The Puzzleheaded Girl

by Christina Stead

  “A beautiful girl like you! You’re going to forget all that. You’ll be all right, baby. This is just a black spot.”

  He made some food for them. Neither of them ate much; they drank milk. He began to tell her all his plans, the money he would make, what he owed his wives, the money needed still for the Mercedes, the money he expected from the sale of the Renault; what he did with his cheques. It grew late and she did not seem to be listening. “What are you thinking about, baby?”

  “I’m sorry I did not bring the souvenirs.”

  He made her promise not to go back for them when he was away.

  He continued, “The lawyers, the doctors want money. Sully wants one thousand dollars to have her teeth fixed. And Barby wants money. I have to go to Germany to get my car, it’s the best way. And then I must go to England. I am so worried, so overworked, so short of money. I’m afraid of a nervous breakdown. And it’s only the thought that you are here, that you’re going to marry me and that you’ll be here waiting for me while I’m away that will keep me going. I have always kept my head clear. My work has always cured me. But there is so much to do. I am disappointed about this Hammond affair. I could have made thousands out of it. But everyone is going to pull his punches. A triple assassination, international implications; and you’ll see, it’ll fizzle out. So, dear, I have got to get to London and to Rome to earn our bread. And I only hope they don’t find a skeleton under a tree in the Forest of Fontainebleau tomorrow morning. I’d have to do it and, even if it’s a missing young English girl, it’s only good for one article and in a second-rate magazine at that.”

  He went on talking, telling her his troubles. She rested her head on the back of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap.

  Suddenly, she laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, George. It is the time of night Mother often comes home. It used to be from meetings. She was a very good women’s organizer. Now it’s from work, some night job she has. Sometimes she stays there all night, when she’s doing two shifts. It was like that in the war too. She couldn’t get back. She has fine hands: she was doing some job only women can do. I never get to sleep. I’m sleepy, ready to go to bed; then Mother comes in, and we begin to giggle; then I’m not sleepy and we stay up half the night. That’s when the Doc has to flop downtown. He used to flop with the Deans.”

  George asked questions and, after a few more words, went back to his typewriter, placed on a little pine table in the entry under a naked electric bulb.

  “I’ve got a few hours,” he said; “I can get on with a refugee chapter.”

  After a long time, he looked and saw her looking very tired. “Poor girl! I’ll make some tea.”

  “George, take me with you to England. Don’t let me stay here. I’d like to see England.”

  “No, love. I must travel around and I have not time.”

  “I might go and see the Deans.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m tired,” she said, “because I went to various tourist agencies this afternoon, and I ended up at Cedok to ask about rates to Czechoslovakia. I’ve written to my parents to come over and we’ll go there and then I could go home with them. But I think they spent all their money on their new business. I guess they have none and I’m on my own.”

  “But you’re going to marry me. I have to get proofs of my previous divorces, that is all.”

  “It would be nice to have a place to stay, not move from hotel to hotel; and I’d like to work with you, George. But I don’t think I’m right for you. I don’t believe in marriage or having children or anything. I’m too old.”

  “How old are you?” he said sharply.

  “Oh, twenty-two; but I’ve been around. I don’t think it would last five years. So why would I get into all that trouble for nothing? Perhaps I’d better go home.”

  George said, in a weary tone, “We’ll talk it over in the morning. I have to get my car, and then I can take you with me. Did you ever drive a car?”

  “My father was going to give me a car.” She paused, reflected, and added, “No, he didn’t say that. It was someone else.”

  “I’ll take you with me when I get the Mercedes. I’ll teach you to drive. Barby was a wonderful driver. I’ll take you everywhere. You’ll really see Europe, not from a motorbike.”

  In the morning he left early, excited and joyful about the German car. He gave her money, addresses, the key to the garage. “Lock the door at night. Don’t let anyone in. I know Barby is in Paris or just going to fly in. When I get back I’ll finish the refugee book. That will solve my problem. You go out and look at wedding-dresses. And stay here, baby, stay here, won’t you?”

  He kissed her with tears in his eyes. “You can read all my letters. And I may telephone you to find out what my lousy agent is doing. I’m furious with her and I wrote her a blistering letter.”

  Two days later he was back with the Mercedes, shouting about what the French had done at the frontier; it had taken hours. The wine was running out of their fingers, noses and eyes; some had admired it, others insulted the German car. He had to leave at once for England. He drove her around a bit, then gave her the keys, took his little bag and flat typewriter and went back to the airport.

  He wrote, telegraphed and telephoned her; there was no reply. He returned at the end of ten days, found no one; and the grocer next door said no one had been in for several days; he had not seen mademoiselle. George sat down to his work. His first dispatch took him all day. Then he took the Metro to the Sorbonne quarter. He searched all the morning and found no trace of Linda. He returned home, ate some bread and began on another article. Days passed. It was one of the most miserable weeks of his existence. He started at noises, there were tears in his eyes, his stomach pained him. But he went on working and mailing what he had written. He stuck so close to his work that he had not yet used the big fast car which meant so much to him. When he had time, he found that he had not the garage or car keys. Linda had taken them with her, probably. Some of her luggage was missing. He sat down; he did not know what to do.

