They played poker and gin rummy, and Larry was furious because he could never win. Noelle taught him chess and backgammon and he could never beat her at either. On their first Sunday at the villa she fixed a delicious picnic lunch, and they sat on the beach in the sun and enjoyed it. While they were eating, Noelle looked up and saw two men in the distance. They were strolling toward them along the beach.
"Let's go inside," Noelle said.
Larry looked up and saw the men. "Jesus, don't be so jumpy. They're just a couple of villagers out for a walk."
"Now," she commanded.
"OK," he said ungraciously, irritated by the incident and by her tone.
"Help me pack up the things."
"Why don't we just leave them?" he asked.
"Because it would look suspicious."
Quickly they stuffed everything into the picnic hamper and started toward the house. Larry was silent for the rest of the afternoon. He sat in the library, his mind preoccupied, while Noelle worked in the kitchen.
Late in the afternoon she came into the library and sat at his feet. With her uncanny knack of reading his mind, she said. "Stop thinking about them."
"They were just a couple of goddamn villagers," Larry snapped. "I hate sneaking around like some kind of criminal." He looked at her and his voice changed. "I don't want to have to hide from anybody. I love you."
And Noelle knew that this time it was true. She thought of the years during which she had planned to destroy Larry and of the fierce pleasure she had taken in imagining his destruction: And yet the moment Noelle had seen Larry again she had known instantly that there was something deeper than hate still alive in her. When she had pushed him to the brink of death, forcing him to risk both their lives on that terrible flight to Amsterdam, it was as though she were testing his love for her in a wild defiance of fate. She had been with Larry in that cockpit, flying the plane with him, suffering with him, knowing that if he died they would die together, and he had saved them both. And when he had come to her room in Amsterdam and made love to her, her hatred and her love had become intermingled with their two bodies, and somehow time had expanded and contracted and they were back in their little hotel room in Paris and Larry was saying to her, "Let's get married; we'll find some little maire in the country," and the present and the past had exploded dazzlingly into one and Noelle knew then that they were timeless, had always been timeless, that nothing had really changed and that the depths of her hatred for Larry had come from the heights of her love. If she destroyed him she would be destroying herself, for she had given herself completely to him long ago and nothing could ever change that.
It seemed to Noelle that everything she had achieved in her life had been through her hatred. Her father's betrayal had molded and shaped her, annealed and hardened her, filled her with a hunger for vengeance that could be satisfied with nothing less than a kingdom of her own in which she was all-powerful, in which she could never be betrayed again, never be hurt. She had finally achieved that. And now she was ready to give it up for this man. Because she knew now that what she had always wanted was for Larry to need her, to love her. And, at last, he did. And that, finally, was her real kingdom.
NOELLE AND CATHERINE
Athens: 1946
18
For Larry and Noelle the next three months was one of those rare, idyllic periods when everything went right, a magic time of floating from one wonderful day to the next, with not the faintest cloud on the horizon. Larry spent his working hours doing what he loved to do, flying, and whenever he had time off he went to the villa in Rafina and spent a day or a weekend or a week with Noelle. In the beginning Larry had been afraid that the arrangement would become a millstone that would drag him down into the kind of domesticity that he loathed; but each time he saw Noelle, he became more enchanted and he began to look eagerly forward to the hours he would spend with her. When she had to cancel one weekend because of an unexpected trip with Demiris, Larry stayed alone at the villa, and he found himself angry and jealous, thinking about Noelle and Demiris together. When he saw Noelle the following week, she was surprised and pleased by his eagerness.
"You missed me," she said.
He nodded. "A lot."
"Good."
"How's Demiris?"
She hesitated a moment. "All right."
Larry noticed her hesitation. "What is it?"
"I was thinking of something you said."
"What?"
"You said you hated the feeling of sneaking around like a criminal. I hate it too. Every moment I was with Constantin, I wanted to be with you. I once told you, Larry, I want all of you. I meant it. I don't want to share you with anyone. I want you to marry me."
He stared at her in surprise, caught off guard.
