‘I don’t think he does,’ said Crystal, who already had the difficult last name of Freeplatzer and felt she could reconcile herself to a lifetime of bad jokes quite easily if it should become Mudd. ‘But I suppose he’ll figure it out in time.’
Either Crystal was wrong, or Dwayne Mudd didn’t have enough time. He was still stubbornly pursuing Celia when, two months later, driving home from a party in what was later determined to be a condition of .12 blood-alcohol content, he turned the wrong way up a one-way street in Belgravia and collided fatally with a heavy lorry.
Celia, in the opinion of some, didn’t take this news as hard as she might have – as she should have, one of them said at lunch in the canteen.
‘I don’t see that,’ protested Crystal loyally. ‘I know Celia was really, really shocked by what happened to Dwayne.’
‘Well, we all were. I’m not claiming she doesn’t feel as bad as we do. But she ought to feel worse. After all, she was going out with him.’
‘Yes, but she’s been going out with a lot of other men too, you know. Three at least.’
Crystal’s friends nodded. Oh, they knew that, they said crossly.
‘I don’t see how she can just go on as if nothing had happened,’ one complained. ‘As if she didn’t really care.’
Celia does care, Crystal thought. She’s still wearing Dwayne Mudd’s mother’s gold watch; doesn’t that prove it?
It was true that Celia was wearing the watch. After Dwayne died she’d asked herself if perhaps she should return it – but to whom? Dwayne had no brothers or sisters; she’d have to ask someone at the Embassy who his legal heirs were, which meant appearing in the embarrassing and false public role of grieving girlfriend. Possibly Dwayne had some cousin who would want the watch, but that wasn’t likely. Most people – especially people in Iowa, was the thought that crossed Celia’s mind, though she quickly suppressed it as snobbish – wouldn’t appreciate Dwayne’s mother’s watch. They’d think it old-fashioned and inconvenient; they’d much prefer the latest glittery Rolex that never had to be wound and would tell them the day of the month and the time in Hong Kong. And anyhow, wouldn’t Dwayne have wanted her to have it; if he’d known—?
A month later, as if the Fates had finally harkened to Crystal’s friends, Celia abruptly removed herself from competition: not by accepting another of her current beaus, but by requesting and receiving a job transfer. What amazed everyone was her destination: a small hot West African country of no political importance.
‘Of course it’s a fairly responsible position: Cultural Affairs Officer,’ a secretary in the department involved reported to her friends later in the canteen. ‘And the salary is good, because it’s a hardship post.’
‘But gee, really: Goto,’ Crystal exclaimed.
‘I know. Nobody’s ever heard of it. My boss told Celia that if she’d just hang on a while he could probably find her something much better. But Celia said she wanted to leave as soon as possible. I don’t get it.’
‘Maybe it’s because of Dwayne Mudd,’ suggested another young woman. ‘Maybe she can’t forget him as long as she’s here in London. She might feel guilty, even.’
‘I don’t know,’ Crystal said. ‘Guilty doesn’t exactly sound like her.’
All the same, she thought later, there was definitely something on Celia’s mind. She had a new distracted manner, a kind of preoccupation – could she have realised that she’d been in love with Dwayne after all?
‘I think I can guess why you asked for a transfer,’ Crystal said when Celia took her for a farewell lunch at Wheeler’s. ‘It was because of Dwayne Mudd.’
Celia started as if she’d taken hold of a defective electrical appliance. ‘How did you know?’ she half-whispered, looking round the restaurant as if it were full of undercover agents. ‘I mean, what makes you say that?’ she amended, recovering her cool.
‘It’s – well, the way you’ve been sort of tense ever since he died,’ Crystal said. ‘I figured you might still be thinking about Dwayne and kind of, you know, imagining him everywhere in London.’
‘Yes,’ Celia said after a considerable pause. She lowered her fork, speared a slice of cucumber, raised it. ‘Not everywhere,’ she added, addressing the cucumber, ‘I only see him at certain times… Whenever I’m, you know, with somebody else.’
