Saturn Over the Water

by J. B. Priestley

  Ignoring the fat woman, who was deep in a brown study smelling of whisky, we peered inside. All that was to be seen was a curtain drawn across the narrow interior, cutting it in half.

  ‘No use thinking of going inside,’ said the fat woman. ‘Ye’d be wasting your time, the pair of ye. He’s someone with him now – an’ I’m waiting to close up, for he’ll see no-one else today an’ I don’t care who it might be. Also, he’s already as drunk as three fiddlers – the crazy old sod. Walk away now, for God’s sake – you’re between me an’ the sun – an’ that’s all there is here in this Never Never – ’ She didn’t get up, for she was deep down in her chair, but she first made a pushing motion and then tried to bar the doorway with one arm. But Rosalia, as if going closer to ask an intimate question, pushed the arm away, and I slipped inside and then pulled back the curtain.

  I saw two men sitting at a small table with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. The man facing me was a watery-eyed old ruin, with the creased and crimson face of the toper and a longish matted beard, the colour of dirty water where it wasn’t stained with nicotine. He was wearing an old shirt, mostly unbuttoned, and sweating into it like a pig. This was hopeless. We’d been had. I muttered some apology and was about to clear out when the man sitting with his back to me turned round and looked up. It was Mitchell. I made some kind of surprise noise, still staring, while the bearded old fraud did a wheezing guffaw and lifted his glass.

  Mitchell jumped up and hurried me out, collecting Rosalia at the door, keeping us going until we were halfway down the other side of the arcade. When he stopped, I began: ‘Look, Mitchell, we were told to find this man, but surely this boozy old faker – ’

  ‘He’s the man you have to meet on the mountain,’ said Mitchell decisively. ‘And this is your only chance. I’m taking him up there now, before he’ll be ready for you. Now look at this map.’ He’d produced a sheet torn from a road map of Queensland, showing the area south of Brisbane. ‘You see these crossroads, at Gamba,’ he went on. ‘I’ll be in a car, waiting for you, about six o’clock. Now if you think there are people following you and getting too close, this is what you do.’ He pointed again. ‘That’s a rain forest, public property, and you can run your car under the trees at the entrance – there – then take the path that goes through – keep to your right always or you may get lost – and I’ll be waiting near where it comes out – there. Get it?’

  We got it. ‘Was it you that set Charoke on fire?’ I asked him.

  ‘I did have a little accident there, yes, after you two had gone,’ said Mitchell. ‘Their time’s running out here, as you’ll see. What are you going to do with the Institute, Rosalia?’

  ‘I want to try to make it work properly. I should like Barsac and Joe Farne to look after it for me.’

  ‘Just the men to do it,’ said Mitchell. ‘In the meantime, look after yourself. And you look after her, Bedford.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I told him confidently. Though what I had to be confident about, I don’t know. ‘But, Mitchell, are you sure this is really the man we want?’

  ‘Yes, I am. And I haven’t time to argue about it. Here’s the map. See you about six.’ And he hurried away.

  We’d had enough of Surfers’ Paradise so we drove on to the next resort, Broadbeach, but kept away from the very big hotel where I’d seen Steglitz and Lord Randlong waiting for a car. Finally, after some dithering about, we decided to lunch at a place called The Golden Grill, attached to a small new hotel, and at least not pretending to be in Tahiti or Hongkong or Gay Paree. The restaurant was small and it was full, but the headwaiter, a New Australian from somewhere in Central Europe, after giving us a long hard look, said that if we’d go and have a cocktail in the bar, he’d find us a table soon.

