But instead he slapped her face. Hard.
Then Georges came up with a cruet of oil in his voice. “Madame is perhaps fatiguée,” he said.
“You said it,” Lila said, standing up with a slender viciousness. “Madame is sick and fatiguée. And it’s not madame, you grinning ape. It’s mademoiselle. Go get me a taxi.”
Grinning ape, Roger thought. The poor, tired man, with burning feet. Who will he pass it on to when he gets the chance? A bus boy? His wife. His own little boy. An endless chain, endless. Where did it start? Who trod on the first toe, spit in the first eye, drove in the first thorned insult and started the endless chain….
* * *
—
Well, she’d stormed out sad he’d gone to the phone and called the Savoy. Miss Phillipa Soames. She was there and half undressed but she was glad to get dressed again, or so she said, with enough eagerness in her voice to make him believe it. He could remember, dimly, picking her up at the Savoy, or some place. Then they were sitting together in a crowded room, with colored people all around them, extremely well-behaved, and they were listening to a band, six pieces or seven, the music strident, but very good, like new wine, too harsh and a bit clouded in color but essentially sound. Then there was a male dancer, very beautiful in gleamy bronze paint. He made stylized overtures to the men sitting around, but it was somehow not disgusting, it was all too good-humored for that.
Phillipa seemed enthralled. “Charming,” she said, “charming. Like children.”
“That’s what everybody says,” he told her. “I thought you’d be different.”
“Why? Because I’m British?”
“No. Because you’re you.”
A girl came out then and sang. Blue light shone on her cocoa-colored face, gave her a rapt, soulless look, almost expressionless.
There was a confused blur of movement in his mind, punctuated by lights, angles, music—like one of those early, arty movies. Much later they were in his car, parked somewhere by the river.
“What’s over there?” she asked. “Across the river.”
“Weehawken,” he said.
“Wee-hawken,” she repeated, childlike. “Is that where the little people live?”
“You’re adorable,” he said. He kissed her. Her lips were cool, petal-like; he put his hand up to her throat to feel the pulse beating there. She strained, pulled away from him. “Don’t you want me to make love to you?”
“I—you frighten me a little.”
“Frighten you?”
“You were hurting me.”
“Do you mind being hurt? That’s part of being loved.”
“I don’t like it,” she said.
He tried to kiss her again but she turned her head aside. “That’s not the kind of thing you were saying with The Vintners. Love’s not being hurt. Love is goodness, and tenderness, and keeping one from being hurt.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound like Emily,” he said, feeling a little annoyed, despite himself. “ ‘You’re only hurting yourself, Roger.’ ”
“Who’s Emily?”
“Oh, a girl I know. Lady.” Great lady, he thought, suddenly. Really. It was odd.
“I seem to have lost you somewhere,” she said.
“Yes. You and God.”
“What do you mean? That sounds fearfully melodramatic.”
“I was thinking about my analyst. He says being neurotic is being lost. And being lost is dangerous.”
“Oh, neurotic,” she said. “You Americans love that word. It covers such a multitude of sins. All you have to do is behave, you know.”
“That’s right,” he said, laughing. “Like the profit motive. All you have to do is eliminate it, and everything becomes beautiful and simple.”
He reached for her, laughing, but she held him off. He wrestled with her, thinking, this is silly. She fought him off, slapped him finally. He let go of her then, startled and angry. He forced himself to laugh, heard the sound of it, theatrical and not calculated to fool anybody. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to kiss me then.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been slapped tonight,” he said. “Now I’m really going to have to hurt you.”
She stared at him, her face going pale. He reached for her, and she wrenched the door of the car open and ran. He was going to follow her, but suddenly it seemed too much trouble. Let her go. Let it all go. None of it was worth the trouble.
* * *
—
He felt deadly tired all at once. It came to him that the tiredness was something very deep inside him, as if he’d been dragging his feet, all his life, through a weight of possessive love, his mother, Emily, Lila, all the women he’d known. He could feel the weight of it pulling him down. That’s what was the matter. That’s why he couldn’t write.
He thought of Lila and decided to go there. There was another blank and then he saw himself in Lila’s room. It was in disorder, and he was dressing. There was a Martini on the dresser, king size, in a tumbler. He could see the way it caught the light—pale, cloudy topaz. He was knotting his bow tie, or trying to. “It’s almost four, Roger,” Lila said. “Must you go?”
(Why had he got up to go at such an unearthly hour? Had they quarreled some more?) He was trying to knot his tie and the blasted thing kept slipping through his fingers. Lila said finally, “You’d better let me. You can hardly see straight anymore,” and she’d come over and started to do it for him. But he was angry with her and moved away.
(They must have gone on quarreling. Good Lord.)
“Don’t start mothering me,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Roger,” she said. “Don’t be stubborn.” And she’d taken hold of the tie and started to fix it and he had slapped her hand away, hard.
Something about the remembered violence of that movement brought the nightmare back to Roger suddenly, with skin-crawling nearness. He saw himself—gesticulating, shouting, flinging the tie down on the floor and jumping on it, like Rumpelstiltskin….
