross, but a great human being in torment, destroyed by little people. And you?’
‘I love your accent,’ Devlin said. ‘Reminds me of Garbo in the movies when I was a wee boy, but that was a century or so before your time.’