The Story

by Victoria Hislop

  ‘I don’t know—’ Celia said. ‘Maybe I feel guilty—’

  ‘Guilty, that is nothing. This is not your husband, only a stupid, jealous spirit. But I think perhaps there is some object that he has given to you, and through this he has power to come to you when he desires.’

  Involuntarily, Celia glanced at her left wrist; at Dwayne’s mother’s gold watch. Madame Miri followed her gaze. ‘So that is his?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes; well, it was his mother’s.’

  ‘So, even worse. In it, her power is joined to his. I understand well now.’ She nodded several times.

  ‘You think I shouldn’t wear this watch when I go out with someone?’

  ‘Never you should wear it,’ Madame said solemnly. ‘It is dangerous to you always. Give it to me; I will take care of it.’

  Somewhat stunned by this development, Celia did not move.

  ‘You must hold to persons; not to things,’ said Madame Miri, putting out her hand.

  Slowly, Celia unfastened the gold-mesh band and placed her Cartier watch in Madame’s broad black-rimmed apricot-tinted palm, where it looked strangely small.

  ‘But if it’s so dangerous,’ she said, watching what she had come to think of as her property disappear into Madame’s fist. ‘I mean, if you have the watch, won’t he come to you?’

  Madame Miri laughed. ‘If he comes, let him come. He will have a large surprise, will he not?’ She laughed again, more fully. ‘Don’t derange yourself, ma petite,’ she said gently. ‘I know how to deal with such as him, je te le jure.’

  Five months later, Celia Zimmern and Charles Fenn were married in the garden of the American Embassy in Goto. There were well over a hundred guests; strings of coloured lanterns – ruby, sapphire, topaz, and jade-green – laced the tropical evening; fireworks were set off beside the pool. Madame Miri, who had created Celia’s spectacular white tulle and lace wedding dress from a Givenchy pattern, sat at one end of the long head table, resplendent in vermilion silk brocaded in gold, with a matching fantastically folded headdress.

  ‘A day of joy,’ she said when Celia, circulating among the company, stopped beside her. ‘I see that all is well with you.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Celia looked at Madame again. On both broad, glowing mahogany arms she wore a mass of gold bangles; among them was the gold Cartier watch. But that’s mine, Celia wanted to say; then she faltered, realising that the statement was false, and that anyhow this was the wrong time and place for it; that perhaps there would never be a right time or place.

  Madame Miri, unembarrassed, followed the direction of her gaze. ‘That one has not appeared again to you, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘No, not since—’ Celia glanced at her own slim wrist, on which there was now only a faint band of untanned skin. Out of practical necessity she had purchased a Timex from the Embassy commissary, but usually kept it in her handbag. ‘Has he appeared to you?’ she added, registering the emphasis in Madame’s phrasing.

  ‘Ah oui; I have seen him, with his little moustache,’ replied Madame Miri. ‘A good appearance, that fellow. But not interesting, no. Jamais. Not like that man of yours there, eh?’ She gave an intimate laugh, bubbly with champagne, and gestured towards Charles, who was also moving among the guests.

  ‘No,’ Celia said, trying to remember if she had ever told Madame Miri that the Wombat had a small moustache. She knew she had told Charles; indeed, a month ago, without really intending to do so, she had found herself telling Charles everything about Dwayne Mudd.

  His reaction, as always, was interested and sympathetic. ‘I think most people see their former lovers sometimes, though not as clearly as you did. I used to see my wife; almost see her anyhow. And if you live in a place like this for a while you’re not surprised by anything.’

  Somehow after that Celia had at last succeeded in forgetting Dwayne Mudd. But now, dizzied by happiness and champagne, she imagined him as a fretful ghost eternally bound to Goto, a country he would probably have deplored and detested – he hated what he called ‘the sticks’. She even wondered if he were present this evening, invisible and inaudible except to Madame Miri.

  ‘Do you think Dwayne’s at the party, then?’ she asked, glancing round uneasily, and then back at Madame Miri. In the jewelled light of the paper lanterns Madame looked larger and more formidable than ever. What she really resembled, Celia thought, was the female of the pair of larger-than-life mahogany figures in the local museum. Heavy-limbed, heavy-lidded, they had been roughly carved a century or more ago; they were identified on their label as Gardes des portes de l’enfer – guardians of the gates of Hell.

