A House Like a Lotus

by Madeleine L'engle

  ‘I’ve already uncorked the champagne,’ Max said. ‘Hold out your glass.’

  I picked up the tall fluted glass which was on the hearth in front of the Chinese screen, held it out, and she poured. I thought her hand was a little unsteady, and I was concerned.

  Why should I worry about that decanter of bourbon, or that maybe Max was drinking too much? If she was dying and it eased the pain, what difference did it make?

  But it did. It did make a difference. This was not the Max I knew, the Max who made me believe there were wide worlds open for Polyhymnia O’Keefe.

  Thunder again. Low. Menacing.

  ‘To you,’ Max said, her voice slurring. ‘To all that you can be.’ Some of her whiskey spilled on the rug.

  I wanted to throw it at the Chinese screen. This could not be Max, this woman with her hand clutching the decanter of bourbon.

  She poured herself more. Her eyes were too bright, her cheeks too flushed.

  Lightning flashed again, brightening the flowers on the screen. ‘That’s too close,’ Max said as the thunder rose. We could hear the wind whipping the trees. ‘I’m afraid, oh, little one, I’m so afraid …’

  Not of the thunderstorm.

  ‘Afraid of the dark. Afraid of nothingness. Of being alone. Of not being.’

  This was naked, primordial fear. I wanted to call Daddy, but what would I say? Max is drinking too much and she’s afraid of dying?

  Lightning again, but this time there were several seconds before the thunder. ‘Are you afraid?’ Max whispered.

  ‘No. I don’t mind thunderstorms as long as I’m not alone.’

  A slow wave of thunder rolled over her response. ‘I need an affir’—her words slurred—‘an affirmation. An affirmation of being.’ She picked up her glass. I glanced at the decanter and saw that it was half empty.

  Oh, Max, I wailed silently, I wish you wouldn’t.

  She bent toward me, whispering, ‘Oh, my little Polly, it’s all so short—no more than the blink of an eye. Why are you afraid of Max? Why?’

  Her breath was heavy with whiskey. Her words were thick. I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do, how to stop her. How to make her be Max again.

  In the next flash of lightning she stood up, and in the long satin gown she seemed seven feet tall, and she was swaying, so drunk she couldn’t walk. And then she fell …

  I rolled out of the way. She reached for me, and she was sobbing.

  I scrambled to my feet. Ran. I heard her coming after me. I turned at the landing, rushed down the stairs, heard her unsteady feet, then a crash, and turned to see that she had knocked over the statue.

  I ran on, panting, past the dining room, slipped in my bare feet on the polished floor, and almost fell. I reached out to steady myself, and my hand hit the light switch, and the crystal chandelier bloomed with light, and the light touched the smile on the face of the portrait of Max’s father.

  ‘Pa!’ she screamed out, staggering toward me, carrying the statue. ‘Damn you! Damn you! I’m just like you, damn you!’

  I pushed open the heavy front door and burst out into the pelting rain.

  I ran up the long drive, hardly realizing I had on only my nightgown. The crushed shells hurt my feet but did not slow me down. My nightgown was drenched and clung to my body. I felt a sharp pain in my foot. Rain streamed from my hair and into my eyes, so that the headlights of an approaching car were nearly on me before I saw them, and heard the shells crunching under the tires, and veered to the side of the road.

  Brakes were slammed on. The car stopped. A window was opened and someone looked out. ‘Polly!’

  It was Ursula.

  ‘Something told me—’ She flung open the door. ‘Get in, child.’

  Ursula would take care of everything.

  I stumbled into the car.

  ‘Child, what happened?’

  ‘Max is drunk—oh, Urs, she’s—drunk—and I got away from her and ran. She … she ran after me, she knocked over the statue of the Laughing … and the light came on and hit the portrait of her father, and …’ I babbled on, hardly knowing what I was saying.