Noelle was watching him. "Do you want to marry me?"
"You know I do. But how? You keep telling me what Demiris will do if he finds out about us."
She shook her head. "He won't find out. Not if we're clever and plan it properly. He doesn't own me, Larry. I'll leave him. There's nothing he can do about that. He has too much pride to try to stop me. A month or two later, you'll quit your job. We'll go away-somewhere, separately, perhaps to the United States. We can be married there. I have more money than we'll ever need. I'll buy you a charter airline, or a flying school or whatever you like."
He stood there listening to what she was saying, weighing what he would be giving up against what he would be gaining. And what would he be giving up? A lousy job as a pilot. The thought of owning his own planes sent a small thrill coursing through him. He'd have his own converted Mitchell. Or maybe the new DC-6 that had just come out. Four radial engines, eighty-five passengers. And Noelle, yes, he wanted Noelle. Jesus, what was he even hesitating about?
"What about my wife?" he asked.
"Tell her you want a divorce."
"I don't know if she'll give me one."
"Don't ask her," Noelle replied. "Tell her." There was a final implacable note in her voice.
Larry nodded. "All right."
"You won't be sorry, darling. I promise," Noelle said.
For Catherine time had lost its circadian rhythm; she had fallen into a tesseract of time, and day and night blended into one. Larry was almost never home, and she had long since stopped seeing any of their friends, because she did not have the energy to make any more excuses or to face people. Count Pappas had made half a dozen attempts to see her, and had finally given up. She found herself only able to cope with people secondhand: by telephone or letter or cable. But face to face, she turned to stone, and conversations flinted off her in hopeless, futile sparks. Time brought pain and people brought pain, and the only surcease Catherine found was in the wonderful forgetfulness of liquor. Oh how it eased the suffering, softened the sharp edge of rebuffs and gentled down the pitiless sun of reality that beat down on everyone else.
When Catherine had first come to Athens, she and William Fraser had written to each other frequently, swapping news and keeping each other up-to-date on the activities of their mutual friends and foes. Since Catherine's problems with Larry had begun, however, she had not had the heart to write to Fraser. His last three letters had gone unanswered, and his last letter had gone unopened. She simply did not have the energy to cope with anything outside the microcosm of self-pity in which she was trapped.
One day a cable arrived for Catherine, and it was still lying on the table unopened a week later, when the doorbell rang and William Fraser appeared. Catherine stared at him, unbelievingly. "Bill!" she said, thickly. "Bill Fraser!"
He started to speak and she saw the excited look in his eyes turn to something else, something startled and shocked.
"Bill, darling," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"I had to come to Athens on business," Fraser explained. "Didn't you get my cable?"
Catherine looked at him, trying to remember. "I don't know," she said finally. She led him into the living room, strewn with old newspape
rs, filled ashtrays and plates of half-eaten food. "Sorry the place is such a mess," she said, waving a vague hand. "I've been busy."
Fraser was studying her worriedly. "Are you all right, Catherine?"
"Me? Fantastic. How about a little drink?"
"It's only eleven o'clock in the morning."
She nodded. "You're right. You're absolutely right, Bill. It's too early to have a drink, and to tell you the truth I wouldn't have one except to celebrate your coming here. You're the only one in the whole world who could make me have a drink at eleven o'clock in the morning."
Fraser watched with dismay as Catherine staggered to the liquor cabinet and poured a large drink for herself and a smaller one for him.
"Do you like Greek brandy?" she asked as she carried his drink to him. "I used to hate it, but you get used to it."
Fraser took his drink and set it down. "Where's Larry?" he asked quietly.
"Larry? Oh, good old Larry's flying around somewhere. He works for the richest man in the world, you know. Demiris owns everything, even Larry."
He studied her for a moment. "Does Larry know you drink?"
Catherine slammed down her glass and stood swaying in front of him. "What do you mean, does Larry know I drink?" she demanded indignantly. "Who says I drink? Just because I want to celebrate seeing an old friend, don't you start attacking me!"
"Catherine," he began, "I'm..."