  ‘No.’ Madame Miri shook her turbaned head slowly, so that her heavy earrings swayed. ‘He is not here.’ She was no longer laughing. ‘He has gone where he should go.’ She pointed down, towards the earth. But then she smiled and raised her glass. ‘Do not think more of him, chérie,’ she told Celia. ‘He will not trouble you again.’

  The Watch Trick

  Jennifer Egan

  Jennifer Egan (b. 1962) is an American writer. She has published short fiction in The New Yorker and Harper’s, and her journalism appears frequently in The New York Times Magazine. Egan’s novel A Visit from the Goon Squad won the 2011 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

  Sonny drove his boat straight into the middle of the lake and cut the engine. They rocked in silence, the deep, prickling hush of a Midwestern summer. The lake was flat as a rug, pushed against a wall of pale sky.

  The four of them were celebrating Sonny’s engagement to Billie, a girl with soft hair and a Southern accent. She kept to herself, leaning back in a chair with her legs propped on the rail. She had met Sonny the week before, at a party before her own wedding to someone else. This turn of events would have been more shocking in some lives than it was in Sonny’s; he was a man who lived by his own egregiousness, who charmed, offended, and was talked about at other people’s dinner parties. Stealing a bride was right up his alley.

  Diana watched Sonny measure, shake, and pour martinis with the ease of a cardsharp shuffling. She was forty-two, with a worn, pretty face. Her husband, James, sat beside her, looking amused. He and Sonny had been best friends since the army. James leaned back and looked from Sonny to his bride. ‘So tell us how you two happened,’ he said.

  Sonny just grinned, his eyes fine and vacant as crystal.

  Billie swung down her legs and leaned forward, animated for the first time that day. In two sips she had finished half her martini. ‘Let me tell,’ she said. ‘I’m dying to.’

  On the night before her wedding, she explained, her father had thrown a party aboard an old steamboat. Sonny had pursued her, flirting openly whenever he found her alone, eyeing her from a distance the rest of the time. Late in the evening they were standing alone on the deck when abruptly he took off his gold Rolex, held it up in the moonlight, and threw it in the water: ‘Baby, when I’m with you,’ he said, ‘time just stops.’

  Billie narrowed her eyes as she spoke. She was very young, and strands of roller-curled hair spiraled like ribbons down her back. ‘I’m like, please,’ she said, ‘could you possibly be more corny? But’ – and here she seemed to struggle, reaching for Sonny’s hand – ‘it was like when you’re half asleep and you hear voices, you know, from the real world, and you just think, No, I want to stay asleep and have this dream.’

  She paused and tried to catch their eyes, but James and Diana were looking as far away as possible. They’d been hearing the story for years in various forms – from the Hawaiian tour guide Sonny fell in love with while gazing at the view from Kaala Peak, threatening to jump unless she agreed to come back to Chicago with him; from the astrologer who had obsessed him from the moment she divined that his mother had been killed in a small plane crash when Sonny was five. This very boat – a 34-foot Chris-Craft flybridge – he had bought twelve years before in the certainty that he would marry a professional water-skier he’d seduced the previous night. That was Sonny: mu
sic, a few drinks under his belt, the light falling a certain way, and any pretty waitress might receive a declaration of love, an impassioned lecture on their two converging fates. If she was smart, she would laugh it off and bring him his change. Not that Sonny didn’t mean it – he could mean almost anything. But his attention span was short.

  ‘So we escaped in a lifeboat,’ Billie concluded. ‘Daddy was mad as hell.’ She grinned irrepressibly now, a young, mischievous girl whose life had taken a sudden turn for the thrilling.

  ‘That’s quite a story,’ James said, with a sly look at Diana.

  Sonny mixed another round of drinks. It was August, one of those hot, hot days when the sky seems to vibrate. Diana longed to strip down to her bathing suit, but her legs embarrassed her. Veins had risen to the surface in recent years. These seemed more offensive now, in the presence of Billie, who had long, gleaming legs and knees delicate as teeth.

