The Self-Enchanted

by David Stacton

  “Where’s that husband of yours?” she demanded. “Come outside and meet Colonel and Mrs. Blair.”

  “I should wait for Christopher.”

  “He’ll find you. We won’t be hard to miss,” said Mrs. Carter, and led the way outside.

  Lined up in the bright sunlight before the hotel were two cars. They were both roadsters and both American. In the front one sat two people, obviously Colonel and Mrs. Blair. In the second car, surrounded by wicker baskets, sat two Chinese houseboys, perched very erect in white jackets, their faces blank. At the wheel was a hired driver.

  “Get in the back, dearie,” said Mrs. Carter, opening the door of the first car for her. Sally got in and sat down. The rear seat was cramped. “Sally, dear, this is Colonel and Mrs. Blair, from Marion, Arkansas. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

  “How do you do,” said Colonel Blair, and Mrs. Blair said: “Pleased to meet you.”

  Sally tried to make small talk with them, but they did all the talking. They were enchanted with Macao, because it was so wicked; and they didn’t know what they would have done without Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Blair was a fat, podgy woman heavily covered with powder and perspiring in the sun. Colonel Blair was lean and stringy, with a licentious little laugh and naughty eyes, whose chief joke it was that he was always putting something over on his wife. Mrs. Blair’s name was May.

  “What on earth is keeping that husband of yours?” asked Mrs. Carter. “We can’t wait all day. We’ll have to go without him. We have to pick up George, and the whole day will be gone before we even get there.”

  “Do you know George, Mrs. Barocco?” asked Colonel Blair. “He’s a wonderful guy. Shrewd, too.”

  Sally looked towards the entrance and saw Christopher appear. While she watched him he straightened up and came down the stairs. He looked rapidly at the car and seemed relieved.

  “Get in,” said Mrs. Carter, at the wheel. “We can’t wait all day.”

  Christopher got in and Mrs. Carter made the introductions. She was clearly annoyed. She threw the car into gear with a sudden jerk and they were off.

  “Quite a caravan,” said Christopher.

  “Mrs. Carter believes in doing things in style,” Colonel Blair approved.

  “So I see,” muttered Christopher. He sat back against the seats. Sally leaned forward, listening to Mrs. Blair ramble on about the superior advantages of Hong Kong, where at least the people spoke English. Mrs. Carter was not a relaxing driver. She drove the car recklessly and expected people to get out of her way. She honked her horn, approaching a crowd of Chinese, and it scattered in alarm. Beside Sally Christopher closed his eyes.

  Mrs. Carter stopped the car abruptly before a building on a side street and everyone lurched forward.

  “What the devil,” said Christopher, his eyes wide open.

  “We have to pick up George,” said Mrs. Carter. “I couldn’t leave him behind. He’s mad to see China.” She put the heel of her hand on the horn and the raucous squeal got on Sally’s nerves. George came out of the building and jumped into the car.

  “Do you have to make that racket?” he asked angrily. “There’s no need for the whole world to know our business.”

  “Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,” snapped Mrs. Carter.

  “You’d better let me drive.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Where are those damn boys?”

  At that moment the other car appeared round the corner. Mrs. Carter swerved out into the street and turned down it, until she reached the Praia Grande. “Now remember, everybody,” she said, “we’re going to a funeral, so look solemn.”

  Glancing behind her, Sally saw that the boys in the other car had propped upright a large floral wreath with the enlarged picture of some bespectacled Chinese in the middle of it. She turned around, bewildered.

  “No idea who he is,” said Colonel Blair, “but I thought it looked authentic. Nothing like a little realism.”

  Christopher leaned back again and closed his eyes.

  “Feeling ill?” asked Baird, leaning around to squint at Christopher. Sally could see the veins in his high forehead, which gave him a lizard look.

  “Quite well, thank you,” snapped Christopher. He lay with his eyes closed, passively accepting the sun.