  ‘Oh, Max,’ Ursula said. ‘Oh, Max.’ She started the car again and drove up to the house. ‘Wait here, child.’ She ran indoors. I heard her calling, ‘Max! Max, dear, it’s Urs. Where are you?’ And the door slammed on her words.

  Two

  In the morning, before time to take me to the airport for my plane to Cyprus, Sandy came into my room. Once again he suggested that I might want to call the United States. “Phoning anywhere from Cyprus isn’t easy.” He didn’t say, ‘Do you want to call the family?’ or ‘Do you want to call Max?’ and I think he was leaving all options open.

  I just said, “No, thanks.” And then, because I felt that I was being ungrateful and ungracious, I said, “I think it’s time I cut the umbilical cord.”

  “From your family?” he asked. “Or from Max?”

  I fumbled in my suitcase, refolding a blouse.

  “I should have realized,” Sandy said, “how young and vulnerable you are. You’re so mature in some ways it’s easy to forget how inexperienced you are in human relationships. You idolized Max, and that is always the prelude to disaster.”

  —I speak five languages, I thought irrelevantly, and it doesn’t make any difference at all.

  He put his hand over mine. “The toppling of your goddess was nothing I could have conceived of, and I do not in any way condone what happened. But it was an aberration, a terrible one, and it was nothing that had anything to do with the Max I have known for twenty years.”

  I shut the suitcase, clicking the latches.

  “Do you know, Polly, can you guess, what it must have cost Max to call me, to tell me what happened, what she did? The fact that she could do that tells me just how much she loves you, not in any erotic way, but as her child.”

  I heard, and I didn’t hear. I rolled up the cardigan, the Fair Isle cardigan I’d brought in case it turned chilly, and put it in the shoulder bag.

  “Your parents do not know what happened, because you didn’t tell them, and that speaks well.”

  For me? For my parents? For Max?

  “I think you will be able to forgive what happened, Polly. I’m not sure they would be able to. And they would blame themselves.”

  “They didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I know that. But your parents wouldn’t.” He paused, looking at me. “Ursula says that Max has stopped drinking entirely, except for what Urs gives her for pain, and she doesn’t want that but Netson has ordered it. I realize that nothing can take back what happened, what Max did. But would you want never to have known her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps where I hold Max most at fault is in letting you worship her. But you are a contained person, Polly, and I doubt if Max realized the extent of your adoration. Maybe you didn’t, either.”

  I nodded, mutely.

  “You’re all right, Polly.” He rubbed his hand over his beard. “Nearly ready?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Sandy. I’ve loved these days with you and Rhea. Thank you.”

  “No thanks needed. You are very dear to us.” He pulled me to him, kissed my hair. “Have you been keeping that journal for school?”

  “Every day. I try to describe things, not only the ancient sites, but little things, like the men with braziers standing on the street corners in Athens selling roasted corn. That surprised me. I think of corn as being only American.”

  “We bring our worlds with us when we travel, we Americans.” He gave me his rough, Uncle Sandy hug. “You bring the scent of ocean and camellias.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you.”

  “And that young man, Zachary, who seems so taken with you, brings the smell of money and power. To the Zacharies of this world, Turkey, Pakistan, Kuwait are interchangeable. They exist only for their banks and insurance companies and megabucks. When money is your only concern, there isn’t any difference betwee
n Zaire and Chicago.”

  “Hey,” I protested, “you and Rhea don’t even know Zachary. He’s just like all the other kids who hang around Constitution Square.”

  “With his father’s corporation behind him? Don’t be naive, Polly. I’m glad you had him to escort you around till we got here. I think he was good for you in many ways, but I’m just as glad you’re never going to see him again.”

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “You saw him just that once. I spent three days with him. He’s my friend.” But I remembered, too, Zachary’s saying that even if he expected the world to end he’d hold on to his property. “He’s complicated. Sure, he has lots of money, but there’s more to him than that.”

  “You’re willing to let Zachary Gray be complicated?”

  “Of course.”

