Read Online The Mazovia Legacy by Michael E. Rose - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael E. Rose
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working on a story, George. You know that. Why should today be any different?â
After Natalia had left, Delaney found it hard to do much except sit and ponder what he had been told that morning. Her perfume had left a new scent in his apartment and he looked for a long time at the empty couch where she had sat and talked for so long. He moved over to his desk and looked at the notebooks and the pens and the cassette tapes and the laptop computer that lay there. The tools of his trade, lately untouched.
Why would I bother with this? he thought. There is no story in this for me and if there is she wonât want me to run it anyway. So why would I bother?
But Delaney already sensed that in this case getting a story would perhaps not matter very much. And perhaps he knew already that in the end this was precisely why he would bother.
Chapter 4
T hey drove out to Lachine in Delaneyâs car. Natalia had said she didnât drive in winter and that her car was covered in a seasonâs worth of snow in the alley behind her apartment. Delaney didnât drive his gracefully aging Mercedes much either, especially in winter, but he parked it in the underground garage in his building, it would be clear of snow and he knew it would start, so he agreed to pick her up on Esplanade Street.
She was waiting at the top of the old staircase that led to her door on the second floor, and she was dressed in the same purple overcoat she had worn to his place two days earlier. She moved down right away when he pulled up, as if she had known his car. When she got inside she gave him a very brief smile and didnât seem to want to talk much, so Delaney pulled off immediately and did not try to fill the silence.
They hadnât talked since the night of their first meeting. Delaney had surprised himself by phoning her that night, ostensibly to tell her he would help her make some inquiries. Only for a while, he heard himself insisting. He was, he told her, very busy with other projects, with his book. But he had also want ed to make sure she was all right, though he didnât tell her that. Something about her story had touched an alarm somewhere inside him and he wanted to know she was safely back in her place. They had ended up talking again for a long time on the phone about the circumstances of Stanislawâs death and about what was to be done first. It seemed to both of them that the natural place to start was Lachine, with the priest who had been Stanislawâs friend. A priest who didnât go to funerals.
Delaney looked often in his rear-view mirror to see if anyone appeared to be following them, but if someone was, he wasnât able to tell. It was a brilliant winter day, unusually warm, and the sun had melted all the snow on the roads. The glistening black asphalt contrasted starkly with the piles of wet, white snow that still covered everything else. The heavy snow tires on the car hummed loudly on the wet road surface. For Montrealers this was one of the sounds of spring, but it was not yet spring. Delaney glanced over at Natalia and saw she was looking intently into the mirror on the passenger side. When she caught him looking at her as they stopped at a traffic light, she smiled somewhat guiltily. Delaney smiled back, but didnât bother trying to reassure her that he thought no one was behind them.
He was feeling intensely pleased that morning. He had not realized just how much he was looking for a reason not to continue the charade of his next book, not to sit all day and fail to achieve anything at his desk, not to have to write anything. He felt an unmistakable sense of liberation at not having to do anything at all except what he wished to do. That meant not having to look at things like a journalist today â although that was why Natalia had asked for his help â and not, unless he wished to do so, writing or reporting anything about what they might discover.
It had been a long time
After Natalia had left, Delaney found it hard to do much except sit and ponder what he had been told that morning. Her perfume had left a new scent in his apartment and he looked for a long time at the empty couch where she had sat and talked for so long. He moved over to his desk and looked at the notebooks and the pens and the cassette tapes and the laptop computer that lay there. The tools of his trade, lately untouched.
Why would I bother with this? he thought. There is no story in this for me and if there is she wonât want me to run it anyway. So why would I bother?
But Delaney already sensed that in this case getting a story would perhaps not matter very much. And perhaps he knew already that in the end this was precisely why he would bother.
Chapter 4
T hey drove out to Lachine in Delaneyâs car. Natalia had said she didnât drive in winter and that her car was covered in a seasonâs worth of snow in the alley behind her apartment. Delaney didnât drive his gracefully aging Mercedes much either, especially in winter, but he parked it in the underground garage in his building, it would be clear of snow and he knew it would start, so he agreed to pick her up on Esplanade Street.
She was waiting at the top of the old staircase that led to her door on the second floor, and she was dressed in the same purple overcoat she had worn to his place two days earlier. She moved down right away when he pulled up, as if she had known his car. When she got inside she gave him a very brief smile and didnât seem to want to talk much, so Delaney pulled off immediately and did not try to fill the silence.
They hadnât talked since the night of their first meeting. Delaney had surprised himself by phoning her that night, ostensibly to tell her he would help her make some inquiries. Only for a while, he heard himself insisting. He was, he told her, very busy with other projects, with his book. But he had also want ed to make sure she was all right, though he didnât tell her that. Something about her story had touched an alarm somewhere inside him and he wanted to know she was safely back in her place. They had ended up talking again for a long time on the phone about the circumstances of Stanislawâs death and about what was to be done first. It seemed to both of them that the natural place to start was Lachine, with the priest who had been Stanislawâs friend. A priest who didnât go to funerals.
Delaney looked often in his rear-view mirror to see if anyone appeared to be following them, but if someone was, he wasnât able to tell. It was a brilliant winter day, unusually warm, and the sun had melted all the snow on the roads. The glistening black asphalt contrasted starkly with the piles of wet, white snow that still covered everything else. The heavy snow tires on the car hummed loudly on the wet road surface. For Montrealers this was one of the sounds of spring, but it was not yet spring. Delaney glanced over at Natalia and saw she was looking intently into the mirror on the passenger side. When she caught him looking at her as they stopped at a traffic light, she smiled somewhat guiltily. Delaney smiled back, but didnât bother trying to reassure her that he thought no one was behind them.
He was feeling intensely pleased that morning. He had not realized just how much he was looking for a reason not to continue the charade of his next book, not to sit all day and fail to achieve anything at his desk, not to have to write anything. He felt an unmistakable sense of liberation at not having to do anything at all except what he wished to do. That meant not having to look at things like a journalist today â although that was why Natalia had asked for his help â and not, unless he wished to do so, writing or reporting anything about what they might discover.
It had been a long time
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