  Mrs. Carter narrowly missed a cart, and then they were out of the main traffic and drew up before the Chinese Gate. She stopped the car. The gate was primitive, but solid. On the other side of it lay China. Colonel Blair waggled his finger at one of the Chinese boys, who got out of the car behind. The sun was merciless. Sally could feel her face growing hot, and looked anxiously at Christopher, but he was merely staring at the gate. Colonel Blair got out of the car and went with the boy up to one of the guards and they began to talk. Then he came back and got into the car.

  “The boy’s related to one of the captains, or whatever he is,” he said. “And money’s money.”

  Sally heard Baird let out a long breath. The car manœuvred under the gate, past the blank-faced soldiers in their worn uniforms, and the other car followed. Sally turned and saw the gate receding from them. They were in China.

  “Isn’t it wonderful what you can do when you aren’t supposed to?” giggled Mrs. Carter. “Where do I go now?”

  Baird leaned forward, his arms on the dashboard. “Just go down the road. I’ll tell you when to turn right.” Sally realized that Christopher was watching him closely.

  “Not a pagoda in sight,” said Mrs. Carter. “What a disappointment.” She seemed once more in the best of spirits. Sally looked at the car behind. The floral presentation was wilted and bounced about in the rear seat, propped up by the two boys. There was scarcely a tree in the landscape. The road was narrow and in bad condition.

  “Here,” said Baird suddenly.

  Mrs. Carter made a wild pass at the wheel and the car skittered down a side road which was even bumpier than the one they had been on. They started to descend through a ravine lined with trees. It had been concealed from the road above.

  “You’d better drive in,” said Baird. “We don’t want the cars out in plain sight.”

  Mrs. Carter jerked the car along under a tree. The drooping branches scraped against the windshield. Grabbing the ignition key, she thought for a second, and then dropped it into her purse. The other car pulled up behind them.

  “Isn’t this quaint,” said Mrs. Blair. She got out of the car, glancing around her.

  The cemetery was run down. The wind rustled the trees. There was a wall with an elaborate gate of smeared plaster. They moved forward, followed by the boys, and through the gate. Inside the grass was wild and high, and the horseshoe shaped graves alternated with small wooden crosses, some almost fresh, the ideograms on the others all but obliterated. Looking at the trees, Sally realized that it was autumn. She had not realized that before. She could smell autumn in the air, the smell of decay and leaf-mould, and she thought of the valley. Christopher walked beside her, and she saw that he was looking around him suspiciously. She heard him sigh. He was watching Baird ahead of them.

  “What a wonderful turtle,” cooed Mrs. Blair, catching sight of the placard bearer in front of one of the horseshoes. “Whatever will people think when I tell them I had a picnic in China, in a cemetery. I wish we’d brought a camera, Charles; why didn’t we bring the camera? I told you to bring it.”

  Colonel Blair looked embarrassed.

  “I must say it doesn’t feel like China,” continued Mrs. Blair. “I should think at least they’d have a pagoda.”

  “There are some north of here,” said Baird.

  “I’d love to see a real one.”

  “I think we’d better stay where we are.”

  Mrs. Carter had gone on ahead of them and was standing in the grass, picking burrs from her stockings. “This should do,” she said. “Besides, we’ll be protected from the wind. In the arms of death,” she added, for on either side of her were the walls of a horseshoe. “Isn’t that romantic?” Baird beckone
d to the boys, who spread blankets, and she sat down. “I’m glad that’s over with,” she said flatly.

  Baird glanced at her quickly.

  “The driving, I mean. I like driving, but not through these nasty little streets. It makes me so nervous I could scream.”

  “Cora!”

  Mrs. Carter looked at Baird and shut up. The boys began to bring the wicker baskets. One of them seemed unduly light.

  “Leave it in the car,” said Baird, and muttered something rapidly to the boys.

  “Let’s have a drink,” said Colonel Blair. The sun was bright and he was sweating. The beads of sweat stood out on his wide red forehead. George opened one of the baskets. He squatted down on his heels and Sally wondered why he was so tense. The basket was lined with ice, from which protruded the necks of several bottles.

  “The glasses,” screamed Mrs. Carter. “Tell the boys to unpack the glasses.”

