The Self-Enchanted

by David Stacton

  Before they left she got him to drive her down through the valley. She wanted to see it again, now that it was almost early autumn, and she was leaving it for she did not know what or how long. Together they went through the woods to her father’s grave. The ground was clogged with dead pine needles, and the air was dusty. Once there, she did not feel anything at all. She looked at the column, being close to death, and found it meaningless. Sometimes in the night she had had the feeling that that lonely, preposterous monument was waiting for her, but now it meant nothing. She looked at Christopher.

  “Where is your mother buried?” she asked.

  He started, his thoughts interrupted. “She isn’t,” he said. “I had her scattered.” He was silent and then asked her to leave him alone there. She walked down the path by the meadow and waited, but he did not come, so she turned back. He was kneeling on the ground. Startled, she went back to the car without disturbing him.

  The next day they closed up the house. The furniture was sheeted. The storm doors were closed and locked. She wandered through the twilit, desolate rooms, looking for something she could not find and did not know the name of. Already it was cold, and damp, and unlived in, and she was shocked to see how easily all traces of their lives had been swept away, almost as though they had never lived there at all.

  Christopher was waiting for her in the hall, the only part of the house that was light, as though shadows made him nervous. Silently he took her arm and they left the house.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “You look so solemn.”

  “I was wondering when we’d be back,” she said, though what she was wondering was if they ever would be back. But she did not want to tell him that.

  “I built this house,” he said. “I’ll always live here, whether I’m here or not.”

  Reluctantly she got into the car, with the feeling that she was leaving everything that she loved behind her. Yet the house seemed to be glad to get rid of her. Perhaps it had conquered them both, and repelled even Christopher, who had invented it, as it had partially destroyed Curt, who had built it. As they drove out of the valley, she felt that she would never see it again. Christopher must have felt something of that, too, for he swerved off the road at the rise of ground at the east end of the valley and looked back.

  The mountains rose as strong and as proud as ever. The lakes were as blue, the trees as green. But she had a feeling that the valley had rejected them and wanted nothing more to do with them. Shading his eyes, Christopher looked up to the cleft between the two mountains which led to the glacial meadows above, and he looked for a long time.

  “We’ll be back,” he said.

  “Yes,” she echoed, but she was not so sure. Something in his face, something in the way he had looked so eagerly up to the peaks, made her realize that he knew he was going to die. And she realized that, for a long time now, she had known it, too.

  PART FOUR

  XVII

  It was on the fourth day out that she met Mrs. Carter, or, to be more accurate, that Mrs. Carter met her. She had gone into the reading room, which was not too cheerful when full, let alone when empty, and was trying to read a magazine when she became aware of a blonde woman of about thirty-five, wearing a white dress. Sally glanced up nervously and the woman smiled, so Sally smiled back. The woman came over to her. She walked insolently and she was beautifully made up.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “But I couldn’t help noticing you. You seem as alone as I am. You’re Mrs. Barocco, aren’t you?”

  Sally said that she was.

  “I did so want to meet you. A friend of mine knows your husband.” She looked at Sally with an ingratiating smile and sat down beside her. “It’s your first voyage out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Sally, blushing. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, I guessed it.” Mrs. Carter laughed. “Everyone else is much too bored to walk round the deck three times a day. We would have flown, if we could have got reservations.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever been on a liner,” said Sally. “I’ve never been in anything bigger than a rowboat. When I was a little girl, my father always used to take me out fishing on Lake Tahoe. Do you know Lake Tahoe?”

  “I spent a whole summer at Cal-Neva,” said Mrs. Carter. “So I should.”

  “Did you?” Sally was pleased. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Quite lovely,” said Mrs. Carter blandly.

  Behind them a gong rang.

  “God, I’ve got to dress for dinner,” Mrs. Carter said. “Shall I see you then?”

  “It would be nice,” Sally smiled.