"You think you can come in here and accuse me of being some kind of a drunk?"
"I'm sorry, Catherine," Fraser said painfully, "I think you need help."
"Well you're wrong," she retorted. "I don't need any help. Do you know why? Because I'm--I'm self--I'm self..." she groped for the word and finally gave it up. "I don't need any help."
Fraser watched her for a moment. "I have to go to a conference now," he said. "Have dinner with me tonight."
"OK." She nodded.
"Good, I'll pick you up at eight."
Catherine watched Bill Fraser as he walked out the door. Then with unsteady steps, she walked into her bedroom and slowly opened the closet door, staring into the mirror hanging on the back of the door. She stood there frozen, unable to believe what she was seeing, sure that the mirror was playing some dreadful trick on her. Inside she was still the pretty little girl adored by her father, still the young college girl standing in a motel room with Ron Peterson and hearing him say, "My God, Cathy, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," and Bill Fraser holding her in his arms and saying, "You're so beautiful, Catherine," and Larry saying, "Stay this beautiful, Cathy, you're gorgeous," and she looked at the figure in the mirror and croaked aloud, "Who are you?" and the sad, shapeless woman in the mirror began to cry, hopeless, empty tears that coursed down the obscene bloated face. Hours later the doorbell rang. She heard Bill Fraser's voice calling, "Catherine! Catherine, are you there?" And then the bell rang some more, and finally the voice stopped and the ringing stopped and Catherine was left alone with the stranger in the mirror.
At nine o'clock the following morning, Catherine took a taxi to Patission Street. The doctor's name was Nikodes and he was a large, burly man with a white shaggy mane, a wise face with kind eyes, and an easy, informal manner.
A nurse ushered Catherine in to his private office and Doctor Nikodes indicated a chair. "Sit down, Mrs. Douglas."
Catherine took a seat, nervous and tense, trying to stop her body from trembling.
"What seems to be your problem?"
She started to answer and then stopped helplessly. Oh, God, she thought, where can I begin? "I need help," she said, finally. Her voice was dry and scratchy, and she ached for a drink.
The doctor was leaning back in his chair watching her. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight." She watched his face as she said it. He tried to conceal the look of shock, but she caught it and in some perverse way was pleased by it "You're an American?"
"Yes."
"Are you living in Athens?"
She nodded.
"How long have you lived here?"
"A thousand years. We moved here before the Peloponnesian War."
The doctor smiled. "I feel that way sometimes too." He offered Catherine a cigarette. She reached for it, trying to control the trembling of her fingers. If Doctor Nikodes noticed, he said nothing. He lit it for her. "What kind of help do you need, Mrs. Douglas?"
Catherine looked at him helplessly. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."
"Do you feel ill?"
"I am ill. I think I must be very ill. I've become so ugly." She knew she was not crying and yet she felt tears running down her cheeks.
"Do you drink, Mrs. Douglas?" the doctor asked gently.
Catherine stared at him in panic, feeling cornered, attacked. "Sometimes."
"How much?"
She took a deep breath. "Not much. It--it depends."
"Have you had a drink today?" he asked.
"No."
He sat there studying her. "You're not really ugly, you know," he said gently. "You're overweight, your body is bloated and you haven't been taking care of your skin or your hair. Underneath that facade there's a very attractive young woman."
She burst into tears, and he sat there letting her cry herself out. Dimly over her racking sobs Catherine heard the buzzer on his desk ring several times, but the doctor ignored it. The spasm of sobbing finally subsided. Catherine pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "C--can you help me?"
"That depends entirely on you," Doctor Nikodes replied. "We don't really know what your problem is yet."
"Take a look at me," Catherine responded. He shook his head. "That's not a problem, Mrs. Douglas, that's a symptom. Forgive me for being blunt, but if I am to help you, we must be totally honest with each other. When an attractive young woman lets herself go as you have, there must be a very strong reason. Is your husband alive?" "Holidays and weekends." He studied her. "Do you live with him?" "When he's home." "What is his work?"
