Stardust(22)

“Why would he do it,” Ben said flatly.

She had put a terrycloth wrap over her bathing suit and now pulled at one of the lapels, a nervous drawing away.

“I’ve been acting for days as if he’s someone I don’t know.” He held out the picture. “But I do know him. It’s not something he would do.”

“Don’t,” she said softly. “It makes it worse. I know. I did it, too.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“You want it to make sense?”

“It does to them, somehow. He wasn’t sick—I saw his physical. He wasn’t depressed, either. Iris said he was the same as always.”

“Oh, Iris.”

“You did, too. You said you didn’t know he was unhappy. But why should he be?” He waved his arm to take in the house, Danny’s life.

“We don’t know what was in his mind. We don’t.”

She turned and headed out toward the pool. He glanced down at the picture again, then followed.

“But to do this—”

“What, then? Do you think his girlfriend pushed him out? Like some cartoon?”

“Somebody could have.”

Liesl shook her head. “No one else was there. The police talked to the night clerk. No one went up. No one. The door was locked.”

“There has to be a reason.”

“So what could it be? Maybe his marriage. Is that what you think? The others do. You can hear it in their voices. How could he do such a terrible thing? And then they look at me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Ouf,” she said, cutting him off, then tossing the robe on the chair. “Enough.”

“Liesl—”

But she turned away, stepping over to the edge of the pool, and dove in, a perfect arc, slicing into the water, then streaming under the surface, out of hearing. When she came up she swam the rest of the length in fast, efficient strokes, a quick, sideways turn for air. Someone who swam every day. He watched her as she turned for the second lap, hair flowing, the long, golden legs scissoring effortlessly, at home in it. The kind of girl everyone noticed, pretending not to, but imagining the smooth body without the suit, beads of water running off the tan skin, all anyone could want. But not enough for Danny. The father’s son in every way. That same careless urge for the next thing, not expecting any damage, until families were broken up and what should have been held close had been let down.

He turned his head away, flustered. Not just some girl in a pool. There were cigarettes on a side table, and he lit one, looking away toward the hazy city. Behind him he could hear the regular splashes of her strokes, then a pause and a noisy gathering of water as she lifted herself up the pool stairs. She came over to where he was standing, toweling her hair.

“Marta says I should wear a cap. The chlorine burns the hair. My hairdresser,” she said, the change of subject a kind of apology, moving on. She glanced at him, waiting, then lit one of the cigarettes, joining him. “Would you like to know about me and Daniel?”

“It’s none of my—”

“Yes. Otherwise you’ll wonder. That’s how it is now.” She looked at him. “We need to be friends. To get through this. Sit,” she said, indicating the next chaise. She sat back on hers, lifting her face to the sun. “He got me out. That’s why he married me. My father, there was a visa for him. You know, for the culture. They could get artists out on special visas, especially if they were known here. But not me. I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t anything. You know, after we left Germany we were officially stateless. Not even resident permits, always temporary papers. So, no visa. But of course my father wouldn’t leave me, and it was dangerous for him. So Daniel married me, made me an American. But I think he was fond of me, too.” She turned to him, her eyes direct. “It wasn’t a mariage blanc. Don’t think that,” she said, then looked away again.

“This was where?” he said after a minute. “Germany?”

“No. Germany? We would have been dead. My father was one of the first to leave. His name was already on a list, because of the articles. And, you know, my mother was Jewish so it was for her, too. First Vienna, to keep the language. Then Paris—she died there. I think her heart gave out from the worry. Then, after the Nazis came, we went south, like everyone. You don’t know this? That’s where I met Daniel. In Marseilles. He was helping people get out. You wouldn’t think such a place—it was like here, the good weather—but it was a death trap. Who could trust Vichy? So Daniel helped people get to Spain. Sometimes over the mountains, on foot. He walked them out. They never forgot it.” She paused, taking in some smoke. “Neither did I. He was my hero,” she said, staring at her burning cigarette. She looked up, self-conscious, her wistful tone now shaded with irony, almost bitter. “So it wasn’t for love. But we made a life. He never asked to leave, afterwards, when it was safe for me. We were—comfortable together.” She sat up, rubbing out the cigarette.