Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong Read Free Book Online

antechamber. Inside the drawing-room the woman was waiting for him. He went toward her, took her hand and kissed it.
    â€˜You’re cold,’ he said.
    The woman smiled a little forlornly. He drew her toward a sofa in front of the fireplace. The material of her blouse was icy to his touch. He observed her beautiful face which, already lightly touched by the process of aging, had begun to show small lines – but these contrived to add a dimension to her loveliness. Some women were destined to spectacular maturity.
    â€˜Drink?’ he asked.
    She shook her head. ‘I think not. I’m not in the mood.’
    He finished his negroni. ‘What mood are you in?’
    She shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’
    â€˜Ambivalent.’
    â€˜Call it that.’
    â€˜You should never be ambivalent in Venice,’ he remarked. He observed her briefly. What this room needed was genuine firelight, flames that would enhance the woman’s features. There was some danger in her expression, a cutting brittle quality. He knew she was in a state of some withdrawal. She had these times in which she abandoned any known reality and retreated to a place of her own making. He could never quite follow her down these mazy trails. He could never altogether imagine the inside of her head. She was beyond classification, a caller from another planet.
    He mixed himself a second negroni – campari, a splash of vermouth, a generous quantity of gin. The woman watched him and thought: How typical of Barron to come out with a remark like that. You should never be ambivalent in Venice . It had a quiet certitude to it. It was the way he said so many things. He was so sure of himself. Cocksure. She stood up, pressed the palms of her hands against her thighs, felt the lambswool of her navy-blue skirt create a friction against her legs. She approached him, laid her face against his shoulder. The bronze of his skin seemed to emit a form of energy.
    He put his hand against the side of her face. She always sent little depth-charges through him. He wondered about the bizarre nature of chemistry, of human attraction, desire. He wondered about love, if it were merely a matter of musks that stimulated certain areas of the brain. Did he love this woman? The question was unanswerable. All he could ever safely admit was that she held a deep fascination for him, that when it came to her he’d developed an uncharacteristic blind spot, that he experienced unexpected urges to protect her, both from the world and from herself.
    â€˜I’m not sure I’m enjoying your mood,’ he said. ‘You’re too introspective. Too languid. If that’s the word.’
    She wandered away from him, studied the pictures on the mantelpiece. ‘Why do you need these things?’ she asked.
    â€˜My public persona needs them.’
    â€˜And is there really such a difference between the public Barron and the private one?’
    He stirred his drink. ‘You know that by this time.’
    â€˜I’m not sure I really know anything.’
    He said nothing. She’d never asked about his life, his past, his origins. It was as if she wanted him to have no beginnings.
    â€˜I always think these photographs suggest a weakness,’ she said.
    â€˜Are you going to tell me something obvious about my base need for recognition? If you are, skip it. I know what the pictures mean. There’s no mystery about it. I have an ego, which likes being stroked.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘You have an ego.’
    He caught her hand and held it against his chest. He was muscled, angular.
    â€˜As big as your own,’ he said.
    â€˜Maybe so.’
    â€˜Except you’re wayward. More theatrical.’
    â€˜And you’re not? What would you call these?’ And she gestured toward the photographs. ‘You’re a collector of famous people. What could be more theatrical?’
    â€˜My public image is useful to me,’