  The bar was a little place, apparently plaited out of straw, chairs, tables and all, and we had it to ourselves. I had to do some coin rapping on the bar counter before there was any service, and then we had it from a large truculent character, who’d probably come with the straw. He plainly resented any suggestions about how a good martini should be made, and then handed over two of the worst attempts there can ever have been. There was a Sydney paper on one of the tables. Rosalia and I saw the column on the front page at the very same moment. A car driven by Countess Slatina, and carrying General Giddings of the U.S. Army and Sir Reginald Merlan-Smith, of London, had gone off the road just outside Sydney. The two men had been killed at once. Countess Nadia Slatina had suffered very severe injuries and had died later in hospital. Before we’d reached the end of the column, mostly describing the careers of the three victims, the headwaiter sent a message to say he had a table for us.

  It was up a few steps, really on a kind of half-landing on the way into the hotel, behind rails curtained off from the main floor. There was a similar table, where four people were just finishing lunch, in the opposite corner. So it seemed all right, in the circumstances. The waiter was tall and very thin and had a definite squint. He was another New Australian, probably a Hungarian who hadn’t been there long. I mention all these details because they turned out to be important.

  As soon as the waiter had left us, I told Rosalia – we were still feeling rather shaken by the news – how Mrs Baro had ‘seen’ Nadia in hospital, apparently because Nadia had been thinking about me for a moment.

  ‘You hadn’t been her lover, had you?’ said Rosalia, who never hovered around questions of this sort but always came straight out with them.

  ‘No, I hadn’t, though I might have been, if I’d had the chance, when we met first in London.’ I explained about this meeting.

  ‘I’d have understood if you had,’ she said. ‘She was lovely in that kind of super poule de luxe style. But she was frightening when we saw her in that restaurant. Just as if part of her was already dying. Yet when she looked at Barsac and he looked at her – and she was his type, you could see – I felt they both knew they could have had a wonderful life together only it was too late. Darling, she was a good driver. I know. Do you think she went off the road on purpose – to kill herself and them, because she was tired of herself and tired of them?’

  ‘No. Though I think she was tired of herself and tired of them. Merlan-Smith kept her and carried her round with him, but he was a queer, and he lent her to his Saturnian chums like offering them his cigarette-case. But I don’t think she deliberately committed suicide, Rosalia. She just stopped wanting to stay alive. A lot of people get like that. Then they have accidents just as she did. It’s always happening. And I think we all knew the other day, somewhere at the back of our minds, that that accident was on its way. We were saying good-bye to her, I know I was. No, ducky, I was never in love with her. But she was a lot too good to be used up by that Saturnian gang. And that’s what they are – users up of people. They see persons as the rest of us see pork chops.’ I looked her in the eye. ‘You have to be a hundred per cent against them, ducky.’

  We finished eating and I asked the waiter to bring some coffee. The people in the opposite corner had gone, and we had this little half-landing to ourselves. I wanted to smoke a pipe with my coffee, and I found I’d nothing in my pouch but dust. I’d some pipe tobacco in one of my cases in the car, but it would be less trouble to pop out and buy some. I said this to Rosalia while we were waiting for the coffee and before the table had been properly cleared. On my way out – it was late now and the restaurant was almost empty – I told the headwaiter I was going out to buy some tobacco, in case he thought I was running away from the bill. I must have been out of the restaurant about ten minutes. The shop was only in the next block but there were several people waiting to be served and the girl had her mind on other things. After she’d been good enough to hand over a two-ounce tin of navy cut, I hurried back to the restaurant.

  It was just as if I’d gone for some tobacco in one world and somehow brought it into another world, looking almost exactly the same but quite mad. And let me add that this experience is no joke, as anybody who’s be
en through it will agree. It might have been a bit worse for me just then because everything was beginning to wobble on its base and lose any firm outlines. Or did that make it a bit easier? I don’t know, but this is exactly what happened.

  I hurried through the main room, now almost empty, and up the steps. Rosalia wasn’t there at our table. This didn’t worry me because I thought she’d slipped off to the Ladies. The table still hadn’t been cleared properly, but coffee was there – but only for one. I looked around for our waiter, the tall thin one with a squint, and finally saw him below, talking to the headwaiter. I called him, and he came up, apologising for not having cleared the table. I said I didn’t mind about that but that I’d ordered coffee for two. So he must bring another.

