LITMIR.BIZ

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this? Did you think I would forget the refreshment?” He sank into the gravelly sand next to me and braced the bottle between his hands. His thumbs worked expertly at the cork until it slid out with a whisper of a pop.

      “You are quite mad.”

      “No, only a little. A little mad, especially when I saw Annabelle’s body lying there like a ghost in the moonlight, without moving.” He handed me a foaming glass. “And then I thought, No, my Annabelle would never swim so far through the water and then give up when she had reached the shore. But here.” He set down his own glass in the sand and shrugged his dinner jacket from his arms. “You must take this.”

      “I’m not that cold, really. Nearly dry.”

      “And how would I answer to God if Annabelle caught a chill while I still wore my jacket?” He placed it over my shoulders, picked up his glass, and clinked it against mine. “Now drink. Champagne should always be drunk ice-cold on a beach at dawn.”

      “Is it dawn already?”

      “We are close enough.”

      I bent my head and sipped the champagne, and it was perfect, just as Stefan said, falling like snow into my belly. Next to me, Stefan tilted back his head and drank thirstily, and the beach was so still and flawless that I thought I could feel his throat move, his eyelids close in bliss.

      “That woman,” I said. “The blond woman, the one who came to visit you. Is she your mistress?”

      “Yes,” he said simply, readily, as if there couldn’t possibly exist any prevarication between us.

      “She’s very beautiful.”

      “That is the way of it, I’m afraid. Only the rich deserve the fair.”

      I laughed. “I thought it was the brave. Only the brave deserve the fair.”

      “A silly romantic notion. When have you ever seen a beautiful woman with a poor man? An ugly man perhaps, or a timid one, or a stupid one, or even an unpleasant one. But never a poor one.”

      “Do you love her?”

      “Only so much as is absolutely necessary.”

      I swallowed the rest of my champagne and set the glass in the sand between us. My vision swam. “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

      “No,” he said. “Of course you don’t.”

      He lay back in the sand, and after a moment I lay back, too, a few inches away, listening to the sound of his breath. The beach was coarse, not like the sand on my father’s beach; the little rocks poked into my back. Stefan’s jacket brushed my jaw, enclosing me in an intimate atmosphere of tobacco and shaving soap. The moon had slipped below the horizon, and we were lit only by the stars, just as we had been on the first night as we rushed through the water toward the safety of Stefan’s yacht. I had known almost nothing about him then, and ten days later, having lived next to him, having spent hours at his side, having talked at endless length about an endless variety of subjects, I didn’t know much more.

      “I love your library,” I said. “You have so many lovely books.”

      “Yes, it is the family library, collected over many generations.”

      “Your family library? Don’t you think that’s risky? Keeping it all on a ship?”

      “No more risky than keeping it in our house in Germany, in times like this. When a Jew is no longer even really a citizen.”

      I lifted my head. “You’re a Jew?”

      “Yes. You didn’t know that?”

      “I never thought about it.” I laid my head back down and studied the stars. Stefan’s fingers brushed my hand, and I brushed them back, and a complex and breathless moment later we were holding hands, studying the stars together.

      “Tell me, Annabelle,” he said. “Why have you never asked me how I came to be shot in the leg, one fine summer night on the peaceful coast of France?”

      “I thought you’d tell me when you trusted me. I didn’t want to ask and have you tell me it was none of my business.”

      “Of course it is your business. I will tell you now. The men who shot me, they were agents of the Gestapo. You know what this is?”

      “Yes, I think so. A sort of secret police, isn’t it? The Nazi police.”

      “Yes. They rather resent me, you see, because instead of waiting quietly for the next law to be passed, the next column to be kicked out from under me, I am seeking to defend the country that I love, the real Germany, the one for which my father lost his eye and his jaw twenty years ago.”

      “I see.”

      “I will not bore you with the details of what I was doing that night. But you are in no danger from the French authorities. I want you to know that, that I have not made you some sort of fugitive. But it was necessary, you see, that the man who shot me didn’t know what became of me, or who had helped me to safety.”

      “My brother.”

      “Yes, de Créouville and his friends. And you.” He lifted my hand and brought it to his lips, which were warm and soft and damp with champagne.

      My heart was jumping from my chest. I felt my ribs strain, trying to contain it. I opened my mouth to say something, and my tongue was so dry I could hardly shape the words.

      “I’m glad,” I said, “I am proud of my brother, that he was helping you.”

      “Yes, he is a good man.”

      “I suppose”—I swallowed—“I suppose you’ll go on doing these things, whatever they are. You will go on putting yourself in this danger.”

      He didn’t speak. We lay there in darkness, shoulders touching, hips touching, hand wound around hand. I might have drifted to sleep for a moment, because I opened my eyes to find that the stars had disappeared, and the sky had turned a shade of violet so deep it was almost charcoal. Next to me, Stefan lay so still I thought he must be asleep. I didn’t move. I was afraid to wake him.

      I thought, I will remember this always, the smell of him, cigarettes and champagne and salt warmth; the strength of his hand around mine, the rhythm of his breath, the rough texture of sand beneath my head.

      “It’s almost dawn,” he said softly.

      “I thought you were asleep.”

      “I was.”

      The water slapped against the sand. A perimeter of color grew around the horizon, and Stefan sat up, still holding my hand. “The sun will be up soon,” he said. “We can’t see it yet, because of the cliffs to the east. In Venice, it is fully light.”

      “I haven’t been to Venice.”

      “It is beautiful, a kind of dreamy beauty, like a painting of someone’s memory. Except it smells like the devil, sometimes.” He nodded at the faint violet outline of the Fort Royal, just visible above the trees. “I have been staring at that building through my porthole, every day. Thinking about the men who were imprisoned there.”

      “Yes, I noticed that book, when I brought it from the library. The Dumas, the one about the Man in the Iron Mask.”

      “Except it wasn’t really an iron mask. It was velvet black, according to those who saw him. Voltaire was the one who turned it into iron, for dramatic purposes, or so one supposes.”

      “Have you ever been inside?”

      “No.” He paused and smiled. “Would you like to go now?”

      “What, now? But it isn’t open yet.”

      “Even better. We will have the place to ourselves.”

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