My Sister's Hand in Mine

by Jane Bowles

  Soon Miss Goering came in with a batch of papers under her arm.

  “These,” she said, “are the contracts. My, they are lengthy, but I think the agent is a sweet man. He said he thought this house was lovely.” She held out the contracts first to Arnold and then to Miss Gamelon.

  “I should think,” said Miss Gamelon, “that you would be afraid to look in the mirror for fear of seeing something too wild and peculiar. I don’t want to have to look at these contracts. Please take them off my lap right away. Jesus God Almighty!”

  Miss Goering, as a matter of fact, did look a little wild, and Miss Gamelon with a wary eye had noticed immediately that the hand in which she held the contracts was trembling.

  “Where is your little house, Miss Goering?” Arnold asked her, trying to introduce a more natural note into the conversation.

  “It’s on an island,” said Miss Goering, “not far from the city by ferryboat. I remember having visited this island as a child and always having disliked it because one can smell the glue factories from the mainland even when walking through the woods or across the fields. One end of the island is very well populated, although you can only buy third-rate goods in any of the stores. Farther out the island is wilder and more old-fashioned; nevertheless there is a little train that meets the ferry frequently and carries you out to the other end. There you land in a little town that is quite lost and looks very tough, and you feel a bit frightened, I think, to find that the mainland opposite the point is as squalid as the island itself and offers you no protection at all.”

  “You seem to have looked the situation over very carefully and from every angle,” said Miss Gamelon. “My compliments to you!” She waved at Miss Goering from her seat, but one could easily see that she was not feeling frivolous in the least.

  Arnold shifted about uneasily in his chair. He coughed and then he spoke very gently to Miss Goering.

  “I am sure that the island has certain advantages too, which you know about, but perhaps you prefer to surprise us with them rather than disappoint us.”

  “I know of none at the moment,” said Miss Goering. “Why, are you coming with us?”

  “I think that I would like to spend quite a bit of time with you out there; that is, if you will invite me.”

  Arnold was sad and uneasy, but he felt that he must at any cost remain close to Miss Goering in whatever world she chose to move.

  “If you will invite me,” he said again, “I will be glad to come out with you for a little while anyway and we will see how it goes. I could continue to keep up my end of the apartment that I share with my parents without having to spend all my time there. But I don’t advise you to sell your beautiful house; rather rent it or board it up while you are away. Certainly you might have a change of heart and want to return to it.”

  Miss Gamelon flushed with pleasure.

  “That would be too human a thing for her to consider doing,” she said, but she looked a little more hopeful.

  Miss Goering seemed to be dreaming and not listening to what either of them was saying.

  “Well,” said Miss Gamelon, “aren’t you going to answer him? He said: why not board your house up or rent it and then if you have a change of heart you can return to it.”

  “Oh, no,” said Miss Goering. “Thank you very much, but I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t make much sense to do that.”

  Arnold coughed to hide his embarrassment at having suggested something so obviously displeasing to Miss Goering.

  “I mustn’t,” he said to himself, “I mustn’t align myself too much on the side of Miss Gamelon, or Miss Goering will begin to think that my mind is of the same caliber.”

  “Perhaps it is better after all,” he said aloud, “to sell everything.”

  2

  Mr. and Mrs. Copperfield stood on the foredeck of the boat as it sailed into the harbor at Panama. Mrs. Copperfield was very glad to see land at last.

  “You must admit now,” she said to Mr. Copperfield, “that the land is nicer than the sea.” She herself had a great fear of drowning.

  “It isn’t only being afraid of the sea,” she continued, “but it’s boring. It’s the same thing all the time. The colors are beautiful, of course.”

  Mr. Copperfield was studying the shore line.

  “If you stand still and look between the buildings on the docks,” he said, “you’ll be able to catch a glimpse of some green trains loaded with bananas. They seem to go by every quarter of an hour.”