  He looked bewildered for a moment. ‘Oh – you have somebody coming, you wish another coffee?’

  I pointed out that two of us had been lunching and we both wanted coffee. I won’t say he looked me in the eye, not with that squint, but he did his best. ‘You ate by yourself,’ he said firmly. ‘Lunch for one. No one else.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She was sitting there.’

  ‘Where?’

  As soon as I pointed, I saw there was nothing to point at. There wasn’t a trace of Rosalia’s having been there, not even a crease in the cloth. I looked at the used plates and cutlery. I’d ended with cheese, Rosalia with fruit, but there was nothing that had been used for fruit, only for cheese. We’d both drunk wine and water, but only the glasses I’d used were there.

  ‘You’ve taken her things away and left mine,’ I said angrily. ‘Now what’s the idea – what do you think you’re doing, man?’

  I must have raised my voice because now the headwaiter came up to us. ‘Is there anything wrong, sir? What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can tell this man I had a girl lunching with me here, that’s all. Just for the record. And so that she can have some coffee.’

  The headwaiter really looked me in the eye. He was a plump smooth character who meant nobody any harm, but he might sell his mother into slavery if the price was right. ‘But you were lunching alone, sir.’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t – and you know it. We came in here and it was full, and you asked us to wait in the bar – ’

  ‘I asked you to wait in the bar, sir. Then I had this table laid for you – just for one – ’

  ‘Nonsense! Where’s that barman – he’ll remember serving us – ’

  ‘The bar is closed now and the man is off duty. Now one moment, sir, please.’ He trotted down to the desk and came back with a bill in his hand. ‘Now here is your bill, sir. As you see – lunch for one.’

  If this was supposed to be the clincher, it didn’t work. Up to that moment I’d really felt we were at honest cross-purposes, perhaps because reality was getting out of control, but somehow as soon as I saw that bill I knew that Rosalia was around somewhere and that this was a trick to confuse me and waste time. While I was thinking this, but before I could speak, our tall squinting waiter now helped to overplay the hand. He had with him an oldish woman who looked stupid but quite honest. ‘This woman is in the Ladies and she’ll tell you herself. Go on.’

  ‘There isn’t any lady in there,’ said the woman. ‘I’m just going off duty now. Don’t need anybody from now till six.’

  ‘And she hasn’t been in?’

  She gave me the wrong answer. ‘No, I’m sure she hasn’t or I’d have noticed – ’

  ‘Noticed what? There isn’t supposed to be anybody or anything to notice – ’

  ‘She is stupid,’ said the headwaiter hastily. ‘You two can go.’ He turned to me. ‘Now, sir, we are closing the restaurant until six o’clock. This is your bill – ’

  I gave him a couple of pounds, then before he could move away I stopped him by taking hold of his coat, quite gently. I was very angry now but quieter and apparently calmer than I’d been before. ‘Where is she?’ I asked, still holding him.

  ‘How can I answer that question, sir, when I can only tell you that you were here alone.’

  ‘That’s your last word, is it?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Well, this is mine – balls.’ And I gave him such a tremendous shove, diagonally down the steps, that I had just time to see him crash into a table below loaded with cold cuts and salads. What happened then I didn’t stay to watch. I hurried across the half-landing and went through the swing-doors into the hotel. I found myself in a curving corridor that looked down through windows into a very wide lounge, facing the sea. I went along to the left, but where the lounge ended there was an office and I could hear the sound of typing. I hurried back and now tried the other side. Here beyond the lounge was a door marked Private, probably belonging to one of those sitting-rooms that some hotel guests feel they must have. The door was closed, and when I tried it quietly I found it was locked. But I could hear a voice coming out of the open transom above. And I couldn’t mistake it. Steglitz.

