Fairbairn, Ann

by Five Smooth Stones

  He shifted his attache case and typewriter to one hand, slipped an arm around her shoulders, and spoke in near perfect German to the porter who was carrying his heavier bag.

  "The gift of tongues!" said Sara as they walked toward the entrance of the station. "I was born without it. When I talk the Italians are amused, the Germans are patronizing, and the French sneer. Openly."

  "Concentrate on accent and forget grammar, pet. The equivalent of 'I done it' in French is nowhere near the linguistic crime of saying 'Roo' for 'rue.'"

  "Roo," said Sara. "Roo, roo, roo. I said it and I'm glad, glad, glad."

  He drew her closer as they walked to the cab. "Sara, dear heart, I've missed you. My God, how I've missed you!"

  "Only eight days."

  "Only eight centuries, my beloved dope."

  Did it have to hurt like this, she wondered; did the knowledge of another's imminent pain have to hurt like this? And knew the answer was "yes"; if you're Sara Kent it hurts like this, because you, Sara Kent, were cursed at birth with the dubious gift of empathy, and the only person who ever really understood its disadvantages in a world where everyone was hurting almost all the time in one way or another had been David. Yet David—she realized with a start that Chris had been speaking to her, there in the cab, that he was repeating a question she had not answered.

  "Have you moved yet?"

  "Moved?" It was the wrong answer; it was a stupid and childlike temporization, and she would have given much to be able to call it back.

  "Yes, my dear: 'moved.' From the-hotel-where-you-are-staying to the-hotel-where-I-am-staying. We talked about it, remember? Rather at length, if I recall."

  "I—I—no."

  "Why?" His voice, which had been warm and close, was remote.

  "It's—I—oh, it's been too damned hot for packing, Chris. And I'm a lazy baggage. You said so yourself."

  "So I did." After a moment he continued: "Shall we go to my place first? I'll take a quick look at my mail, a quick wash; then we'll have a drink and dinner. Right?"

  "Of course, Chris."

  At the hotel desk he turned to her, key in hand. "Coming up?"

  "It's cooler here in the lobby, but if you—"

  She watched him cross the lobby to the elevators, a lean man, not above average height, with a lean head and face, the dark hair a smooth cap—"piped with gray" she had told him when she had first known him—the eyes startlingly blue. There was humor in the long upper lip; passion and sensitivity were in the fullness of the lower, and behind the high forehead a grave and penetrating intelligence. They had celebrated his forty-first birthday together in Rome; otherwise she would have thought him older.

  She sat in a high-backed chair against the wall in the lobby, shunning the deep comfort of the lounge chairs because of the heat. She sat very straight, toes just touching the floor, her head resting against the red brocade of its back, her eyes closed. Chris will be all right, she told herself, and felt that she was pleading with herself to be convinced. He'll be all right; he has to be, he must be. Because he's wise and civilized, Christopher Barkeley will know that eventually it wouldn't work out, that a mind as keen as his, as fine honed and analytical, would eventually tire of her own uncomplicated thinking, her emotionalism. All emotion, Sara, that's you, all emotion and intensity and a certain crazy loyalty—and still all another man's woman. And you're thinking rot, plain unadulterated rot and rationalization, because he won't know any such damned thing. She felt her throat tighten. Chris, Chris, you're so fine and wonderful, and millions of people hear your voice, see your face, every day, and read your words, and I wish to God I could love you and not hurt you; I do wish it, Chris, I do.

  They had met prosaically enough, at an art gallery in London when Hunter Travis brought him in to see one of her exhibits. She recognized Barkeley immediately, and knew that when she heard his voice it would be as familiar to her as the voice of an old friend. "This is Christopher Barkeley, Republic Broadcasting System, saying 'good night' from Rome—" or London or Bonn or Paris or Moscow. His book Hours of Decision had absorbed her because there had been no pontificating, and here and there he had mocked his own objectivity with sardonic humor, softened it by a wide, all-embracing compassion.

  The next morning Chris called her, and the next afternoon they met in the lounge of her hotel and drank tea and ate buttered toast, and later had dinner at Simpson's. "I know it's touristy," Chris said. "And it's not the beef or mutton that draws me back either. It's the creamed tripe."

  A month later she flew to Denmark with him. The hotel in Copenhagen gave them adjoining rooms, and she remembered the porter unlocking the connecting door, apparently as a matter of course, without asking. When Chris stood in the doorway she felt uncomfortable and more than a little resentful.