  One afternoon she came up the stairs looking very travel-worn. She was carrying two bags.

  “Linda! Where have you been?”

  “In Spain,” she said and sat down. “I had a good time.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve of people who went to Spain.”

  She did not answer. She seemed exhausted. He got her some food and put her bags in his own room. “You must go in now and sleep. But give me the keys. Have you got the keys?”

  “I just got back,” she said. “It was tiring and I had no food. I just had some pills.”

  “Pills?”

  “The boys gave me. I met some boys at the American Express when I went for my mail. They were American boys who had been here a long time. We got to talking. They said they were going to Spain; and you said something about Spain, Algeciras, the pirate ships. So I told them and they thought it was interesting. We had all got some money from our parents, so we bought a kilometrico, that’s a mileage-ticket. You can travel all over on the railroads up to a certain mileage. We bought a lot of mileage. They gave me the kilometrico for us three, to keep safe. One of the boys didn’t like me at all. If I accidentally touched his knee or elbow, he’d pull away and make a face. And when we got to Tangier, he quarrelled with me; and I left them and went with another boy to the Casbah. I didn’t know it was the Casbah or what it was. It was all right. But I don’t like the people.”

  “What would your parents say to that, going to the Casbah?”

  “Oh, I don’t write them everything. It takes too long; and they don’t know. But they’re on my side.”

  “Linda, you take too many chances.”

  She seemed surprised. “Why? I was with a boy I knew. Everyone’s very nice.”

  “How long have you known this boy?”

  “Oh,” she said dreamily, “I met him. He was a nice boy. I got back to Algeciras, I think that’s it, with the two boys and I still had their kilometrico; and t
here I lost them. There was no restaurant car, so they went for some bread and missed the train. So I used up the kilometrico myself. I went to Barcelona and Madrid. I fell asleep in the train. I was hungry and thirsty and no one had anything, so I went to sleep. While I was asleep someone took out of my valises all my valuables, some South American jewellery my father brought me and my clothes and a leather belt with turquoises in it and a lot of things. I don’t think it was the passengers.”

  “It could have been the customs officers, or the train police,” said George indignantly. “Every tramp gets into government service, then they starve, then they steal. They have to steal to eat.”

  “Well, it could be. The people are very nice. But there’s something funny about me,” she said laughing. She had recovered her spirits since the meal. “If they come into the carriage, they just look at me and say, Show your passport; or, Open your bags. They pick on me always and no one else. They all thought I could speak Spanish because with my five words of Spanish I have a good accent. Spain is terribly poor.” She mused. “In Barcelona I tried to locate a hotel, asking cops and other people and I couldn’t understand anything they said. But two Spanish men found me a hotel and took me out for a drive in a horse-carriage the next day. We were driving for hours; and I didn’t know where we were. They showed me everything; only I didn’t understand. They paid for my dinner and took me home and the next day I found they had also paid my hotel bill.”

  “Did they go up to your room?” asked George sternly.

  “No, it was on the level. They didn’t even ask.” She laughed boyishly. “And of course, there was an agente in the hotel lobby when I came down. Then I found out I was followed; they knew all about me. I didn’t like that. So I came back. I had no money left.”

  “What became of the boys? You had their kilometrico.”

  “I don’t know what they did. I don’t know if they got back. The Embassy can send them home.” She said dolefully, “I thought my parents would come while I was away. I must go for my letters. We can go over tomorrow in the Mercedes.”

  “Yes, I’ll take you.”

  She became sombre. “My parents broke up my home. They were fixing a business in Canada and Mexico and they were planning to go to Europe and never told me. My father said I was old enough to be on my own.”

  “Linda! Have you got the keys—the keys I gave you, the car keys—”

  “Oh, yes. Where can they be?” She searched and thought. “I didn’t take them with me. I’m sure of that.”

  George flew into a frenzy: they searched his quarters. He became morose and near to tears. “Baby, you must learn, you must grow up! My darling, that is to earn my living. I need a fast car. To get there first, do my type of work, I need the Mercedes.”

  She was contrite, searched everywhere. “I know I’ll find it, George.”

  George cooked bacon and eggs, they drank caffeineless coffee, and, quite worn out, they went to bed, Linda for the first time sharing George’s narrow cot. It was not long before she was on the floor beside the cot, wrapped in a blanket and a coat. “You are not comfortable: come back, come back,” he said.

  “No, no, leave me alone. I like sleeping on the floor, it keeps my back straight, I feel calm.” He looked over to her.

  “What a long girl with long feet!”

  She laughed, “Yes, my feet stick out.”

