think Shulman has a serious thing for you.”
Simone meets her own eyes in the mirror and feels a sudden tingle in her stomach. “I’d better come in,” she says.
“Could you?”
“I just need to make a call first.”
Simone hangs up but remains sitting on the edge of the bed for a little while. Benjamin is alive, that’s the most important thing. The person who took him doesn’t seem interested in killing him; he has something else in mind. Ransom? She runs quickly through her assets. What does she actually own? The apartment, the car, a few works of art. The gallery, of course. She could borrow money. Everything will work out. She isn’t rich, but her father could sell the summer cottage and his apartment. They could move in, everyone in a rented apartment, anywhere. Just so long as she gets Benjamin back; as long as she can have her boy again.
Simone calls her father, but he doesn’t answer. She leaves a short message telling him she’s going to the gallery, then takes a quick shower, brushes her teeth, puts on clean clothes, and leaves the apartment without bothering to switch off the lights.
It’s cold and windy outside, a few degrees below freezing. The gloom of the mid-December morning is filled with oppressive quietness, somnolence, a graveyard atmosphere. A dog runs past with its leash trailing in the puddles. No sign of the owner.
As soon as she arrives at the gallery, she meets Yiva’s gaze through the glass door. She walks in and Yiva rushes over and gives her a hug. Simone notices that Yiva has forgotten to touch up her roots; the grey forms a straight line down the centre of her black hair. But her face is smooth and perfectly made-up, her mouth dark red as always. She is wearing grey culottes over black-and-white striped tights and clumpy brown shoes.
Simone looks around. A greenish light shimmers from a series of paintings by Sim Shulman, glowing, aquarium-green oils.
“Fantastic,” says Simone. “You’ve done a brilliant job.”
“Thank you,” says Yiva.
Simone goes over to the paintings. “I hadn’t seen them like this, grouped together, the way they were intended. I’d only seen them individually.” She takes a step closer. “It’s as if they’re flowing sideways.”
She moves into the second room. The block of stone with Shulman’s cave paintings is on a wooden stand.
“Sim Shulman wants oil lamps in here,” says Yiva. “I’ve told him it’s impossible; people want to see what they’re buying.”
“No, they don’t.”
Yiva laughs. “So Shulman gets what he wants?”
“Yes,” Simone replies. “He gets what he wants.”
“Well, you can tell him yourself.”
“What?”
“He’s in the office.”
“Shulman?”
“He said he needed to make a few calls.”
Simone looks over toward the office, and Yiva clears her throat. “I’m going out to get a sandwich for lunch.”
“What, at this hour?”
“I just thought,” says Yiva, her eyes downcast.
“Go on then.”
Simone knocks on the office door and goes in. Shulman is sitting behind the desk sucking a pencil.
“How are you?” he asks, beginning to rise.
“Not so good.”
“That’s what I thought.”
There is silence between them, and he moves closer. She lowers her head. A feeling of exposure, of having been worn down to the most fragile part of herself fills her. Her voice trembles as she blurts out:
“Benjamin is alive. We don’t know where he is or who’s taken him, but he’s alive.”
“That’s good news,” Shulman says quietly.
“Fuck,” she whispers, turning away and wiping the tears from her face with a trembling hand.
Shulman gently touches her hair. She moves away without knowing why. She really doesn’t want him to stop. His hand drops. They look at each other. He’s wearing his soft black suit, with a hood sticking up above the collar of his jacket.
“You’re wearing the ninja suit,” she says, smiling in spite of herself.
“Shinobi, the correct word for ninja, has two meanings,” he says. “It means ‘a hidden person,’ but it also means ‘one who endures.’”
“Endures?”
“Perhaps the most difficult art of all.”
“It’s impossible alone, at least it is for me.”
“No one is alone.”
“I can’t cope with this,” Simone whispers. “I’m falling apart. I have to stop thinking about it all the time. I have nowhere to go. I walk around thinking I just want something to happen. I could hit myself over the head or jump into bed with you just to stop this panic inside me—” She stops abruptly. “What I just said. It sounded completely … I’m really sorry, Sim.”
“So which would you choose, in that case?” he asks with a smile. “Would you jump into bed with me or hit yourself over the head?”
“Neither,” she answers quickly. Then she realises that doesn’t sound right and tries to smooth things over again. “I don’t mean … I’d really like—” She stops again, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.
“What would you like to do?” he asks.
She meets his gaze. “I’m not myself. That’s why I’m behaving like this,” she says simply. “I feel incredibly stupid.” She lowers her eyes; her cheeks are burning, and she clears her throat.
They gaze at each other, no longer focusing on the conversation.
“Simone,” he says; he leans forward and kisses her on the mouth, just briefly.
Her legs feel weak, her knees are trembling. His silky voice, the warmth of his body. The smell from his soft jacket, a mixture of sleep and fine herbs. As his hand moves gently over her cheek and around to the back of her neck, it feels as if she has forgotten the wonderful silkiness of a caress; as his grip tightens slightly to draw her face nearer to his, she realises how long it has been since she has felt truly desired. Shulman gazes at her intently. She is no longer thinking about running away from the gallery. Maybe this is just a way of escaping for a little while from the terror thudding in her chest, but that’s all right. Let me escape, she thinks. Let me forget all the terrible things.
This time she responds to his kiss. She is breathing rapidly, feeling his hands on her back, at the base of her spine,