  The boys came and Baird handed them the bottles. Then they all sat on the grass and drank raw burgundy, looking down over the cemetery. The boys served the meal. There was a decent salad, and if Sally had not been so worried about Christopher she would have completely enjoyed herself. At the same time she was aware that something was going on between Mrs. Carter and Baird. In repose, which was not often, Mrs. Carter looked strained and unexpectedly old.

  “I wonder what these things say?” asked Mrs. Blair.

  “Rest in peace. What else do tombstones ever say?” demanded Colonel Blair. He was already slightly drunk.

  Mrs. Blair stood up and looked down across the cemetery. “Oh, look!” she cooed.

  The rest of them looked. Coming into the cemetery at the far end was a procession of mourners, and Sally could see that they bore a small wooden coffin. For a moment they sat in silence, watching the procession halt and lower the coffin to the ground.

  “Another drink?” suggested Colonel Blair.

  Christopher sat watching the coffin, and Sally noticed that Baird was looking at him closely.

  “Gives you ideas, doesn’t it?” said Baird.

  “What?” Christopher seemed startled.

  “Coffins have so many uses,” said Baird, and drifted away to Mrs. Carter.

  “Damn him,” said Christopher. “I’d like to know what he’s up to.”

  Sally did not think he was up to anything.

  “Sally, dear,” called Mrs. Carter. “Do come over here. I want to talk to you.”

  Sally looked at Christopher, and getting up, went over to Mrs. Carter and sat down beside her. Mrs. Carter was also a little drunk. “I don’t think you’re enjoying yourself, dearie,” she said. “It was George’s idea, but I do think for once it was a good one.” She squinted at Sally. “And I want you to enjoy yourself. I want everybody to enjoy himself. I want to enjoy myself. And I am. Isn’t that nice? I am. I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

  “Neither have I,” agreed Sally.

  “Oh, stop worrying about that gloomy husband of yours. Do you think I worry about George? And George is much gloomier than your husband. Sometimes he’s downright sadistic. But I don’t let that spoil my fun. Stand on your own two feet, my dear. Absolutely.” Mrs. Carter nodded at Sally wisely. Sally tried to get away, but Mrs. Carter would not be stopped. She went babbling on. When she finally managed to break away, Christopher was not in view.

  “Do they really put roasted pigs on the graves?” asked Mrs. Blair. “I wonder how they taste.”

  Sally ignored her and walked around the horseshoe. She should not have left him for a moment. She began to search through the cemetery. The grass was dry and brittle underfoot, and the place had a bad odour. She passed the place where the funeral procession had been, but the earth was smooth and the grass still grew on it. The grass had a rank smell.

  Though the sun was so hot, in the shadows it was freezingly cold. Wherever she looked, going more and more quickly, she was followed by the sound of Mrs. Carter and the others. Mrs. Carter’s thin, high-pitched, hysterical laughter bored into her ears, and seemed to haunt the whole cemetery. Mrs. Blair’s sharp explosive yap always followed it. She could hear them laughing drunkenly over the ceaseless restlessness of the trees. She turned her ankle in the grass and winced with pain. Somewhere a car started up, backfiring.

  At last she found him. Turning one of the horseshoes, she saw him inside, leaning against the wall, writhing on the grass. He did not even know she was there. She stood looking at him, and then, despite the pain in her ankle, she ran back to the group on the hill, thinking she would never reach them.

  “What on earth is wrong? Have you seen a ghost?” asked Mrs. Carter. She had been talking to Baird, and did not like to be interrupted.

  “I’ve got to get Christopher back to town. He’s ill.”

  “Just a touch of sun,” suggested Baird.

  She paid no attention to him. “You’ve got to help me, somebody’s got to help me carry him,” she said.

  “But what on earth is it?” asked Mrs. Carter. She looked petulant.

  “Will you drive me back?”

  Mrs. Carter and George exchanged quick glances, and Mrs. Carter bit her lip. “You can take the car, dear,” she said. She fumbled in her purse and took out the keys. “There,” she said. She glanced firmly at Baird.

  George got up languidly. “Come along, Colonel,” he said. “I guess our guest has the megrims.”

