The Singing Forest by Judith McCormack

Author:Judith McCormack [McCormack, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biblioasis
Published: 2021-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

Owen, in person. They are in a boardroom, black leather sofas along the sides, an oak table, muted grey walls. A sober room, except for a framed print on the wall at one end, a view through a window, a field of grasses, a field after that, a quilted landscape of greens — sage, olive, moss. The wind is blowing in through curtains, lifting them so lightly, so carelessly that they are almost floating. Like a Wyeth, she thinks. She finds it distracting, her eyes drawn to it, this picture that promises so much freedom, such breezy escape — she can almost smell the fresh air.

She pulls herself back to the room with an effort.

It’s a little disconcerting, isn’t it? says Owen. I keep looking at it myself during meetings — I can almost see myself with one leg over the windowsill.

A surprise — this is a man she would have thought was truly wedded to his job. And someone who personifies civility, the way he talks, the way he listens — elliptical, careful.

Louis agreed with your assessment of the evidence, he says.

Naturally he would have called Louis, why would he have accepted the opinion of junior alone? She realizes this is a tactful way of explaining what happened, how Louis heard about their conversation.

But here you are, he says, pausing slightly, making the point that he had angled to get her.

Yes. Although he did it under the guise of cost, she thinks, he covered himself perfectly. And her contract is only for the length of the case.

Still, there is no doubt he is a man who does what he can, the good that is available to him. And he does it gracefully, sincerely. His weakness, his failing is that he limits this good — the available good — so narrowly. Only those things that will have no effect whatsoever on his work, his prospects, no possibility of consequences to him. In a world of endlessly colliding circumstances, so little is left, so little fits within these limits.

But he is asking her about the gaps in the evidence now, the additional testimony they will need. They talk for a few minutes, and she feels the riffles of his courtesy spreading out around her. She suspects this has little to do with her, that this is how he talks with everyone. Is he cautious about treating people differently on the basis of their importance? He must have seen the quick rise and fall of numerous politicians, dignitaries, officials. Better to cultivate everyone, no matter how insignificant they seem at the moment — a discreet formula for reducing risks, an insurance policy. Regardless of the reasons, he does it so well, it is almost impossible not to like him, not to enjoy this flow of cordiality.

And perhaps there is some substance to it, something of a reflection of himself, not merely a strategy. Perhaps it shows some fundamental niceness — not niceness in the usual shallow sense, but a deeper, hardier form.

We need someone to interview potential witnesses in Belarus, he says now.

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