  I knocked hard, urgently. The door was opened by the large truculent barman. I’d drawn back a little from the door, after knocking, and was ready for action. Before the barman could say or do anything, I charged both the door and him. I’d just time to notice that Rosalia was there before the barman and I got into a rough-and-tumble. He was a bit taller and heavier than I am, but he was only doing a job for a few pounds whereas I’d had my girl snatched from me and had a lot of anger waiting to find release. He was a round-arm swinger, and one of his swings caught me on the side of the head and I felt it for days. It also sent me reeling back, knocking over one of those silly little tables they have in hotel rooms, and then sprawling against the arm of a sofa. But as he came in to jump on me, I threw the little table at him, and when he caught it and threw it at me, I ducked and it smashed into a glass-fronted sideboard. This destruction of hotel property probably had him worrying for a moment. Anyhow it gave me time to move in on him. I hit him as hard as I could in his beer-heavy belly, then as he dropped his hands and brought his head forward and down, I let him have – even with sore knuckles – the best right hook I ever pulled out of the bag. I didn’t knock him out – and I understand now why the old barefist boys could go scores of rounds – but he went rolling back, squinting and gasping, and losing interest. I’d time then to see that Rosalia was not the girl to do nothing but scream or faint on this sort of occasion. The blood of the Arnaldoses and of her Irish-American mother had both risen together, and she’d taken a shoe off and was belting Steglitz with it. I hurried her out, one shoe off and one shoe on. We went further round to the right, along a corridor and down some steps, and found ourselves near the front entrance of the hotel.

  In the car, for we lost no time getting to it and starting off, we told each other what had happened. A few minutes after I’d left, the barman had come from the hotel to say she was wanted on the telephone, and as he knew her name, she was sure I must be ringing her about something urgent. He had taken her to that private sitting-room, where Steglitz was waiting, and he threatened to be very rough with her if she made any attempt to get out. Steglitz was trying to persuade her that we hadn’t a chance. He said that Major Jorvis had arrived, vowing he would have me arrested within the next few hours, for he had the full co-operation of the local police. ‘Was that all Steglitz said?’ I asked. ‘It was all I listened to, darling,’ said Rosalia, who was driving. ‘I was mad with him and called him a lot of nasty names – though some of the best he could not understand because they are special for Peru – not even Spanish. Even when I was angry with you in my studio I did not call you these disgusting names. But then you came bursting in, my darling. It was wonderful – you looked so big and angry. I knew you might be just the man for me,’ she added dreamily. It’s not easy to appear dreamy while driving a car at a fair lick with plenty of traffic around, but Rosalia can do it. ‘I mean, that morning in the studio when you shook me. That’s why I had to take you to the Garlettas’ villa to make sure. And now I’m so sure I don’t have to think about
it. Oh – Tim – have you the map? I haven’t. And I think we turn away from the sea somewhere here.’

  I had the map and we did turn away from the sea, leaving it for the hills. It was now after four and it seemed to me, after working it out on Mitchell’s map, that we had at least eighty miles to go, some of them, taking the short cut he’d indicated, on a minor road probably twisting and climbing among the foothills. The country hadn’t the grey dusty look I’d noticed so often further south. They had rain here and the tropics didn’t seem too far away. Rosalia kept crying out at the sight of some tree or bush on fire with blossom or strangely-coloured leaves. Sometimes we passed clumps of trees with bare straight trunks that went up and up out of sight. But the clear blue of the morning had vanished. The sky that was thickening and darkening above us now was a mixture of sepia and light ochre and dark ochre and a sinister metallic violet.

  The minor road was cut for most of its length into the side of a treeless hill, and when we had zigzagged some way along it, we could see most of the road below us. For some minutes I watched two cars that kept close together always at about the same distance behind us. I told Rosalia they might be following us. She said she had felt for some time we were being followed. We agreed that our best chance of dodging them was to do what Mitchell had suggested – to leave the car under the trees and make our way through the rain forest. This ought to be about ten miles away, on the major road we joined just over the hill.