  “I think it would be very nice. It’s so difficult to find congenial company on a boat like this. I’m sure we’ll be great friends, dear.”

  “So am I,” said Sally, wondering why they should be. She went down to her stateroom and told Christopher about it.

  “What is Mr. Carter like?” he asked.

  “I didn’t meet him.”

  Christopher sighed. “I suppose we may as well go through with it,” he said.

  When they got to the dining-room there was no sign of Mrs. Carter. Sally looked around for her, but could not see her, so she sat down with Christopher in an ocean of white linen and ate her dinner. The dining-room had a small ship’s orchestra that sawed its way through the latest song hits. She thought it very romantic. Half-way through dinner, and at the other side of the room she caught sight of Mrs. Carter, who was weaving her way through the tables, followed by a dapper man who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Is that your Mrs. Carter?” asked Christopher.

  “Yes. Isn’t she smart-looking?” Mrs. Carter waved and smiled to Sally, as Sally watched her.

  “Very smart-looking,” said Christopher, and frowned.

  Mrs. Carter had reached their table. “Don’t get up,” she said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make dinner.” She looked at Christopher with amusement. Sally made the introductions.

  “And this is Mr. Baird,” said Mrs. Carter.

  Christopher nodded curtly while Mr. Baird smiled at him. Sally saw that the two of them would not get along at all.

  “Wasn’t it odd,” said Mrs. Carter. “We looked you up on the passenger manifest. All four of us are going to the same place. I didn’t think anyone went to Macao.”

  Mr. Baird beamed at Christopher. “Perhaps we’re on the same errand.”

  “Perhaps,” said Christopher, his face sullen, and would say no more.

  Sally danced with George Baird. His face was expressionless now, but his eyes were watchful. Christopher would never dance, and she loved to, so she was pleased enough. Occasionally she caught sight of Mrs. Carter talking to Christopher, who was scowling.

  “I think Mrs. Carter is so glamorous,” she said. “And nice.”

  “She’s agreeable, I will say that,” conceded Mr. Baird.

  “I hope we see you in Macao.”

  “You probably will. It isn’t very big, you know. Just a dirty town full of prostitutes, smugglers, and priests.”

  It was Sally’s turn to laugh. “I thought it would be quite different.”

  “Maybe for you it will be.”

  Again they circled the floor so that they could see their table, and saw Christopher glaring at them. Mrs. Carter, too, seemed more subdued.

  “I’m afraid your husband doesn’t like me,” said Mr. Baird.

  “Nonsense.” Sally was embarrassed.

  “There’s no particular reason why he should,” said Mr. Baird. “But then, I shouldn’t think he liked many people.” He led her back towards the table, walking ahead of her, a small, powerfully-built man, a shade too dapper. She wondered what he did and where he came from. When they got back to the table, Christopher was not there and Sally looked worried, and excused herself.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Carter, pressing her hand warmly. “But don’t let that husband of yours shut you up. We want to see more of you.”

  Sally went
down to her cabin. Christopher was not there, nor was he in his own. She could not find him anywhere. At last she went out on deck. The night was dark and warm, and she could hear the soft movement of the water, as the lighted ship cast reflections on the sea. She found him up there, at the prow, huddled over the rail like some anguished bird. He straightened up, his hands folded in front of him, gazing out to sea. She stood looking, too, but could see nothing but the darkness of the ocean.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t like Mrs. Carter,” she said. “Did you mind my dancing with Mr. Baird?” She was puzzled.

  Christopher sighed. “You saw him in Reno,” he said. “He’s a professional gambler. I’d rather you didn’t see too much of them. They’re up to something.”

  She moved closer to him, without answering, and they stood together at the prow, listening to the hiss of the water. Gravely, silently, with his hands interlocked, Christopher looked towards Asia with tired eyes.