  Sally led them down through the cemetery as fast as she could and then round the corner of the wall.

  “My God!” said Colonel Blair, but Baird only looked down at Christopher as though he was amused.

  Somehow they got him back to the cars. Or to the car, for the other was missing. “The boys had an errand,” said Baird, but she only half-listened. “It’s okay. They’ll pick us up on the way back.”

  They got Christopher into the car, and she put in the ignition key.

  “Watch out,” shouted Baird.

  Looking out the window, she saw a coffin half-concealed in the grass, its lid off. She shot the car into gear. Christopher lay beside her, sprawled in the seat. She did not know whether he was conscious or not. His eyes were closed, and his facial muscles twitched. She swerved up the hill and back on to the road. She could scarcely find the way for the clouds of dust billowing up about the car. Then, ahead of her, she saw the gate.

  She had forgotten about the gate. Automatically she slowed down, but she had to get through it, and there was only one thing to do. Biting her lip, she drove the gas pedal to the floor, stepping the car up to sixty, seventy, seventy-five, ignoring everything, and steered right for the gate, honking her horn. It loomed up before her, a massive block of solid masonry with a narrow opening in it. She saw the soldiers. They leapt aside, and closing her eyes for a second, she zoomed through the gateway. Behind her, she could hear them jabbering to one another, but they did not come in pursuit. She jammed on the brakes, to avoid ramming a building, and swung down a street at random, in the general direction of the Praia Grande. Once there, she headed for the hotel. A car pulled out from the porte-cochère, and she stopped right where it had been. She had a momentary picture of the startled doorman.

  “Help me get him inside,” she called.

  The doorman looked at her stupidly.

  “Help me get him inside.”

  The doorman disappeared into the hotel. She ran round to the other side of the car. “Christopher,” she urged, but he would not move. She reached into his pocket and found a small bottle, empty. She shook him desperately. “Christopher.”

  Some men came down the steps to the car, and she ordered them until they got him inside. They took him up the back way. They insisted on it, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Finally she got him up to his room and dismissed the manager, who was worried if he was dying.

  “Of course he’s not dying,” snapped Sally. “But get a doctor.”

  The manager looked at her curtly and went into the other room to phone. She stood alone, looking helplessly down at C
hristopher. At least he was breathing regularly. She found she was still clutching the bottle in her hand.

  XX

  The room was unbearably close. She tried to sit still on a chair, but could not. The doctor was still inside with Christopher. She counted every rose in the elaborate wallpaper, and every leaf in the carpet. At last the bedroom door opened and the doctor came out. His expression was not reassuring.

  “He’s resting now,” he said. In his hand he held the bottle. “He took an overdose of this, apparently. I’m afraid he’s very ill.”

  “How ill?” she demanded.

  He looked at her dubiously. “You’ll have to talk him into getting to a specialist in Hong Kong. There’s a Dr. James there. He’s quite good. I’ve tried to talk to him, but I can’t get anywhere. Perhaps you can.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid it may be cancer of the stomach. Why hasn’t he gone to a doctor before?”

  “He refuses.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to go this time.”

  “Is it that serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. My advice is, get him to Dr. James.” It was impossible for her to tell what the doctor was thinking. “He’s quiet now.” He held out a card. “You can find me here. But get him to Hong Kong as soon as you can.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Better wait for an hour or two. If you have any trouble, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” said Sally, and saw him to the door. When he had gone she went into her own room and sat on the bed. She did not know how she would get him to Hong Kong, but she knew she would manage it.

  She shivered. It seemed to her that death was all around her. She went over and flung open her window. The dance band was playing. Its brassy noise hit her in the face as soon as the window was open. She leaned against the sill, looking out over the twilit hills. Far below her she could hear, over the noise of the band, a clatter of dishes and the sounds of laughter.

  At around ten, when she could wait no longer, she went to his room and opened the door. The room was in darkness, but she could hear him breathing lightly. Closing the door softly behind her, she went over to the bed and knelt down beside it, putting her head on the clothes. Raising her head, she looked at him.