Read Online Shibumi by Trevanian - Free Book Online

shimmering road to Etchebar… of all of it, the most profound image was her walk up the cedar-lined allée in subaqueous shadow… shivering in the dense shadow as the wind made sea sounds in the trees. It was another world. And odd.
    Was it possible that she was sitting here, pouring tea into Limoges, probably looking quite the buffoon with her tight hiking shorts and clumsy, Vibram-cleated boots?
    Was it just a few hours ago she had walked dazedly past the old man sitting on the floor of Rome International? “I’m sorry,” she had muttered to him stupidly.
    “I’m sorry,” she said now, aloud. The beautiful woman had said something which had not penetrated the layers of thought and retreat.
    The woman smiled as she sat beside her. “I was just saying it is a pity that Nicholai is not here. He’s been up in the mountains for several days, crawling about in those caves of his. Appalling hobby. But I expect him back this evening or tomorrow morning. And that will give you a chance to bathe and perhaps sleep a little. That would be nice, wouldn’t it.”
    The thought of a hot bath and cool sheets was almost swooningly seductive to Hannah.
    The woman smiled and drew her chair closer to the marble tea table. “How do you take your tea?” Her eyes were calm and frank. In shape, they were Oriental, but their color was hazel, semé of gold flecks. Hannah could not have guessed her race. Surely her movements were Eastern, fine and controlled; but her skin tone was café au lait, and the body within its high-collared Chinese dress of green silk had a distinctly African development of breast and buttocks. Her mouth and nose, however, were Caucasian. And her voice was cultured, low and modulated, as was her laugh when she said, “Yes, I know. It is confusing.”
    “Pardon me?” Hannah said, embarrassed at having her thoughts read so transparently.
    “I am what the kindly disposed call a ‘cosmopolitan,’ and others might term a mongrel. My mother was Japanese, and it would appear that my father was a mulatto American soldier. I never had the good fortune to meet him. Do you take milk?”
    “What?”
    “In your tea.” Hana smiled. “Are you more comfortable in English?” she asked in that language.
    “Yes, in fact I am,” Hannah admitted also in English, but with an American tonality.
    “I assumed as much from your accent. Good then. We shall speak in English. Nicholai seldom speaks English in the house, and I fear I am getting rusty.” She had, in fact, a just-perceptible accent; not a mispronunciation, but a slightly mechanical overenunciation of her British English. It was possible that her French also bore traces of accent, but Hannah, with her alien ear, could not know that.
    But something else did occur to her. “There are two cups set out. Were you expecting me, Mrs. Hel?”
    “Do call me Hana. Oh, yes, I was expecting you. The man from the café in Tardets telephoned for permission to give you directions. And I received another call when you passed through Abense-de-Haut, and another when you reached Lichans.” Hana laughed lightly. “Nicholai is very well protected here. You see, he has no great affection for surprises.”
    “Oh, that reminds me. I have a note for you.” Hannah took from her pocket the folded note the café proprietor had given her.
    Hana opened and glanced at it, then she laughed in her low, minor-key voice. “It is a bill. And very neatly itemized, too. Ah, these French. One franc for the telephone call. One franc for your coffee. And an additional one franc fifty—an estimate of the tip you would have left. My goodness, we have made a good bargain! We have the pleasure of your company for only three francs fifty.” She laughed and set the bill aside. Then she reached across and placed her warm, dry hand upon Hannah’s arm. “Young lady? I don’t think you realize that you are crying.”
    “What?” Hannah put her hand to her cheek. It was wet with tears. My God, how long