  His wife did not answer him; instead she put on the sun-helmet which she had been carrying in her hand.

  “Aren’t you beginning to feel the heat already? I am,” she said to him at last. As she received no answer she moved along the rail and looked down at the water.

  Presently a stout woman whose acquaintance she had made on the boat came up to talk with her. Mrs. Copperfield brightened.

  “You’ve had your hair marcelled!” she said. The woman smiled.

  “Now remember,” she said to Mrs. Copperfield, “the minute you get to your hotel, stretch yourself out and rest. Don’t let them drag you through the streets, no matter what kind of a wild time they promise you. Nothing but monkeys in the streets anyway. There isn’t a fine-looking person in the whole town that isn’t connected with the American Army, and the Americans stick pretty much in their own quarter. The American quarter is called Cristobal. It’s separated from Colon. Colon is full of nothing but half-breeds and monkeys. Cristobal is nice. Everyone in Cristobal has got his own little screened-in porch. They’d never dream of screening themselves in, the monkeys in Colon. They don’t know when a mosquito’s biting them anyway, and even if they did know they wouldn’t lift their arm up to shoo him off. Eat plenty of fruit and be careful of the stores. Most of them are owned by Hindus. They’re just like Jews, you know. They’ll gyp you right and left.”

  “I’m not interested in buying anything,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “but may I come and visit you while I’m in Colon?”

  “I love you, dear,” answered the woman, “but I like to spend every minute with my boy while I’m here.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

  “Of course it’s all right. You’ve got that beautiful husband of yours.”

  “That doesn’t help,” said Mrs. Copperfield, but no sooner had she said this than she was horrified at herself.

  “Well now, you’ve had a tussle?” said the woman.

  “No.”

  “Then I think you’re a terrible little woman talking that way about your husband,” she said, walking away. Mrs. Copperfield hung her head and went back to stand beside Mr. Copperfield.

  “Why do you speak to such dopes?” he asked.

  She did not answer.

  “Well,” he said, “for Heaven’s sake, look at the scenery now, will you?”

  They got into a taxicab and Mr. Copperfield insisted on going to a hotel right in the center of town. Normally all tourists with even a small amount of money stayed at the Hotel Washington, overlooking the sea, a few miles out of Colon.

  “I don’t believe,” Mr. Copperfield said to his wife, “I don’t believe in spending money on a luxury that can only be mine for a week at the most. I think it’s more fun to buy objects which will last me perhaps a lifetime. We can certainly find a hotel in the town that will be comfortable. Then we will be free to spend our money on more exciting things.”

  “The room in which I sleep is so important to me,” Mrs. Copperfield said. She was nearly moaning.

  “My dear, a room is really only a place in which to sleep and dress. If it is quiet and the bed is comfortable, nothing more is necessary. Don’t you agree with me?”

  “You know very well I don’t agree with you.”

  “If you are going to be miserable, we’ll go to the Hotel Washington,” said Mr. Copperfield. Suddenly he lost his dignity. His eyes clouded over and he pouted. “But I’ll be wretched there, I can assure you. It’s going to be so God-damned dul
l.” He was like a baby and Mrs. Copperfield was obliged to comfort him. He had a trick way of making her feel responsible.

  “After all, it’s mostly my money,” she said to herself. “I’m footing the bulk of the expenditures for this trip.” Nevertheless, she was unable to gain a sense of power by reminding herself of this. She was completely dominated by Mr. Copperfield, as she was by almost anyone with whom she came in contact. Still, certain people who knew her well affirmed that she was capable of suddenly making a very radical and independent move without a soul to back her up.

  She looked out the window of the taxicab and she noticed that there was a terrific amount of activity going on around her in the streets. The people, for the most part Negroes and uniformed men from the fleets of all nations, were running in and out and making so much noise that Mrs. Copperfield wondered if it was not a holiday of some kind.

  “It’s like a city that is being constantly looted,” said her husband.

