We have, we have. And Hanno—what do I truly know of Hanno? What can I await from him? He and I have both lived too long in secret, it has surely misshaped us in ways we don’t feel, but he prowled the world for thrice the time that I abided in my Russia. He has been fascinating and challenging and, yes, fun; but already I have glimpsed a ruthlessness. Or is it an inward loneliness? How much is he able to care for anyone or for anything beyond naked survival?
Through the confusion she heard herself finish: “We knew from the first that it couldn’t last. Let’s end it cleanly, while it’s still happy.”
He stood slumped. “I don’t care how old you are,” he said. “I love you.”
Exasperation stirred. You’re being babyish, she kept from saying. Well, what could I expect from a person not yet thirty? You have nothing left for me to discover. “I’m sorry.” No doubt I should have declined you at the beginning, but the flesh has its demands and liaisons here are easy come, easy go. With Hanno and those others— Is an immortal marriage possible? I don’t think I’m actually in love with him yet, or he with me. Perhaps we never will be. But that’s no foundation for an enduring partnership anyway. Certainly not by itself. We’ll have to see what happens.
We’ll see. What happens.
“Don’t take it this hard,” she said. “You’ll get over it, and find the right girl.”
And settle down to raise children who will grow up into the same comfortable narrowness and crumble into the same dust. Unless we are on the verge of fire and slaughter and a new dark age, as Hanno thinks we may well be.
Svoboda smiled at Peter. “Meanwhile,” she said quietly, “we might go back to your apartment and give ourselves a grand farewell.”
After all, it would only be until tomorrow.
10
CORINNE MACANDAL received her caller in the Victorian living room. “How do you do,” she said, and offered her hand. His was sinewy, unexpectedly hard, the clasp light but firm. He bowed over hers with an archaic assurance. “Please be seated. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
Kenneth Tannahill kept his feet. “Thank you,” he replied, “but could we please talk in confidence, where nobody can overhear?”
Surprised, she looked closer at him. Her immediate thought was: How old is he, anyway? Black hair, smooth skin, supple frame spoke of youth, but more than the leanness of the countenance suggested a man who had seen many years and much of the world. Hie signs were too subtle for her to name, nonetheless real. “Indeed? I thought you wanted an interview for your magazine.”
His anile was somehow feline. “That isn’t exactly what my note asked for, though it did give that impression, didn’t it?”
Wariness laid hold of her. “What do you want, then? I must confess I’m not familiar with your, m-m, Chart Room.”
“It’s not a big publication. Nor sensationalistic, may I add. Mostly it runs articles, or essays, on current events. We often go into history or anthropology, trying to put things in perspective.”
“It sounds interesting.” Macandal drew breath. “However, I’m afraid I must decline an interview or anything like that. I don’t want publicity. It’s distasteful to me personally, and it might harm the Unity.”
“Really? I should think if the work you people are doing—evidently in many ways a unique approach—if it became widely known, you’d get more support, cooperation, everything you need. Others might be inspired to imitate you.”
“I doubt they could, successfully. We are unique. One of the tilings that makes it possible for us to do what we do is precisely our smallness, our intimacy. Being stared at could destroy that.”
Tannahili’s large, half oblique eyes sought hers and held steady. “I suspect it’s less important than you yourself, my lady,” he said in almost an undertone. “And your associate, Ms. Donau.”
Alarm stabbed. Macandal drew herself up and raised her voice a bit. “What are you after? Will you please come to the point?”
“My apologies. No offense intended. On the contrary. But I do believe we should talk in complete privacy.”