  ‘I hope Daddy will forgive me after Sonny and I get married,’ Billie said, suddenly despondent. ‘And Bobby, too, my fiancé. I’ve known him since the fifth grade.’

  ‘Your ex-fiancé,’ James reminded her.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Ex.’

  James and Diana’s friendship with Sonny had had its perfect moment twenty years before, in the early seventies, when Diana wore short polyester dresses and thick pale lipstick. Sonny would squire them from one Chicago nightclub to the next, and each time they went inside she felt they were expected, that the party could really begin now that they had arrived. In pictures from those days James and Sonny looked surprisingly big-eared and eager. They were typewriter salesmen for IBM, and had started a side business marketing inventions – a solar bicycle, aerosol tanning lotion – that failed one by one and left them nearly bankrupt. In the end James quit and went to law school; Sonny later cashed in on fast-food investments he’d had the prescience to make early on. But in those first days they’d been convinced success was imminent, and would wedge fat cigars between their teeth and talk about the good life. Diana pictured it coming suddenly and with violence, a shock that would leave them reeling. But like so many things, success took longer than they thought to arrive, and by the time it came, it merely seemed their due.

  After a second round of drinks, Diana went down to the cabin. The sun hurt her eyes – it had been like that since she’d started researching her dissertation, ‘Crisis and Catharsis in the Films of Alfred Hitchcock’. She had promised James she would cut down the hours she spent viewing, but lately she found that everything in her life – the telephone calls, the endless, hopeful pounding of their son Daniel’s basketball against the garage door as he struggled to match his father, the bills and invitations – seemed like nothing but distractions from Hitchcock’s tense, dreamlike world, where even the clicking of heels was significant. Diana often felt weirdly nostalgic as she watched, as if her own life had been like that once – dreamy, Technicolor – but had lost these qualities through some misstep of her own.

  James came down to the cabin. He glanced up toward the deck, smiling, and shook his head. ‘Nothing changes,’ he said.

  ‘Am I crazy,’ Diana said, ‘or is it more romantic this time?’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ James said.

  ‘I guess it’s always romantic when two people fall in love,’ Diana mused. ‘Even if it turns out not to be real.’

  ‘Turns out!’

  ‘Well, never was.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since the last one,’ James said, washing his hands in the sink. ‘I thought maybe he was outgrowing it.’

  ‘Oh, let’s hope not!’ Diana said.

  James gave her an odd look, then opened the small refrigerator and peered inside it. He’d been a star basketball forward at the University of Michigan, and still had the ropey limbs and urgent, visible veins of an athlete. Lately Diana had wakened sometimes in the middle of the night to find James’s eyes wide open. ‘What are you thinking about?’ she would ask repeatedly, nervously, though he writhed under her scrutiny. She was worried he was having an affair, or wishing he were having one.

  ‘You know,’ she said, moving near him, ‘today makes me think of the old days.’

  ‘Me, too,’ James said. He was tossing things into a bowl: mayonnaise, ketchup, Tabasco, chopped celery.

  Diana watched his face. ‘We’ve changed since then,’ she said. ‘More than Sonny.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ James looked up, meeting her eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She had noticed that she and her husband were more affectionate in public than in private nowadays, as if the presence of other people relieved some pressure between them. ‘I mean, back then,’ she said, ‘how do you think we expected our lives to turn out?’

  James picked up an egg and rolled it from one palm to the other a few times, then set it gently on the counter.

  ‘We were kids,’ he said.

  Years before, while she and James were dating, Diana had once been seduced by Sonny. At the time she was twenty-three and fresh out of Smith. Sonny didn’t like her. She’d been trying for weeks to win him over, but he seemed hardly to notice. She and James were staying on Lake Erie at the house Sonny had borrowed that summer, and while James made crayfish stew for dinner in the main house, Diana brought Sonny a Scotch in the cabin he used as a painting studio. He painted copies: Pollock, Motherwell, Kline, de Kooning – anything really, as long as it was abstract (he drew badly). He worked from small reproductions cut from the pages of books, and his results were uncannily good. They filled the walls of his Clark Street apartment, and first-time visitors were astonished by the daunting collection he seemed to have amassed.