‘You mean, in your mind’s eye,’ Crystal said, stirring her salad for concealed bits of shrimp.
‘What?’ Celia lowered the fork again.
‘I mean you don’t, like, really see Dwayne? Not like a spirit apparition.’ Crystal leaned forward, her mouth half-open.
‘Oh, no; of course not,’ Celia lied. She was reminded that Crystal, though reasonably discreet, was the daughter of small-town spiritualists and had a residual fascination with their beliefs.
The truth was, though, that Celia was seeing Dwayne Mudd, or something that looked a lot like him. Mostly he appeared as a sort of wavery grey semi-transparent image printed on the scene like a weak carbon copy when someone’s forgotten to change the ribbon. He wasn’t there all the time, only very occasionally – only, she realised after the first week, when she was alone with a man.
The first time Celia saw Dwayne she was in a taxi with a handsome, slightly stupid young merchant banker. As he bent and kissed her, she imagined or perceived something like Dwayne Mudd sitting on the jump seat. She sat up abruptly and it vanished.
It was dusk and raining, and Celia attributed the illusion to a trick of the wet half-light. But she couldn’t really get into it again with the merchant banker, and when they reached her flat in Knightsbridge she checked her little gold watch, exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and didn’t ask him in.
The next time Dwayne Mudd appeared was worse, because it was daylight. Celia was on a Sunday outing with an American legal expert called Mark. They were sitting in a little wood at the top of Hampstead Heath, looking out through a stand of ancient beeches at a Constable landscape of towering cumulus clouds and descending fields of grass and flowers. Celia had just had a first-rate lunch and learnt several useful things about libel law; she felt pleased, at peace.
But when Mark put his arm round her and stroked her bare shoulder the grey shadow of the Wombat wavered into view beneath the branches of a nearby tree. This time what she saw was difficult to explain as a trick of the light: it was clearly the two-dimensional image of a man; not grey now, but weakly coloured like a tinted black-and-white photograph.
‘What is it?’ Mark asked, following her start and fixed stare.
‘I heard thunder,’ Celia said, improvising. ‘We’d better get back, we’ll be drenched.’
When Mark, clearly much disappointed and even cross, had returned Celia to her flat and not been invited in, she poured herself a vodka and grapefruit juice and sat down to face the situation.
She refused to consider Crystal’s idea that what she had seen was a ‘spirit apparition’ i.e. a ghost. Not only did ghosts not exist, the very idea of them was in bad taste; it went with woozy New Age music, the fingering of greasy tarot cards and the search for people’s former incarnations, who somehow always turned out to be upscale or celebrity personages.
No, there was no ghost, Celia said to herself. Rather, for some reason, she was psychologically haunted by the death of Dwayne Mudd, about which she consciously felt only a mild sadness, and also – for Dwayne had become quite a nuisance in the final month or so – a little relief.
But, Celia thought, there must be more going on subconsciously. I must believe that if I’d agreed to marry Dwayne he wouldn’t be dead. Some irrational, infantile part of me must think that if I’d gone to that stuffy dinner-party with him he wouldn’t have drunk too much and there wouldn’t have been an accident. That’s what he would probably want me to think if he were alive.
‘Don’t be Silly,’ she told herself sharply, capitalising the adjective, which had been her nickname as a small child – perhaps on the principle of opposites, for if there was anything
Celia hadn’t been for a long while, it was silly. That’s total nonsense about Dwayne, it’s just what something neurotic in you imagines. Maybe you ought to see a shrink.
But almost as rapidly as this idea came to Celia she rejected it. She couldn’t afford private therapy, she’d have to go through the Embassy medical plan. And when anyone did that it got into their medical records and stayed there. Of course no one was supposed to know what was in the records; but people often did know, because someone had to file them.
And when you came up for promotion, it usually came out. Then, even if there’d only been a minor problem, insomnia, for instance, or fear of flying, it could hurt your career. And hers wasn’t a minor problem: she was having what a shrink would call delusions. Possibly she was actually coming down with a full-blown psychosis.
