Free Belshazzar's Daughter by Barbara Nadel Page A

nervous, smoke-dried.
    She turned the rest of the shop lights off and locked the display cabinets. As they went through the front door, he turned and stole a furtive glance at her again. Her face was anxious and there were lines, deep and hard, from the corners of her mouth down to her chin.
     
    The Sultan Pub, a peculiar mock-Tudor establishment opposite the Blue Mosque, was a strangely ideal place for a quiet talk. Its clientele, almost without exception Western European youth in transit, did not tend to linger. One or two stomach-churning local whiskies and then out was the usual form. The internal decor was pure Hollywood Salzburg: beams, cowbells, Alpine horns and pictures of blonde girls with plaits. Cool mountain streams and snow figured quite heavily too. The Southern Europeans’ insatiable hunger for the cold.
    Robert and Natalia sat down at the table affording the best view of the famous mosque and were quickly joined by the teenage waiter.
    After they had ordered their drinks they sat in silence for a while. Robert, at least, was not anxious to open conversation. The drinks arrived quickly and he took a generous gulp from his glass. Natalia, her glass untouched, gazed blankly out of the window, her eyes riveted to the graceful dome of the mosque.
    ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, you know.’
    She didn’t answer; she didn’t react in any way. Self conscious, he took her hand. The waiter slouching arrogantly against the bar saw their hands join and smirked.
    ‘I’m just confused, that’s all. I was on my way home yesterday afternoon, not feeling a hundred per cent, and suddenly there you are. I go to say “hello”, greet you, and you’re gone!’
    ‘Was not me.’ Her tone was flat, matter of fact. Her earlier smile had disappeared long ago. It irked him. Of course it had been her! Who else had a face like that?
    ‘Look, I know what I saw, Natalia. I’m not asking you to explain yourself. I just don’t like mysteries. Whatever you were there for is your own business, I just …’ He paused. What he had to say was difficult. He couldn’t accuse her of lying, but he was finding her denial very hard to reconcile with his own experience. Whatever that was. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter why you were there, I just want to know if you were there. I need to know whether I was seeing things or not. It’s important - for me.’
    She started to sip her drink. Her face was grave, but still - defiantly, he felt - unmoved.
    He tried a slightly different tack. “I was afraid, when you didn’t acknowledge me, that perhaps I had upset or offended you in some way.’ He pressed her hand gently in his. ‘You know how I feel about you. I couldn’t bear it if something that I did wrong came between us.’
    “I not you property.’
    Her stilted pronunciation irritated him. He had an urge to correct her. It was not the first time. Her foreign ‘otherness’
    frequently grated. She could use it as a weapon, an excuse not to understand or be properly understood.
    His voice had hardened. ‘It’s important.’ He paused.
    ‘Look, I’m not saying for a second that you were involved, but there was a murder in Balat yesterday.’ She put her glass back down upon the table with a thud. “I have, because I was in the area at the time, already been interviewed by the police.’
    He tried to look into her face, but she dropped her eyes.
    ‘Police?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Her features had shifted position slightly, thin lines surrounded her mouth once more, the same lines that had
    marred her face earlier when they left the shop.
    ‘The police came to the school this morning. They
    interviewed all of us. The scene of the murder’s only a few streets away. As it happened, I was in the area at about the right time. I gave them a statement.’
     
    She looked up, her eyelids snapping apart to reveal wide, deeply searching eyes. Her pale face, he fancied, was a shade whiter.
    ‘What do you say in the statement?’
    He lit a