Free Girl at the Lion D'Or by Sebastian Faulks Page A

impossible. It was a double burden for her; not only did she live with a history forcibly closed to other people, but the keeping of the secret made it far harder to make the sort of contact that would enable her to reveal it.
    Now Hartmann was laughing. ‘Really, Anne, you make the simplest question sound impertinent. I was only asking where you went to school!’
    Anne went quiet and bent down over the grate.
    Hartmann stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It’s none of my business. Listen, come over to the window. Isn’t that a lovely view, over the lake? Now that , since you were asking, is one of the reasons I came to live here; the countryside, the lake, the wild birds and of course the house itself.’
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Anne brightly. ‘I love this house, it’s like a house you dream about, where nothing quite makes sense.’
    ‘I know what you mean. Have you been up to the attic yet? That’s mysterious too.’
    ‘Could I go and see it?’
    ‘What, now?’
    ‘Not if it’s inconvenient. Some other time. I . . .’
    ‘Come on.’
    He led the way across the hall and up the big staircase. On the landing he turned one of the rattling door-handles and led Anne down a dark corridor in which the floorboards creaked. They passed several doors, through some of which she glimpsed marble-topped tables or wooden bedsteads, piles of dusty linen and opened suitcases. She wanted to grab Hartmann’s arm and pull him back so he would show her round these cavernous rooms with their old closed shutters, garish crucifixes and spectacular jumble of family history. But equally she was thrilled by the momentum of the expedition, which brought them finally to the foot of a tiny staircase which rose more or less vertically into the roof.
    Hartmann went up first and held out his hand to Anne, who felt the grasp of his fingers enclose her wrist and pull her up. Here there were more boxes and papers, as well as an old rocking horse. The attic stretched away down the whole length of the house.
    ‘It was dark as hell in here,’ said Hartmann. ‘My father’s eyesight was going and I don’t think it occurred to him that he could unblock the window. It only needed a hammer to take the nails out of the boards – though I admit I did have the help of one of the builders.’
    ‘The fat one?’
    ‘Yes, with the blue overalls. He seemed quite relieved to get out of the cellar for a change. It’s not very nice down there. I hate to think what it’s doing to that young man’s chest. He hasn’t stopped coughing since he’s been here.’
    ‘And is this all your father’s wine?’ said Anne, pointing to a long row of dusty bottles.
    ‘It’s all that’s here, yes. But there’s more in Vienna. He had a small house there, too. And I’ve still got some in Paris. It’s quite a hoard altogether. That’s why I need a proper cellar.’
    Anne wandered round the attic, not really noticing what she looked at. Hartmann knelt down to examine a box full of papers beneath the recently unblocked window. The light fell across his body, illuminating the dark, springy hair and the grave, flat expanse of his cheek. The longing Anne felt was so powerful that she had to turn away from him for fear that she might throw herself into his arms and beg for his protection. It was difficult now to say whether this was happiness or not; she was intoxicated by frustration. She walked to the other end of the attic so she should no longer be too close to him.
    Hartmann raised his head from the papers and began to speak again, though in some ways Anne wished he wouldn’t. She could not believe he did not now feel the same thing that she had felt by the tennis court. She was sure that he too must sense that their polite conversations weren’t really necessary because they could more easily communicate on a different level. What she couldn’t say for sure was whether he had deliberately chosen to exclude these feelings because he