  "They seem to know you well here," she said. "Your habits and customs."

  His eyes clouded and his mouth set in a straight line, unsmiling. "You are mistaken, Sara Kent. This is neither habit nor custom with me—as Management will tell you. I merely asked for rooms on the same floor. A Dane, I'm afraid, takes it from there. I am a loner." The lips relaxed slightly. "Or have been," he added. He stood quietly, not coming into her room; then the smile returned. "Are you going to starve in lonely solitude, or shall we do something about lunch? Rather quickly, I'd suggest. I'm damned hungry."

  At lunch, in the downstairs restaurant, they sat at a window table overlooking a canal, watching ships flying the flags of half a dozen countries, some she did not even recognize. Chris identified them for her, told her of the countries of their origin, and how they had come into being, told her why one little-known flag might someday fly over ships carrying more than half the world's oil supply, how another represented a country that might one day hold the balance of power in Africa.

  Later, over coffee, she said, "The miracle of the loaves and fishes pales beside that of two hotel rooms in Europe in August. Just like that." She snapped her fingers.

  "The company has an arrangement. They would have to when it's never certain where or when something will break." He was smiling. "I'm a very convenient guy to know. Even more convenient to travel with. I commend me to you."

  She yawned suddenly, covered her mouth apologetically.

  "Gosh, I'm sorry. Chris, I've got to nap. That was a cruel early start, my friend."

  "I know. I should have qualified my commendation."

  She had napped after lunch on the date of their first twenty-four hours together, and as she was dropping off to sleep heard the outer door of his room close and his steps going down the hall on his way out. He had not opened the door between their rooms again.

  She thought now of the many ways in which Chris had been—and was still—different, disarmingly different. He had asked her to go to the Continent with him in hope— My God, of course he had hoped; the man was human, he was tremendously attracted to her, she would have been a fool not to see that. But he had not asked her to go with him in any firm expectation. How many, how nauseatingly many, had approached her during these last years, knowing of her love for and alliance with a man of another race, assuming that, per se, she was some kind of insatiable, thrill-seeking nymph. All of them stunned or hurt or angry, sometimes ugly, when she had driven them away with sick fury.

  Chris knew Hunter Travis well; they were close friends; Hunter would have told him the true story. But whatever the reason, Chris had hoped, but not expected, had not taken her for granted.

  The evening of that first day in Copenhagen they had dined on snails, then strolled through the Tivoli in the long late twilight of the North. Afterward they sat companionably in Chris's room, the only light that of the small lamp on the desk, looking across the canal at the sweep of Hans Christian Andersen Boulevard, watching the drawbridge below them as it imperiously halted all traffic by its rise to permit a ship to pass and graciously permitted the wheels to turn again once its duty was done.

  "It may not have the grandeur of the Alps or the incredi
ble beauty of Rio, but just sitting by the water in Copenhagen, watching ships and people, still remains my favorite pastime," said Chris.

  Sara quoted sleepily," 'Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.'"

  "You know it! I didn't realize that you and Water Rat were friends."

  "Of long standing, I'll have you know. The Wind in the Willows was one of the nicest things about my childhood."

  "Unfortunately, it came to me late in life. Comparatively speaking. My wife introduced me to it. I can remember wanting to sniffle, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, when they found Portly, the baby otter, at the feet of Pan. Do you remember what Water Rat said when Mole asked him if he was afraid of the being with the shaggy limbs and the hooked nose and the pan-pipes by his hand?"

  "'Afraid!'" replied Sara. '"Afraid of Him? O, never, never!'"

  "And the song Rat heard—'Lest limbs be reddened and rent—I spring the trap that is set— As I loose the snare you may glimpse me there—' How nice life can be with a fellow Wind in the Willowser." He was silent for a moment, then he said, "Do you also remember, Sara, the last great gift the demigod bestowed on those he had rescued from pain and fright?"

  "Yes. Forgetfulness. 'Small waifs in the woodland wet— Strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it— Bidding them all forget!'"

  "Yes." He rose and walked to the bell by the door. "I'm going to ring for a nightcap." When he returned to his chair he said, "I think the world and all the people in it have need of Pan—and of his gift."

  "You don't sound like Chris Barkeley. You know, the man who says 'Now this is Christopher Barkeley saying 'good night'—"

  "Nor you like Sara Kent. A bit brittle, I'd heard. And— forgive me, my dear—noticed."