Celia, who up to now had always taken her mental stability for granted, began to feel depressed and even frightened. But she was a young woman of considerable courage and determination. The only thing to do, she finally decided, was to ignore her hallucinations and assume they would eventually go away.
An opportunity to test this theory appeared the following weekend; Celia was at home, making lunch for a former lover from America, a painter named Nat. She knew, and he knew, that this lunch would probably end in bed, for old times’ sake. But as she was adding fresh cream to the vichyssoise, Nat came up close behind and embraced her; and there was the greyish shape of Dwayne Mudd again, sliding about on the sunlit wall among the shadows of the hanging Swedish ivy. As Nat caressed her right breast the shape seemed to grow darker.
‘No,’ she said aloud.
‘Sorry, love,’ Nat grinned. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you alone while you cook.’
The shadow wavered, faded. But it reappeared after lunch as Celia stood to clear the table.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Nat said, standing also, looking directly at her.
‘Yes.’ They moved towards each other and then, entwined, towards the bedroom. Dwayne’s image followed them from room to room, sliding over the walls and furniture.
As they sank down on the bed, Celia deliberately shut her eyes. ‘You want to watch, Wombat, go ahead,’ she told him silently in her mind, where of course he was located.
As if she had spoken, a voice – Dwayne Mudd’s voice, though flatter now, dead-pan – in fact, dead – replied. – That’s a filthy person you’re with, it said. – Literally. He hasn’t had a shower since Thursday.
Celia, with considerable effort, did not look round or even open her eyes. It was clear that Nat had heard nothing, for he went on kissing her enthusiastically. She cooperated, holding him close, although now his light-brown hair had an – imagined? – odour of stale turpentine.
– You like dirt and paint, look at his hands, Dwayne Mudd’s voice said. – And wait till you smell how long he’s been wearing those socks.
You’re lying, Celia thought, but in spite of herself she glanced at Nat’s hand as it lifted her grey silk Nicole Farhi jersey. There was a sour-green smudge across the knuckles and the square-cut nails were black. And when, in spite of her resolution, she raised her eyes, there was the shadow of Dwayne Mudd in the desk chair. Irrationally, because he was merely a figment of her imagination, she felt deeply embarrassed that he, fully clothed, should see her lying there naked.
The event that followed, though clearly great fun for Nat, was unsatisfactory to Celia. She concentrated on keeping her eyes shut, but she couldn’t help hearing the voice.
– Well, look at that. He still doesn’t wear underpants. Kind of disgusting, isn’t it? Dwayne said, while Nat gasped and cried out, ‘Oh, love!’
– And get a whiff of those armpits. That was why you broke up with him, wasn’t it?
‘Celia, my darling,’ Nat murmured, subsiding, then turning to look at her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘I mean, is something the matter? You didn’t – You usually—’
‘I’m fine,’ Celia assured him. ‘That was lovely. But I think… Well, the thing is,’ she continued, ‘I’m rather involved with someone else just now.’
‘Really? Oh, hell,’ Nat said.
That was how it began; and it rapidly became worse. Soon, whenever Celia even shook hands with a man, the wavering image of Dwayne Mudd appeared and spoke. In life the Wombat’s language had been decorous; now it was coarse.
– He’s got zits on his ass.
– Notice how he stinks of stale smoke, from his lousy nicotine habit. Shit, you can smell it, you’re close enough.
– How can you stand that moustache, so red and bristly, like a hog I knew in Iowa. Got a face like a goddamn hog, too, hasn’t he?
– I suppose you know he’s fucking the wife of the MP from that place in Surrey where he lives.
This last remark was directed at the merchant banker, whom Celia had been spending most of her time with lately – not because she liked him best but because he was the most imperceptive of her suitors and thus least apt to notice her distracted condition. But after she’d made discreet inquiries and discovered that Dwayne was right about the MP’s wife, she crossed the banker off her list. Someone must have mentioned the affair and I must have remembered it subconsciously, she told herself. But she wasn’t sure; she wasn’t sure of anything any more.