  *

  She saw a great deal of Mrs. Carter after their first meeting, and of George Baird somewhat less. Christopher had locked himself up in his cabin. She should have stayed with him, but with a laugh he would tell her to go away. And so, with a guilty conscience, she went. She liked to talk to Mrs. Carter, who had been everywhere and done everything. She asked her about Macao.

  “Well, it depends on how you take it,” said Mrs. Carter. She looked at Sally speculatively. “Of course you’ll be staying at the Bella Vista. It’s the only place in Macao to stay. It has a terrace right over the harbour. You can see the hills and the little junks going by. Particularly at night, which is when most of them smuggle. Of course the Portuguese are impossible, but if you get bored you can always go to Hong Kong.”

  “It sounds romantic.”

  “You’re very wistful about romance, aren’t you?”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever been out of California.”

  Mrs. Carter laughed. “You soon get tired of it,” she said. “Every place is just the same as every other, except for the people. In Macao they’re mostly Chinese. Are you going to the ship’s dance?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “Get that husband of yours out of his sulks. We’ll be in in two days, and he’s scarcely been out of his cabin.”

  Sally said nothing, but when she went below she was thoughtful.

  “What is it?” asked Christopher.

  “Mrs. Carter asked us to the ship’s dance.”

  “And you want to go?”

  “Not unless you feel like it.”

  “It isn’t terribly glamorous, you know.”

  “I know.” Sally sounded tired. She bit her lip and went into her own cabin. He followed her. “Sally,” he said. “We’ll go.”

  *

  She was delighted. She had always wanted to go to a ship’s dance. She knew it would be exciting and gay and glamorous. She also knew that it would not be. She dressed with particular care, and Christopher looked handsome all dressed up. She checked him over before he left the cabin, and there was no denying that he was impressive.

  They went up to the dining salon. It had been decorated with balloons and streamers of confetti. It was a Dutch boat, and in consequence everything gleamed. They had reserved a table on the edge of the dance floor, and Mrs. Carter was already there, with George.

  George rose and helped Sally to her chair, looking quizzically at Christopher. “We haven’t seen much of you,” he said.

  “I’ve been busy.” Christopher was curt, and the two men looked at each other without pleasure.

  “Now it’s stupid to quarrel,” said Mrs. Carter. “I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s stupid. Have a drink instead.”

  Christopher refused.

  “From reports, I thought you were a drinking man,” said Baird, quietly.

  “It isn’t friendly not to,” urged Mrs. Carter.

  “Okay,” agreed Christopher, but he did not seem eager. He eyed the glass as it was filled.

  “What shall we drink to?” asked Mrs. Carter. “Macao?”

  “Why not?” asked Christopher in return. “It’s a gambling centre.”

  “And a smuggling centre,” said Baird.

  Mrs. Carter raised her glass. “A city of churches,” she said wryly, and Christopher agreed to drink to that, also wryly.

  “I wonder if they have any bones and things,” said Mrs. Carter. “Relics, you know.”

  Sally saw things were going badly and got Christopher to dance with Mrs. Carter. Baird watched them.

  “I’m afraid Cora thinks she can charm anybody,” he said. “It seems she can’t. Your husband looks tired.”

  Then he and Sally danced. They danced for most of the evening. Each time she came back to the table Christopher looked more irritable. Mrs. Carter chattered on. She had worn a starched linen dress that had begun to wilt, and they had all had too much to drink. Sally had the feeling that something horrible and unforgivable was going to happen. At midnight Christopher leaned over to her: “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “Very well.”

  Actually she was relieved. It seemed to her now that Mrs. Carter looked different, her face thinner, foxier and more avid, and George, too, his slightly bald head glistening, looked at her mockingly. Christopher was breathing heavily. She got him down to their suite and switched on the lights. In the bright glare Christopher looked dreadful.

  “You don’t like them,” she wailed, her head going round and round.

  “No, I don’t.”

