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Chapter 4
They lay together; the bed was really big enough for them not to touch each other unless they
wanted to.
Julia could not get comfortable. She would roll and roll and try to rearrange the pillows and the
blankets, and every two minutes she would apologize for disturbing Mason. Finally he had to tell
her, gently, that her apologies disturbed him more than her restless movement. She mumbled she
was sorry, again, and a quarter of an hour passed in silence.
“Shall I massage your back?” said Mason suddenly.
“I do have a backache – but Mason—”
“It’s ok. I want to do it.” He rubbed the upper part of Julia’s back and her shoulders with his hot
palms.
“Thank you,” she whispered. After this short massage, she laid her head on his shoulder, and
soon her breathing got even; she was asleep in his arms.
Now Mason could, once again, plan his actions concerning the mysterious Elena Nicholas. What
was his mother about, he wondered. He was vexed to admit he never knew that. When he was a
captive he heard the Indian and others refer to their boss as ‘she’, so there was a chance Elena
was involved. Was his mother endangered because of her contacts with Elena? Someone had
tried to hurt Eden, Kelly and himself; he was sure there had been no harm done to Pamela yet.
Anyway, he thought, he was her grown-up son, and it was his duty to find out if she was in
danger, and prevent it.
At this, Mason fell asleep, too.
Of course there was no immediate miracle. The nightmares had not gone away; this night, just
like any other, he had to be suffocating in a room full of smoke, to spit into the Indian’s smirking
mug – how well he remembered every feature! – to be dying of thirst, and burns, and heartache,
and to wriggle in helpless humiliation… At a certain moment, as always, the horror and the pain
and the despair came out in a groan.
He had not quite woken up yet when he felt the cool hand on his brow. “It’s okay; everything’s all
right,” he heard an affectionate voice. “You’re safe, you’re home, everything’s fine.”
He was still half-asleep, and for a shortest moment he turned into a five-year-old that cried in his
lonely bed. “Mummy?” he said with hope.
There was a pause, and he realized it could not be mummy with him; she had left him never to
come back. A sob was forming in his throat.
“Mason,” the voice said, “I’m not your mother; but everything’s all right, you’re safe. I’ll stay with
you.”
‘Julia,’ he thought with sudden, unexpectedly immense relief. This was Julia, and she was sure to
stay with him. Pamela was alive; but this was Julia; thank God. He smiled and sighed, letting the
sob out like this, and caught her hand without opening his eyes. “Stay with me,” he pleaded.
“Of course I will.”
He was fast asleep again, and this time he was standing in a kind of cellar together with Pamela.
He was quite grown-up, in his suit and his tie and everything, and the Pamela he was looking at
seemed a stranger to him; not at all the mummy he was longing for. Why had she come back?
Why had she let him believe she had committed suicide? Why on earth was she doing what she
was doing; he never knew.
“Mother,” he was saying, “tell me. What is this Elena to you?”
“Elena?” Pamela pretended not to understand him.
“You know, Elena Nicholas.”
No answer.
“Is Dr Nicholas your lover?”
“No; he’s my old friend; how could you say anything as preposterous—and think so of your OWN
mother--”
“Mother,” he was saying patiently, “you’re a grown-up woman, divorced and widowed, you can
have a lover, and of course it’s no business of mine; just tell me what this Elena is to you; does
she blackmail you or what?”
“Mason you know I’ve always loved you and never wanted to go away—so there’s no need to
torture your own mother like this--”
It was the same old story. She would not listen – she did not hear him.
It was long and hopeless, but, thank God, this was not a nightmare.
Mason woke up with the first rays of sun and lay for a while, thinking.
Soon Julia stirred, too.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry, I had a nightmare again.”
“I know. You thought I was your mother.”
“I know whose mother you are,” he smiled, gently touching Julia’s belly. She smiled, too.
“What have you been thinking of?” she asked. “Your face was so grave.”
Mason did not want to answer, and he did not want to be rude, either. “Remembering some
poetry. John Donne,” he said.
“Poetry.”
“U-huh.”
“Tell me.”
“Hope not for mind in women; at their best,
Sweetness and wit they are…” Mason quoted, looking at Julia with laughter hidden in the
darkness of his eyes.
She interrupted, immediately filled with indignation, “HOW dare you quote this to a woman who--”
He loved this game. “It’s not of you I was thinking,” he ‘amended’ quickly.
“No?” Julia said with more threat in her voice.
“No. I was thinking of--” he couldn’t help smiling. “Another woman.”
“You were lying here with me in your arms, and thinking of another woman?” Julia specified.
“Yeah…”
At this, he got a good kick. And then a pillow almost landed on his head – but he dodged it. “You’
re in the habit of making scenes about THIS woman,” he explained.
“Who?” said Julia, breathless. She was standing on the bed on her knees, looking down at
Mason who was still lying.
“Mother.”
“Oh. And pray tell, why don’t you hope for mind in your mother?”
After the jealousy was charmed, in Julia there raised her head the feminist. It never ceased
amusing Mason.
“Because,” he said seizing her wrists. “Just because what Donne formulated is a general rule I
know only one exception to, and this is my sweetest fiancee.
For she’s not forward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel…”
“Have no idea who that Grissel is,” Julia grumbled. “I hope THIS is not your stupid Donne but
decent Shakespeare?”
Mason laughed. “Right. Now kiss me, Kate!”
And she did; wondering to herself what’d come over Mason, but blessing it nevertheless.