I’m falling apart, Celia thought. I’ve got to get out of London before I completely crack up. No, out of England.
When she first heard of Goto, Celia had seen in her mind a comic-book panorama of jungle and swamp, crocodiles, giant snakes, political violence and malarial heat. But in fact it wasn’t bad. Though she arrived in July the temperature was tolerable. The heavy rains had passed and the landscape was densely green, layered like a Henri Rousseau painting with palms and banana trees and tall grasses studded with red and magenta and white flowers. The atmosphere at the Embassy was agreeable and relaxed, and there was an Olympic-size outdoor pool embraced by blossoming shrubs.
Popti, the capital, turned out to be a seaside city of broad boulevards and red sandy alleys; of low blond and ochre and terracotta houses and shops, with here and there a shimmering high-rise hotel or bank. For years it had been a French colony; French was still the official language and there were visible survivals of French cuisine and French fashion.
There might be advantages in a place like this, Celia realised. She could practise her French and develop some regional expertise. Moreover, her professional situation was greatly improved; she had an office of her own, a secretary and the occasional use of an Embassy car and driver. She also had authority; she could cause events to happen. In just a month she’d started two film series; she was reorganising the library and negotiating with USIS in Washington for interesting speakers.
What’s more, she had been assigned a four-bedroom air-conditioned villa with cook, cleaner, part-time gardener and twenty-four-hour guard service. It was not far from the Embassy and next door to the home and shop of the city’s most fashionable dressmaker, Madame Miri (to some of her European clients, Madame Marie). Celia’s own house was usually quiet except for the faint, almost domestic hum of the radio that would communicate instantly with the Marine guard station at the Embassy in case of emergency.
But there was always something going on in Madame’s deep, leafy compound, which besides the shop contained five buildings and a large and shifting population of relatives and employees, from infants in cotton hip slings to toothless grandmothers. Celia was becoming quite friendly with Madame, who like herself was a perfectionist where dress was concerned; she had already copied a complex Issey Miyake for Celia in a remarkable black and indigo-grey local batik.
Most restful of all, Celia hadn’t seen Dwayne Mudd since she arrived. That proved nothing, though, for as yet she had touched no man except to shake hands. Now that she had her life organised, she knew, it was time to test her safety – her sanity, really. Because what was the alternative? The alternative was a possibly lifelong nervous celibacy.
As a sympathetic listener, Celia had
not only rapidly become popular in the European community, she had also acquired two admirers. She decided to go out with the one she liked least, an Oklahoma businessman – probably married, she guessed, though he claimed not – called Gary Mumpson. She therefore allowed Gary to take her to the most expensive French restaurant and, after dinner, to drive to the beach and park. It was pitch dark there, under a sky of intense tropical blackness speckled with stars. As Gary leant over to kiss her, rather sweatily, Celia held her breath. For a moment nothing happened; then, mixed with the sound of the heavy, treacherous surf, she seemed to discern an unmistakable voice.
– Yeah, give the creep a big hug, it said, – so you can feel that rubber tyre.
You’re imagining things, Celia told herself; but her arms were already around Gary and she could not help following the Wombat’s instructions.
– Anyhow, you’re wasting your time, the voice seemed to say. – Not only is he married, his cock is only three inches long.
No, it was no use. ‘Come on, let’s drive back,’ Celia said miserably, struggling upright.
‘Nah, what for – oh, sure. Great idea!’ Gary panted, imagining (mistakenly) that this was an invitation to Celia’s apartment.
The next day was Saturday. Celia, after a sleepless night, left her house in the hope of jogging off some of her depression. The morning was cool and fresh, the street nearly empty, but as she reached the gate of the compound next door she was greeted by Madame Miri.
In the strong sunlight her landlady was an imposing figure. Her skin shone like polished mahogany and she wore a brilliant ballooning orange robe and turban printed with blue birds-of-paradise.
‘What is it, chérie?’ she inquired in her excellent French, putting a broad vermilion-nailed hand on Celia’s arm.
The Story: Love, Loss and the Lives of Women: 100 Great Short Stories Page 24