  Sonny surprised Diana that day by looking pleased to see her. It was raining, and while she shook the drops from her hair, Sonny shut the door behind her and lifted the drink from her hand. He sipped, then handed it back for her to share. ‘I’m pretty hard on James’s girlfriends,’ he observed.

  ‘I’ve noticed. Is that a policy?’ She was nervous, and held the glass in both hands.

  ‘I keep the boundaries clear, nobody gets the wrong idea,’ he said.

  It took Diana a moment to understand. ‘God, it’s not like anyone would,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’re James’s best friend.’

  ‘That’s why it scares me.’

  He went to the window and looked outside at the rain. Diana sipped his drink, relieved it was only this he’d had against her, not something worse.

  ‘You think I should relax about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Sonny, you have to promise.’

  She crossed the room and stood beside him. She had finished the Scotch, and now she felt loopy, bold. Setting the glass at her feet, she took Sonny’s hand. ‘Friends?’ she asked.

  He nodded, then shyly put his arms around her. As they hugged, Diana teased herself, imagining what it would be like to make love to Sonny. Then he drew back, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

  Diana was as stunned as if he had slapped her. Gently she tried to pull away, but Sonny was running his palms along her back and kissing her neck as if this were all something they had agreed on. She tried to take it as a joke. ‘I’ve heard of self-contradiction,’ she said, ‘but this is outrageous.’ Sonny didn’t pause, and as the moments passed, Diana felt drawn in by his fierce arousal, by the very fact that something so unthinkable was actually happening. The feeling was not quite desire, but something like it. It held her still while Sonny eased her onto the concrete floor, pushing a folded rag behind her head. She was crying by then, and tears ran from her eyes into both ears. She pulled Sonny to her, hooking her fingers over the thick ridges of muscle along his spine. He felt heavy and strange in her arms. His belt buckle struck the concrete – once, then again, over and over again with a thick, blunt sound. She closed her eyes at the end. When Sonny was done he stood up, slapped the dust from his hands, and picked up his paintbrush. Diana touched the floor beneath her, thinking she might have bled, though there was n
o reason. She ran through the rain back to the house, convinced her life would never be the same.

  But nothing happened. No mention of the incident was ever made, and Sonny never again laid a hand on her except in the most benign affection. Only one thing changed: he liked her after that. It was as if she had passed some test or – and she tried not to think about this – as if she were partly his. What troubled her most was that she couldn’t forget it; not Sonny himself so much as the paintbrushes soaking in their jars of cloudy water, the rolls of unstretched canvas, each detail bringing with it an ache of longing that still haunted her sometimes.

  When Diana returned to the deck, Sonny and Billie were on the flybridge. ‘This baby measures depth,’ Sonny said, and sipped his drink. ‘There’s where you pump out the bilge.’

  ‘What’s a bilge?’ Billie asked.

  She was wearing a captain’s hat, and Diana wondered if it was the same one her son, Daniel, used to wear as a little boy when they took him out on this boat. He was Danny then, and although he cringed to hear it now, Diana secretly preferred the childish name. He would sit on the tall seat, the hat nearly covering his eyes, and swing his legs while Uncle Sonny let him steer the boat. Sonny always kept one hand on the wheel; for all his recklessness, he’d been careful with Danny. ‘Kid, I’m raising you for the fast lane,’ he’d say.

  Diana went to the stern and gazed at the lake. She was jealous of Sonny and Billie, though clearly this was absurd – they’d be lucky to last out the week. Yet in a sense it was this she envied: the fantasy, its tinge of the illicit. She stared toward shore and tried to block out Sonny’s voice. A narrow strip of land was barely visible through the haze, yet it seemed, for a moment, to hold out some whispery promise – tennis courts, gin and tonics, secret, sweaty unions behind flowerbeds… Lord, what was wrong with her?

  When James came up on deck, Sonny pulled a bottle of champagne from an ice chest and popped the cork. Billie held the glasses while he poured, champagne spilling over her fingers and along the frosted stems.