  “But not Max?” Sandy looked at me, a long, slow look from under those bushy blond eyebrows. I turned away from him and picked up my suitcase.

  I kissed Rhea goodbye, and Sandy drove me to the airport. I was very glad he was with me. I didn’t know about the airport tax of sixty drachmas, and I’d deliberately used up all my drachmas because in Cyprus I’d be using Cypriot pounds. Sandy paid the tax and then helped me get a traveler’s check cashed into Cypriot money.

  “Have a good time in Cyprus. Don’t work too hard. Have fun.”

  I waved after him, and then there was a great shoving getting on the bus that whizzed across the airfield to the plane; then everybody jostled to get off, and then pushed to get up the steps to the plane—no jetway for the small plane to Larnaca. There was no attempt at queuing, and lots of people simply jammed their way into the line. A small amount of consideration was given to very old women and those with infants.

  Finally I got onto the plane and into my seat, next to two Greek women. The hostess gave us landing cards to fill out, and the two women told me, with a lot of signs, that they did not know how to fill out their cards. So I did it for them. I had to put down their ages, and I was astonished to find out they were a great deal younger than they looked. The older, one of the grandmothers people made way for, was exactly Mother’s age. With white hair pulled into a knot on top of her head, and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, she looked old enough to be Mother’s mother. Mother’s hair is still chestnut brown, and she swims a lot, and her body is strong and supple. It was a vivid contrast.

  In filling out their landing cards, I learned that they lived in England and were coming home to Cyprus for a visit. They spoke only a few words of English, and they did not know how to read or write. They beamed and nodded their thanks, and then began talking together in Greek as I filled out my own landing card.

  Larnaca was a comparatively small, quiet airport, though no Greek-speaking public place is really quiet. So I was grateful indeed to see a man who looked like Nehru waiting for me. He introduced himself, told me to call him Krhis, took my suitcase, and led me to a battered old Bentley. At home it would have been snobbishly chic. Here, it was just functional.

  “I’m glad your plane was a few minutes late,” Krhis said. “I had a flat tire on my way in. This old wagon’s not going to hold up forever. It’s good to have you with us, Polly. The rest of the staff is already at the Center. Virginia Porcher and I have been here for a week, both resting and planning. And now we will all—the staff—have three days together before the delegates arrive. Did you lunch on the plane?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Was it edible?”

  “More than. There was something I thought was turkey which turned out to be smoked fish and it was really good.”

  He turned slightly and smiled at me. “You do not mind, then, eating the foods of the country you are in?”

  I smiled back. “Not all Americans insist on hamburgers.”

  “Yes. Maxa told me you were a cosmopolitan young woman. Dear Maxa. How is she?”

  I had a moment to think while he maneuvered the car around a donkey cart. If Max had not told Krhis anything was wrong, obviously she didn’t want him to know. I said, carefully, “She hasn’t been very well this winter. That’s why she’s been staying at Beau Allaire.”

  With a loud honking, a smelly bus provided another diversion as it forced Krhis over to the side of the road and roared past. He said, “Maxa tells me you have a gift for languages.”

  “Oh, I love languages.” Now I could be freely enthusiastic. “I speak Portuguese, because we used to live in Portugal, and I speak Spanish and French and a bit of German, and Gaean, which probably won’t be much use to you, but it was the language of the natives on the island off the south coast of Portugal where Daddy had his lab.”

  Again the slight turn, the gentle smile. “But Portuguese and Spanish will be helpful. We’ll have a delegate from Angola, where many people still speak Portuguese. And another from Brazil. And two or three are from the Spanish-speaking countries of South America. However, all the delegates must have some facility with English, as it will be our common language.”

  He drove down a dusty road lined with tired-looking trees. It was as hot as Cowpertown in midsummer. Krhis said, “We won’t see much of Larnaca today. It’s on a salt lake as well as the ocean, and suffers from having the new superimposed on the old without much thought. Luxury hotels are sprouting like mushrooms.”