They lay together; the bed was really big enough for them not to touch each other unless they
wanted to.
Julia could not get comfortable. She would roll and roll and try to rearrange the pillows and the
blankets, and every two minutes she would apologize for disturbing Mason. Finally he had to tell
her, gently, that her apologies disturbed him more than her restless movement. She mumbled she
was sorry, again, and a quarter of an hour passed in silence.
“Shall I massage your back?” said Mason suddenly.
“I do have a backache – but Mason—”
“It’s ok. I want to do it.” He rubbed the upper part of Julia’s back and her shoulders with his hot
palms.
“Thank you,” she whispered. After this short massage, she laid her head on his shoulder, and
soon her breathing got even; she was asleep in his arms.
Now Mason could, once again, plan his actions concerning the mysterious Elena Nicholas. What
was his mother about, he wondered. He was vexed to admit he never knew that. When he was a
captive he heard the Indian and others refer to their boss as ‘she’, so there was a chance Elena
was involved. Was his mother endangered because of her contacts with Elena? Someone had
tried to hurt Eden, Kelly and himself; he was sure there had been no harm done to Pamela yet.
Anyway, he thought, he was her grown-up son, and it was his duty to find out if she was in
danger, and prevent it.
At this, Mason fell asleep, too.
Of course there was no immediate miracle. The nightmares had not gone away; this night, just
like any other, he had to be suffocating in a room full of smoke, to spit into the Indian’s smirking
mug – how well he remembered every feature! – to be dying of thirst, and burns, and heartache,
and to wriggle in helpless humiliation… At a certain moment, as always, the horror and the pain
and the despair came out in a groan.
He had not quite woken up yet when he felt the cool hand on his brow. “It’s okay; everything’s all
right,” he heard an affectionate voice. “You’re safe, you’re home, everything’s fine.”
He was still half-asleep, and for a shortest moment he turned into a five-year-old that cried in his
lonely bed. “Mummy?” he said with hope.
There was a pause, and he realized it could not be mummy with him; she had left him never to
come back. A sob was forming in his throat.
“Mason,” the voice said, “I’m not your mother; but everything’s all right, you’re safe. I’ll stay with
you.”
‘Julia,’ he thought with sudden, unexpectedly immense relief. This was Julia, and she was sure to
stay with him. Pamela was alive; but this was Julia; thank God. He smiled and sighed, letting the
sob out like this, and caught her hand without opening his eyes. “Stay with me,” he pleaded.
“Of course I will.”
He was fast asleep again, and this time he was standing in a kind of cellar together with Pamela.
He was quite grown-up, in his suit and his tie and everything, and the Pamela he was looking at
seemed a stranger to him; not at all the mummy he was longing for. Why had she come back?
Why had she let him believe she had committed suicide? Why on earth was she doing what she
was doing; he never knew.
“Mother,” he was saying, “tell me. What is this Elena to you?”
“Elena?” Pamela pretended not to understand him.
“You know, Elena Nicholas.”
No answer.
“Is Dr Nicholas your lover?”
“No; he’s my old friend; how could you say anything as preposterous—and think so of your OWN
mother--”
“Mother,” he was saying patiently, “you’re a grown-up woman, divorced and widowed, you can
have a lover, and of course it’s no business of mine; just tell me what this Elena is to you; does
she blackmail you or what?”
“Mason you know I’ve always loved you and never wanted to go away—so there’s no need to
torture your own mother like this--”
It was the same old story. She would not listen – she did not hear him.
It was long and hopeless, but, thank God, this was not a nightmare.
Mason woke up with the first rays of sun and lay for a while, thinking.
Soon Julia stirred, too.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry, I had a nightmare again.”
“I know. You thought I was your mother.”
“I know whose mother you are,” he smiled, gently touching Julia’s belly. She smiled, too.
“What have you been thinking of?” she asked. “Your face was so grave.”
Mason did not want to answer, and he did not want to be rude, either. “Remembering some
poetry. John Donne,” he said.
“Poetry.”
“U-huh.”
“Tell me.”
“Hope not for mind in women; at their best,
Sweetness and wit they are…” Mason quoted, looking at Julia with laughter hidden in the
darkness of his eyes.
She interrupted, immediately filled with indignation, “HOW dare you quote this to a woman who--”
He loved this game. “It’s not of you I was thinking,” he ‘amended’ quickly.
“No?” Julia said with more threat in her voice.
“No. I was thinking of--” he couldn’t help smiling. “Another woman.”
“You were lying here with me in your arms, and thinking of another woman?” Julia specified.
“Yeah…”
At this, he got a good kick. And then a pillow almost landed on his head – but he dodged it. “You’
re in the habit of making scenes about THIS woman,” he explained.
“Who?” said Julia, breathless. She was standing on the bed on her knees, looking down at
Mason who was still lying.
“Mother.”
“Oh. And pray tell, why don’t you hope for mind in your mother?”
After the jealousy was charmed, in Julia there raised her head the feminist. It never ceased
amusing Mason.
“Because,” he said seizing her wrists. “Just because what Donne formulated is a general rule I
know only one exception to, and this is my sweetest fiancee.
For she’s not forward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel…”
“Have no idea who that Grissel is,” Julia grumbled. “I hope THIS is not your stupid Donne but
decent Shakespeare?”
Mason laughed. “Right. Now kiss me, Kate!”
And she did; wondering to herself what’d come over Mason, but blessing it nevertheless.
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