He shook off the recollection, blinking as if the lights had gone on at a play he’d been watching. This was ridiculous. He wouldn’t go on with this charade. None of this was true. None of it had really happened. He was just rehashing something he’d dreamed, last night, or some other night….
Suddenly, like an exploding ratchet, full of dancing lights and shuttered movement, Lila’s room whirled back into focus in his recollection. He was stooping to pick up the tie. Lila was watching him, and as he straightened up, he saw that she was laughing at him. “You’re just like a child,” she said, “a stubborn little child——”
“Don’t say that,” he said. “I’ve had enough analysis today. Enough to last me a long time.”
But she’d kept on laughing. He took a step toward her and she backed away quickly, jarring into the dresser. “Roger,” she said, still laughing at him but there was a look of fear suddenly on her face, a telltale little greenish whiteness around her beautifully defined nostrils. “Roger, don’t,” she said, “you’re frightening me.” She kept backing away up to the wall and he’d taken the tie…
He jumped up, saying aloud, “No, no, no.” He stood with his fists clenched, his face gray. His thoughts had gone all misty and confused but in the center of it, as if caught in that cloudy, topaz gleam of the Martini glass and moving in on him with a terrible stereopticon clarity, he saw himself pulling his bow tie tight around Lila’s neck, heard her voice saying “Don’t, don’t,” go hoarse, strangled, her face grow…
He started back, knocking his chair over. The dog bounded up beside him. “Fred, Fred.” The dog moved in against his legs. He dug his hands in the scruff, hanging on for dear life, feeling as if he were drowning, all his life, his reason slipping away.
This is what Dr. Baume had meant, about
the drinking. More dangerous than you’ve any idea, he’d said. You’ve an atom bomb of your own locked up inside you. Only your will, your conscience, keeps it locked up. Someday the sharp little words will turn to daggers in your hand….
“No, no,” he said agonizedly, “it’s not true. I never fired a gun in the war, two long years, without feeling sick about it inside every single time. I’m not a murderer. It’s just something I dreamed….”
He straightened up abruptly, want to the phone. There was a way to find out. He stood for a moment with his hand on the phone, feeling it grow wet under his grasp. Suppose it was true. Suppose when he called Lila’s number there would be no answer….
* * *
—
He picked up the phone, as one facing a firing squad might raise a cigarette to his lips. In an hour or so the maid would come in, and then there would be others in the room, lifting the dead weight of what had once been Lila, his beautiful Lila.
He heard his breath come out in a broken sob. And later in the morning—this morning, or some morning—there would be steps on the porch, out of that ridiculous movie, the heavy flat-footed tread. “Mr. Bowen here? District Attorney’s office.” And there would be no surging of music, as he walked to the door, no fade out, no coming attractions, no place in the house for him to run, hide. In the whole world there would be no place for him to hide.
He heard his voice say indistinctly but evenly, “Operator. I want New York. Butterfield…” He gave her the number, heard the faint interplanetary signaling, the astral voices making their mysterious commitments and connections. Then suddenly, so suddenly that he almost dropped the phone, he heard the ominous chirring begin. Once, twice, three times in the empty house. No, not empty. There was that thing lying on the floor by the dresser that had once been Lila….He bent forward with the unbearable sickness in him, rested his head against the wall. When he heard the voice he didn’t understand.
“Yes?”
I’m dreaming again, he thought. I’m back in the dream.
“Yes?”
It was Lila’s voice. Incredibly, miraculously, it was Lila’s voice, fuzzy with sleep and impatience. The feeling of relief was so intense that he almost lost consciousness. He sank down on the couch, unable for the moment to find his voice, to say a word.
“Hello. Who is it…”
“Lila,” he said. He managed to say the word, heard his voice saying it, far off, as if across water.
“Roger? Is that you, Roger?”
“Yes.” His voice was still a croak, unrecognizable in his own ears.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Roger,” she said. “It’s six in the morning. What’s the idea?”
“Lila,” was all he could say, “Lila.”
“Roger, are you drunk?”
“No, I had a nightmare, Lila. About you. I had to find out if you were all right.”
“Oh, you fool. You always get solicitous about me at the wrong time. Where were you last night?”
“Didn’t I—I mean, we had a date at the Baroque——”
“You’re telling me. I waited for you until almost ten o’clock.”
“You mean I never got there at all?”
“Are you kidding? Look, Roger, it’s too early in the morning——”
“No, Lila. Look. I’m just terribly confused. I had a nightmare and I can’t seem to get it out of my head, get things straight. It seemed to me I went into town and met you but I guess I didn’t.”
“Where are you now?”
“Home.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yes. Emily’s gone. I told you she was going up to Boston.”
“I know. I tried calling your house last night when you didn’t show up. I thought something might have happened to you. There was no answer.”
“I know. Emily sent the servants away before she left. And I guess I must have been dead to the world. I’d been drinking a bit.”
“Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine. I can’t tell you, Lila—how glad I am you’re all right.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Lila, will you have lunch with me today? We’ve got to talk. I can’t go on hurting both you and Emily this way. We’ve got to do something about it. Work it out someway. There must be some decent way out.”
“Yes, Roger.” Her voice went off somewhere.
“Lila. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’ve been worried about you, that’s all. When you didn’t show up last night. I was sure you’d done something crazy. You always drive so crazily when you’re drunk——”
“Lila. I’ve got news for you. I’m going on the wagon.”
“I seem to have heard that before.”
“No, really. I do mean it this time.”
“Oh, if you only would, Roger.” Her voice was suddenly nearer, vibrant. “And get back to work. I’d even let Emily have you back…”
“Don’t cry, Lila. Please. I’m not worth it. We’ll talk about it at lunch.”
He hung up, shaken to the roots. I’ve got to have a drink, he thought. He went out of his study and through the shadowy hall toward the bar. At the door he stopped. No, no drink. Some tomato juice, maybe. He started toward the kitchen, heard someone saying, distantly, “One, two, three, four…” His heart gave an involuntary bound. He went into the living room, saw that he’d left the radio on. He turned it off, saw the Sunday paper scattered around the armchair near by. He started to gather the paper together and his eye lit on something in the rotogravure section. He stared at it, the picture of a blonde, slight girl with a very short upper lip. “Miss Phillipa Soames,” he read, “who has been spending a few weeks at the Savoy with her aunt, leaves tomorrow for…”
* * *
—
Roger started to laugh, holding the paper, rattling it as he staggered against the wall, holding one hand out to Fred, who was observing his master’s newest fit of emotion with anxious eyes. “It’s all right, Fred,” Roger gasped. “It’s just that I’ve gone back to writing for the pulps.” He roared with helpless laughter, leaning against the wall. Oh God, how far can a man go, with his idiocies. He’d dreamed up that whole ridiculous episode with the girl. How real it had seemed. How dangerously real, all of it had seemed. A near thing, old boy, he thought. A near thing.
He walked to the French doors and stepped out on the veranda, breathing in the light damp morning air greedily.
He listened. No sound riffled the purplish gray silence that stood like a shapeless monitor over the landscape, holding a finger to its lips. No thread of sound raveling, no rustle of leaf or bud. He’d forgotten how still the world could be. Yet it was not tranquil, he knew. It was merely waiting. All the storms and violence were there, gray sky seared by flame, the spume and fury of driven water, the stretch and wrack of tree limbs writhing in the wind. All of it was there, in abeyance simply, waiting, waiting to spring, to tear, to rend, to destroy….
A surge of exultant, prayerful aliveness geysered up in his midriff. Not this time, you furies, not this time, he thought. Not ever. I’ve escaped you. I’m going on the wagon, and I’m going to write again. What do you think of that? I’m thirty-three years old and I’m going to write again. Dr. Baume, here I come. A convert. Help me, a penitent, smudged by the world’s filth, knee deep in vileness. I confess my sins. I want to be well, healed of the murder in my heart. I want to work again.
He stood gulping back the tears. A little late for a crying jag but he might as well get that in, too. Whole hog. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes with violence, feeling ashamed. He looked at his watch. Ten to seven. Malcolm and Clara would be back soon. He’d have a good breakfast. Then he’d put on a windbreaker and go for a long walk with Fred.
But first he must have a bath. He hadn’t been out of his clothes since yesterday a
fternoon and all at once he felt insufferably grimy. He went upstairs, through the mauve dark of the upstairs hall to the bathroom. He turned on the water in the tub, held his hand under the faucet, adjusting the spigots, watching the emerald whirlpool churning up below. How obliviously one walked through the treacherous bogs of everyday, the swift sudden vortices that gulped like fish mouths at your every step. He wished suddenly that Emily was back and realized that behind the wish was a hurtful thing that he would one day soon have to take to his bosom like the Spartan’s fox. Lila. The little doctor was right. There was no way to live in peace and dignity with two women. At least no way for him. There was no use talking about the Turks. He wasn’t a Turk. He really was, perhaps, much more of a Puritan at heart than Emily.
He turned off the water, reached to undo his tie and realized he didn’t have it on. He went to the mirror over the washbasin and looked at himself. He was a sight—his complexion gray green like blanched seaweed, deep rings under his eyes, his hair matted. And dressed for evening withal, he thought sardonically, dinner jacket, cummerbund, even the white carnation in his buttonhole, somewhat frazzled now—and no tie. What a spectacle. And how charming to recall what he’d done with the tie. Flung it on the floor, like a petulant child, when Emily had come over to fix it for him!
He went out of the bathroom, pulling his jacket off as he walked toward his own bedroom. The door was open slightly and a runnel of amber light spilled over into the purplish gloom of the hall. He must have switched it on when he was turning the room upside down, looking for a shirt. He felt thoroughly ashamed of his outburst now. He must have been terribly tight. And she’d come up and said quietly, “Here, let me do it. You can’t even see straight anymore.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 177