  What I saw of Larnaca looked rather barren. There were a few expensive-looking villas, a big oil refinery, and then we drove through several sizable villages, with low white houses surrounded by flowers and surmounted by dark panels for solar heating. We passed several working windmills, too. An island like Cyprus has both sun and wind, and the villages were making good use of them.

  “You are the oldest of several children?” Krhis asked.

  “Seven,” I said. “We’re old-fashioned and unfashionable.”

  “And you help?”

  “We all do.”

  “But, as Max pointed out, the oldest bears the brunt of the work. She is very fond of you.” He paused. “It is too bad she was not able to have children of her own.”

  I looked down at my hands, still summer-tan. “Yes. She—she—” Did he know about the lost little baby? “She wanted children.”

  “And now she has you. That is good. I had hoped she might be able to come with you. She would love Osia Theola—and our varied and various delegates. She has a great gift with people, does she not?”

  I murmured agreement.

  “With Max there are no barriers of race or culture. Or age. You are her friend as well as her child.”

  I did not reply, but leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.

  The humid heat and the rhythm of the car eased my thoughts, and I was dozing when Krhis said, “We are here.” I opened my eyes as we drove through gates of golden stone, and we were at the Conference Center.

  It was much bigger than Osias Lukas, not nestled in a cup in the hill, but perched on the side of the mountain. We entered a great, dusty courtyard surrounded by a cloister. There was a two-story building, a tallish rectangle forming part of the wall to our right, with arched doors and windows with eyebrow-like carvings over them. Krhis drew up in front of it.

  “Now that the village is becoming a resort, the monastery grounds are not as quiet as they used to be. Tourists come to see the church and the fountain house and tend to wander all over.”

  I sat up and looked around at the gracious arches of the cloister, with glimmers of sun on sea sparkling in the distance.

  Krhis continued, “It is a delight to us that the village church is within the monastery grounds—see, just ahead of us, the tall bell tower? You will see weddings and funerals and baptisms. The village is still small enough so that its life goes on, as it has done for centuries, and we who come here for conferences are, as it were, tourist attractions for the villagers. We’ll be a strange group, but Osia Theolians are friendly and welcoming. Ah, here comes Norine.” His face lit up.

  A young Chinese woman, tiny and delicate, came hurrying to greet us, shook my hand wit
h a firm grip, insisted on getting my suitcase out of the trunk while I stood awkwardly by, towering over her.

  “Norine Fong Mar, Polly O’Keefe,” Krhis introduced us. “Norine is one of my colleagues in London and is associate director of this conference.”

  “I am from Hong Kong,” Norine said, “but lately I’ve spent more time in England than at home. Follow me.” She set off at a rapid pace.

  I hoisted the shoulder bag and followed her across the dusty compound, almost having to run to keep up, despite my much longer legs. We went past the church and then veered to our left, to the center of the grounds, where there was a small octagonal stone building with open, arched sides and a domed roof.

  “The fountain house,” Norine said. “Very old. The only new building in the Center is the Guest House, and it is in the old style and doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb.” We went along a narrow path with roses blooming on either side, and the air smelled of roses and salt wind. The only roses on Benne Seed Island were at Beau Allaire, and grew there because the gardener was constantly watering and tending them.

  Norine headed for a long, white building with a red-tiled roof, the blinding white of the stucco walls muted by flowering vines. Bougainvillea I recognized, and oleander; but the other flowers were new to me. It was much hotter on Cyprus than it had been in Greece, and I could feel sweat trickling down my legs. I’m used to heat; even so, it was hot.

  Norine beckoned me imperiously, and I hurried to catch up. She opened a door leading to a long corridor. Over her shoulder she said, “Your roommate is from Zimbabwe. She’s the youngest of the women delegates, and we thought you’d enjoy each other. But you’ll have the room to yourself for these next few days.” She spoke with a crisp English accent, more fluently than Krhis, whose words came slowly, thoughtfully. She was dressed in a denim skirt and white shirt and exuded efficiency.