  The houses were painted in bright colors and they had wide porches on the upper floors, supported beneath by long wooden posts. Thus they formed a kind of arcade to shade the people walking in the street.

  “This architecture is ingenious,” remarked Mr. Copperfield. “The streets would be unbearable if one had to walk along them with nothing overhead.”

  “You could not stand that, mister,” said the cab-driver, “to walk along with nothing over your head.”

  “Anyway,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “do let’s choose one of these hotels quickly and get into it.”

  They found one right in the heart of the red-light district and agreed to look at some rooms on the fifth floor. The manager had told them that these were sure to be the least noisy. Mrs. Copperfield, who was afraid of lifts, decided to go up the stairs on foot and wait for her husband to arrive with the luggage. Having climbed to the fifth floor, she was surprised to find that the main hall contained at least a hundred straight-backed dining-room chairs and nothing more. As she looked around, her anger mounted and she could barely wait for Mr. Copperfield to arrive on the lift in order to tell him what she thought of him. “I must get to the Hotel Washington,” she said to herself.

  Mr. Copperfield finally arrived, walking beside a boy with the luggage. She ran up to him.

  “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “Wait a second, please, and let me count the luggage; I want to make sure it’s all here.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it could be at the bottom of the sea—all of it.”

  “Where’s my typewriter?” asked Mr. Copperfield.

  “Talk to me this minute,” said his wife, beside herself with anger.

  “Do you care whether or not you have a private bath?” asked Mr. Copperfield.

  “No, no. I don’t care about that. It’s not a question of comfort at all. It’s something much more than that.”

  Mr. Copperfield chuckled. “You’re so crazy,” he said to her with indulgence. He was delighted to be in the tropics at last and he was more than pleased with himself that he had managed to dissuade his wife from stopping at a ridiculously expensive hotel where they would have been surrounded by tourists. He realized that this hotel was sinister, but that was what he loved.

  They followed the bellhop to one of the rooms, and no sooner had they arrived there than Mrs. Copperfield began pushing the door backwards and forwards. It opened both ways and could only be locked by means of a little hook.

  “Anyone could break into this room,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

  “I dare say they could, but I don’t think they would be very likely to, do you?” Mr. Copperfield made a point of never reassuring his wife. He gave her fears their just due. However, he did not insist, and they decided upon another room, with a stronger door.

  * * *

  Mrs. Copperfield was amazed at her husband’s vivacity. He had washed and gone out to buy a papaya.

  She lay on the bed thinking.

  “Now,” she said to herself, “when people believed in God they carried Him from one place to another. They carried Him through the jungles and across the Arctic Circle. God watched over everybody, and all men were brothers. Now there is nothing to carry with you from one place to another, and as far as I’m concerned, these people might as well be kangaroos; yet somehow there must be someone here who will remind me of something … I must try to find a nest in this outlandish place.”

  Mrs. Copperfield’s sole object in life was to be happy, although people who had observed her behavior over a period of years would have been surprised to discover that this was all.

  She rose from her bed and pulled Miss Goering’s present, a manicuring set, from her grip. “Memory,” she whispered. “Memory of the things I have loved since I was a child. My husband is a man without memory.” She felt intense pain at the thought of this man whom she liked above all other people, this man for whom each thing he had not yet known was a joy. For her, all that which was not already an old dream was an outrage. She got back on her bed and fell sound asleep.

  When she awoke, Mr. Copperfield was standing near the foot of the bed eating a papaya.

  “You must try some,” he said. “It gives you lots of energy and besides it’s delicious. Won’t you have some?” He looked at her shyly.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him.

  “Oh, walking through the streets. As a matter of fact, I’ve walked for miles. You should come out, really. It’s a madhouse. The streets are full of soldiers and sailors and whores. The women are all in long dresses … incredibly cheap dresses. They’ll all talk to you. Come on out.”

