‘On her return, she found the flat empty and the basement door jammed shut. Some neighbours helped her to force it open. There was no sign of Jean anywhere . . .’
Lazarus paused. Simone was silent, waiting for the toymaker to finish his story.
‘Nobody ever saw Jean Neville in that district again. Most people imagined that he must have escaped from the basement through a trapdoor and got as far away from his mother as he could. I suppose that is what happened, although if you asked his mother, who was in floods of tears for weeks, even months, over his disappearance, I’m sure she’d have told you that the shadow from his dreams had taken him. As I said earlier, I was probably Jean Neville’s only friend. Perhaps it would be fairer to say it was the other way round – he was my only friend. Years later, I promised myself I’d do everything in my power not to let any child be deprived of having a toy ever again. Even now I wonder where Jean is, whether he’s still alive. I suppose you must think this a strange explanation . . .’
‘Not at all,’ Simone replied, her face hidden in the dark.
‘It’s getting late,’ said the toymaker. ‘I must go and see my wife.’
Simone nodded.
‘Thanks for the company, Madame Sauvelle,’ he added as he quietly left the room.
Simone watched him go, then sighed. Loneliness created strange labyrinths in the mind.
The sun had begun its descent and its light was refracted into flashes of amber and scarlet in the lenses of the lighthouse. The breeze was now fresher and the pale-blue sky was streaked with a few solitary clouds drifting along. Irene’s head rested lightly on Ismael’s shoulder.
Slowly, Ismael put an arm around her. She looked up. Her lips were half open and she trembled imperceptibly. Ismael felt a fluttering in his stomach. Gradually, timidly, their lips moved closer. Irene closed her eyes. Inside Ismael, a voice seemed to whisper, ‘It’s now or never.’ He decided on now. The following ten seconds seemed to last ten years.
Later, when the boundary between them seemed to have dissolved entirely, when every look and every gesture was in a language only they could understand, Irene and Ismael continued to lie there, embracing each other. If they’d had a say in it, they would have remained there, on the lighthouse balcony, until the end of time.
‘Where would you like to be in ten years’ time?’ asked Irene out of the blue.
Ismael thought about it for a moment.
‘That’s a difficult question . . . I don’t know.’
‘What would you like to do? Follow in your uncle’s footsteps, own the boat?’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’
‘Then what?’ she insisted.
‘I don’t know, I suppose this is stupid . . .’
‘What’s stupid?’
Ismael fell silent. Irene waited patiently.
‘Radio series. I’d like to write series for the radio,’ said Ismael after a while.
Irene smiled at him. ‘What sort of series?’
Ismael looked at her for a moment. He hadn’t spoken about this to anyone and felt as if he was on shaky ground. Perhaps the best thing would be to beat a hasty retreat.
‘Mystery series,’ he replied at last, hesitantly.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in mysteries.’
‘You don’t have to believe in them to write about them,’ Ismael replied. ‘I’ve been collecting cuttings about a man called Orson Welles who has worked for the radio. Perhaps I could try to work with him . . .’
‘Orson Welles? Never heard of him, but I’m not sure it would be easy to contact him. Have you had any ideas?’
Ismael nodded vaguely.
‘You must promise you’ll never tell anyone.’
Irene raised her right hand solemnly. Ismael’s attitude seemed a little childish, but she was intrigued.