"He's Constantin Demiris' personal pilot." She saw the reaction on the doctor's face, but whether he was reacting to the name of Demiris or whether he knew something about Larry, she could not tell. "Have you heard of my husband?" she asked.
"No." But he could have been lying. "Do you love your husband, Mrs. Douglas?"
Catherine opened her mouth to answer and then stopped. She knew that what she was going to say was very important, not only to the doctor, but to herself. Yes, she loved her husband and yes, she hated him, and yes, at times she felt such a rage toward him that she knew she was capable of killing him, and yes, at times she was so overwhelmed by a tenderness for him that she knew she would gladly die for him and what was the word that could say all that? Perhaps it was love. "Yes," she said.
"Does he love you?"
Catherine thought of the other women in Larry's life and his unfaithfulness and she thought of the awful stranger in the mirror last night and she could not blame Larry for not wanting her. But who was to say which came first? Did the woman in the mirror create his infidelity, or did his infidelity create the woman in the mirror? She became aware that her cheeks were wet with tears again.
Catherine shook her head helplessly. "I--I don't know."
"Have you ever had a nervous breakdown?"
She was watching him now, her eyes wary. "No. Do you think I need one?"
He did not smile. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "The human psyche is a delicate thing, Mrs. Douglas. It can take only so much pain and when the pain becomes unbearable, it escapes into hidden recesses of the mind that we are just beginning to explore. Your emotions are stretched very tight." He looked at her a moment. "I think it is a good thing you came to someone for help."
"I know I'm a little nervous," Catherine said defensively. "That's why I drink. To relax me."
"No," he said bluntly. "You drink to escape." Nikodes got up and walked over to her. "I think there's probably a good deal we can do for you. By 'we,' I m
ean you and I. It will not be simple."
"Tell me what to do."
"To begin with I am going to send you to a clinic for a thorough physical examination. My feeling is that they will find nothing basically wrong with you. Next, you are going to stop drinking. Then I am going to put you on a diet. All right so far?"
Catherine hesitated, then nodded.
"You are going to enroll in a gymnasium, where you will work out regularly to get your body back in shape. I have an excellent physiotherapist who will give you massages. You will go to a beauty parlor once a week. All this will take time, Mrs. Douglas. You did not get in this condition overnight, and it will not be changed overnight." He smiled at her reassuringly. "But I can promise you that in a few months--even a few weeks--you will begin to look and feel like a different woman. When you look in your mirror, you will feel proud--and when your husband looks at you, he will find you attractive."
Catherine stared at him, her heart lifting. It was as though some unbearable burden had been removed from deep inside her, as though she had suddenly been given a new chance to live.
"You must clearly understand that I can only suggest this program for you," the doctor was saying. "It is you who must do it."
"I will," Catherine said fervently. "I promise."
"To stop drinking will be the most difficult part."
"No, it won't," Catherine said. And as she said it, she knew it was true. The doctor had been right: She had been drinking in order to escape. Now she had a goal, she knew where she was going. She was going to win back Larry. "I won't touch another drop," she said firmly.
The doctor saw the look on her face and nodded, satisfied. "I believe you, Mrs. Douglas."
Catherine rose to her feet. It amazed her how clumsy and awkward her body was, but all that would change now. "I'd better go out and start buying some skinny clothes," she smiled.
The doctor wrote something on a card. "This is the address of the clinic. They will be expecting you. I will see you again after you have had your examination."
On the street Catherine looked for a taxi, then she thought, to hell with that. I might as well start getting used to exercise. She began to walk. She passed a shop window and stopped to stare at her reflection.
She had been so quick to blame Larry for the disintegration of their marriage without ever questioning what share of the blame was hers. Why would he want to come home to someone who looked like she did? How slowly and subtly this stranger had crept in without her being aware of it. She wondered how many marriages had died in this same way, not with a bang--and there certainly hasn't been much of that lately, Catherine thought, wryly--but with a whimper, just like good old T.S. Eliot said. Well, that was all in the past. From now on she would not look back, she would only look ahead to the wonderful future.
The Other Side of Midnight Page 32