  George did not sleep for a long time. Hours later he awoke in the cold and heard sounds. He thought Linda was laughing to herself, and he waited a while; then he realized that she was crying quietly. He said nothing for some time thinking it would cease and he need take no notice; but presently he reached down and touched her shoulder.

  “What is the matter? Are you cold? Come back here.”

  She got up and got into the cot, and wept on his breast. “Why, my darling? You miss your parents? Your friends?”

  She turned over and said in a youthful voice, trustingly, “Why must it be? Is that all? Isn’t there anything else? It was all right, when I was a child, and when I was growing up—it always seemed there was something. Now, now—” She began to sob and could hardly speak. “There isn’t anything—there’s nothing!” He let her cry for a while, then turned his back, muttering, “I have to get some sleep, I must get up early, I’m sorry, darling. I must sleep.” And he did soon sleep.

  But in the morning he awoke very early, about five and began thinking about the lost keys. He got up at once, and made breakfast for them both and began to search. As he searched he became more anxious and began to think of the money spent on the car, and of his present assignments which he could not work at because of his worry. At breakfast he began to plead with Linda, “Think, honey, stand in the middle of the room, there, and try to think where you put them. I must have the car. I am behind with Sully’s alimony, I should have sent it to her, but I spent it on the car because I need the car. My agent is sitting on my cheques and if anything urgent comes up, like the Hammond affair, I must have it. I need to make ten thousand dollars right away to get out of my muddle. I won’t live in a muddle. I’ve always been hard-working, decent, temperate, I’ve never spent money on myself—only on women, on my wives—and I can’t stand this muddle. If this goes on, I shall have to sell the Mercedes, but the girls in Rome are selling my Renault. I should have to buy a new one—I’ll never put up again with the wretched little French tin can. Of course I make it go! I’m a good driver. I’ve driven a Renault all over Europe and to the borders of Asia! Wait till the mail comes, you’ll see there’ll be something in it. I may have to go straight off to Nancy or Berne or Nice and I must have a good car. It’s not for swank. I need it. No, stand up there, my darling, or—how do you think best?—lie down there—and concentrate.”

  Linda did as he asked but could not remember. “Oh, you are so scatter-brained! American girls are terrible!” She lay there and fell asleep. He covered her up and paced about. When she awoke he had thought of other dangers, miseries. He harassed her. “You will see, this is a bad omen. I must write and explain the whole thing and try to get duplicate keys. I shall have to break in the garage door and pay for it.” He stopped short, stood and stared at her. “Linda, my girl! Have you sold the car?” She was astonished.

  “No. I never thought of it.”

  “Barby would—that would be the first thing,” he lamented. “You are sure the car is there? I must go round at once.” He left her and while he was away, she got ready, took her overnight bag and handbag, took the Metro and crossed Paris to the American Express. There was a letter for her with fifty dollars from her parents. She went back to the Latin Quarter and tried to get back her old room, which had the posters in the bathroom. It was taken, so she moved into a tiny room in the attic in the same hotel, the hotel-keeper promising her that room as soon as it was empty. He was fond of her. She could see he desired her and expected a return. She smiled at him with understanding each time she passed, but she was wondering whether she could not go away somewhere to avoid this entanglement, and she went around the quarter to the places that knew her, looking for someone. She did not mind that they greeted her strangely, jocularly, coldly. She always smiled eagerly and began to chat as with old friends. She was sad if they had forgotten her—too many customers, a new waiter—and began at once to make new friends, to be sure they would think of her.

  George called at the hotel, judging she might have returned to her souvenirs, hidden in the wall, but the hotel-keeper told him that he not seen mademoiselle for nearly two months.

  “She owes me rent. I was really mad to trust an American girl.”

  George answered him angrily and left; but, coming back, gave him his address and giving him some money, begged him to give him any news of Linda.

  “She’s my fiancée: we are going to be married.”

  “I understand,” said the man with a peculiar smile. George did not know what it meant and was short with the man, having a poor opinion of hotel-keepers, knowing that most of them were informers
, had to be, had a police function.

  When George was some way off the man called him, “Monsieur!”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw her in Furstemberg Square with these women.”

  “What women?”

  The man did not reply, but gave George a hard persistent look.

  “What do you mean?” said George.

  “If you spend some time around the quarter, no doubt you will see them,” said the man shrugging his shoulders. “They are well-known ladies.” And the man burst out into a bitter jeering laugh.

  “You must tell her to come to see me. She has my keys,” cried George; “it’s no joke. I can’t open the garage; I can’t drive my car. I’m in a terrible state and my work is being held up; I’m weeks behind. It’s two months already, that I’ve been like this. Two months ago, she went off and took all my keys. I saw her for one day, and she went off again.”

  “Ah, yes, one can’t do anything with these mad children,” said the man, indifferently. “They’re barbarians, terribly savage, in a state of nature. There’s no education over there; and the parents—the parents are worse than the children. Monsieur—”