  * * *

  They were walking through the streets arm in arm. Mrs. Copperfield’s forehead was burning hot and her hands were cold. She felt something trembling in the pit of her stomach. When she looked ahead of her the very end of the street seemed to bend and then straighten out again. She told this to Mr. Copperfield and he explained that it was a result of their having so recently come off the boat. Above their heads the children were jumping up and down on the wooden porches and making the houses shake. Someone bumped against Mrs. Copperfield’s shoulder and she was almost knocked over. At the same time she was very much aware of the strong and fragrant odor of rose perfume. The person who had collided with her was a Negress in a pink silk evening dress.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I can’t tell you,” she said to them. Then she looked around her vaguely and began to hum.

  “I told you it was a madhouse,” Mr. Copperfield said to his wife.

  “Listen,” said the Negress, “go down the next street and you’ll like it better. I’ve got to meet my beau over at that bar.” She pointed it out to them. “That’s a beautiful barroom. Everyone goes in there,” she said. She moved up closer and addressed herself solely to Mrs. Copperfield. “You come along with me, darling, and you’ll have the happiest time you’ve ever had before. I’ll be your type. Come on.”

  She took Mrs. Copperfield’s hand in her own and started to drag her away from Mr. Copperfield. She was bigger than either of them.

  “I don’t believe that she wants to go to a bar just now,” said Mr. Copperfield. “We’d like to explore the town awhile first.”

  The Negress caressed Mrs. Copperfield’s face with the palm of her hand. “Is that what you want to do, darling, or do you want to come along with me?” A policeman stopped and stood a few feet away from them. The Negress released Mrs. Copperfield’s hand and bounded across the street laughing.

  “Wasn’t that the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?” said Mrs. Copperfield, breathlessly.

  “You better mind your own business,” said the policeman. “Why don’t you go over and look at the stores? Everybody walks along the streets where the stores are. Buy something for your uncle or your cousin.”

  “No, that’s not what I want to do,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

  “Well, then, go to a movie,” said the policeman, walking away.

  Mr. Copperfiel
d was hysterical with laughter. He had his handkerchief up to his mouth. “This is the sort of thing I love,” he managed to say. They walked along farther and turned down another street. The sun was setting and the air was still and hot. On this street there were no balconies, only little one-story houses. In front of every door at least one woman was seated. Mrs. Copperfield walked up to the window of one house and looked in. The room inside was almost entirely filled by a large double bed with an extremely bumpy mattress over which was spread a lace throw. An electric bulb under a lavender chiffon lamp shade threw a garish light over the bed, and there was a fan stamped Panama City spread open on the pillow.

  The woman seated in front of this particular house was rather old. She sat on a stool with her elbows resting on her knees, and it seemed to Mrs. Copperfield, who had now turned to look at her, that she was probably a West Indian type. She was flat-chested and raw-boned, with very muscular arms and shoulders. Her long disgruntled-looking face and part of her neck were carefully covered with a light-colored face powder, but her chest and arms remained dark. Mrs. Copperfield was amused to see that her dress was of lavender theatrical gauze. There was an attractive gray streak in her hair.

  The Negress turned around, and when she saw that both Mr. and Mrs. Copperfield were watching her, she stood up and smoothed the folds of her dress. She was almost a giantess.

  “Both of you for a dollar,” she said.

  “A dollar,” Mrs. Copperfield repeated after her. Mr. Copperfield, who had been standing nearby at the curb, came closer to them.

  “Frieda,” he said, “let’s walk down some more streets.”

  “Oh, please!” said Mrs. Copperfield. “Wait a minute.”

  “A dollar is the best price I can make,” said the Negress.

  “If you care to stay here,” suggested Mr. Copperfield, “I’ll walk around a bit and come back for you in a little while. Maybe you’d better have some money with you. Here is a dollar and thirty-five cents, just in case.…”

  “I want to talk to her,” said Mrs. Copperfield, looking fixedly into space.