  She burst into tears and sat down on a chair. Christopher stood watching her. “I did so want it to go well,” she sobbed. “And you didn’t even dance with me. I wanted to be gay with you and laugh and you spoiled it all. And I don’t care what you say about Mrs. Carter,” though as she said it, she could remember the foxiness of that sharp-nosed face.

  “Do you know who she is? She’s Baird’s partner. They’ve been working the boats together for years.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Ask her.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  Christopher covered his face with his hands. “They want something,” he said after a while. “I don’t know what, but they want something. She didn’t strike up an acquaintance with you for nothing.” Abruptly he went into his own room and locked the door. She heard the sharp click of the lock cutting through the fuzzy uproar that shut in her whirling head. She went to her own room.

  *

  When she came to in the middle of the night, she heard him screaming. She sat up in bed, in the darkness, shivering from head to foot, but the sound was not repeated. She stumbled out of bed and went into the sitting-room. She could hear him thrashing about. She went over to the door and knocked, but there was no answer. She tried the handle, but the door was still locked. She rattled it stupidly. Her eyes hurt. The room was stifling. The windows were shut. She went automatically to the porthole and tried to open it, but it was stuck. Rubbing her arms with her hands, she struggled back into her own room and lay down on the bed until unconsciousness claimed her.

  When she woke it was with the feeling of being at the bottom of a trench. Her head ached unmercifully. She got up and hurried into the salon. It was empty, but Christopher’s door was open. She went in. He was not there. The bed was a hopeless tangle of blankets and sheets. She went over and felt it: it was slippery with sweat, and the pillow was broken on the floor. Then something caught her eye. She stooped painfully and picked up a little bottle. It was a cylinder of green glass with a black top, and it was empty. In it there were traces of a white powder. She stuck her finger into the bottle and licked it. The powder was flaky and tasted bitter. She held the bottle before her, reading the label. It had a San Francisco address. The instructions were typed in blue. There was a doctor’s name, and she noticed that the “r” on the typewriter had jumped badly.

  There was a sweet smell in the room. She stood there blankly staring at the bottle, and then kicked it back under
the bed. She went back to her own room, dressed as quickly as she could, and went to search the ship. She could not find him until she thought of the dispensary. She hurried down the corridor, and found Christopher leaning against the wall by the dispensary door. He looked at her vaguely, and she saw that his irises were shrunken to points.

  “I was worried sick,” she said.

  ‘I’m all right.” He pulled himself up and put an arm around her, squinting at her. “I just had too much to drink and thought I’d get something for it, that’s all. Were you really worried?”

  “I was terrified.”

  He squeezed her arm and smiled, but he would not look at her. “You see, it wasn’t anything much,” he said, still abstracted. “I feel better already.”

  “I won’t see them any more.”

  “See who?”

  “Cora and George.”

  “Oh,” he said. “We’ll see them, I expect. Do you mind going to breakfast alone?”

  She hesitated, and then went off to breakfast. It was a miserable meal. Nor did she see Mrs. Carter or Baird. She did not see them even when they landed. She did not care. She was too worried about Christopher.

  XVIII

  They landed at Hong Kong on a Monday. Sally looked across the narrowing stretch of water, and saw rushing at her the snores of another continent, and of another world, beautiful, misty, and crowded, a world in which both she and Christopher would be strangers. Even Christopher seemed to look down with a singular thoughtfulness. She watched the sampans in the harbour. As the boat came to dock all the beauty vanished and she found herself staring at tiers of shattered tenements, full of the squalor of bad smells, and at an endless crowd of swarming hands and faces.

  “It frightens me,” she said, feeling for the first time the full weight of Asia. “They look at you so, and yet it’s as though you didn’t exist.”

  *

  It was afternoon before they cleared through the customs, and were skimming across the Canton river, so wide that she did not realize that it was the mouth of a river at all. Christopher hung on the rail, watching the water lessen between them and the farther shore. In the late afternoon light the blue and purple ridges softened into graduated silhouettes, like those of a Chinese painting.