  There had been no urging that night after they drank their nightcap, no pleading, no sudden passionate rushing of any defenses she might have had, real or imagined; there had not even been the touch of his fingers on her hand or body. He had turned to her there in the half-light of the room, not quite smiling, eyebrows raised slightly. "Sara?" he had said.

  "Chris—"

  Strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it— Bidding them all forget!

  ***

  She heard someone speaking and opened her eyes to see one of the hotel's elderly porters standing in front of her.

  "Madam. The Herr Barkeley sends his apology. In the mail he has received a message that requires an overseas call. I am to bring you whatever you wish."

  She shook her head. "Thank you. There is nothing."

  "Madam will ring if there is?"

  "Of course."

  She rested her head again on the high back of the chair, closing her eyes against the bustle in the lobby. These delays had happened many times before, and she had never minded, calls during dinner, calls in the middle of the night, cables disrupting weekend plans. But tonight she minded because with every minute that passed the thing that she must do, the break she must make, seemed less inevitable, became closer and closer to impossible.

  Why hadn't she had the good old-fashioned guts to say "no"? Not that first night in Copenhagen, but before, when Chris had asked her to make the trip with him. There was no answer except that there had been a hope within her that here, in this man, was something strong enough to hold her, something that would give her a lessening of pain and loneliness, perhaps, please God, eventual freedom from it. And there had been, but only for a while. She remembered waking that first morning in Copenhagen, with Chris gone to an early appointment, and thinking, as she sat in bed, breakfast tray on her knees, that he had mentioned his wife the night before. His wife, she knew from Hunter, had been dead for eight years. But she had felt no flicker of curiosity about his marriage. And, she told herself now, no normal female, be she ever so modern, is without curiosity about a man's marriage, does not want to delve and pry into a former intimacy. During the eight years he had been a widower there must have been other intimacies, and she had not been able to arouse in herself the slightest interest. Now she told herself, "You should have known then." Later she had learned from Hunter that Chris's wife's name had been Barbara and, by Chris's reticences more than anything he said, that he had loved her very much. Her only reaction had been then, and was now, the thought, You don't know, Chris, that there can be peace in the grief for someone who is dead; no peace, no letup in the grief for someone who is still alive and warm and vital, and very far away.

  Now she, Sara Kent, was going to introduce him to the spiritual corrosion of that grief. Perhaps he won't mind; perhaps it won't give him all the pain you think it will; perhaps you overestimate—Sara, dear heart, I've, missed you. My God, how I've missed you!

  Again in Copenhagen they had lain late one morning after a night flight. He had scarcely spoken until after they heard a

  maid leave the breakfasts in his room. Then, in robe and slippers, he brought the tray in, setting his own coffee and pastry on the low coffee table, bringing the tray to her where she sat propped against pillows in bed.

  After coffee and a cigarette he said: "Sara, we could make it, you and I. I think it would be something very damned special." And when she did not answer, added, "If." And while she still searched for words, said, "Half a loaf, Sara. Half a loaf has been a banquet these past six months. It scares me to think of what the whole loaf could be."

  Christopher Barkeley wouldn't know how to plead, then or now, and he had kept his tone light when he said, "Perhaps in time, Sara?"

  "Please, Chris. Please, my dear. I don't know. I just don't know."

  "You must have loved him a hell of a lot. I met him, you know. Several years ago, with Hunter."

  "Chris. You never told me."

  "No. I'm not all that damned objective and detached. And you've never given me an opening. Prodding old wounds isn't exactly my idea of a good time." He was silent for a moment, sitting at the coffee table, busying himself with unwrapping the inevitable piece of Danish breakfast cheese. Without turning his head he said: "Old wounds. My choice of words was mistaken. Even now the wound is still fresh enough to bleed, isn't it." It was not a question.

  "No. I mean—"

  "Forget it, love. Forget I said it." Then he had come to the side of the bed and taken her in his arms, holding her close with a desperate sort of strength, hiding his face in the hollow of her throat and shoulder, saying roughly, "But only forget it for a while, my darling, only for a while."

  ***

  She opened her eyes, feeling as though she were snapping them open, felt a whimper in her throat, and was looking into Chris's quiet, steady gaze. How long had he been there, looking at her, looking through her, looking into her?

  "Sara," he said. His lips seemed not to move. "Sara. I don't think I have ever seen anyone look so unhappy, just sitting quietly with their eyes closed."

  "I—I was dozing."

  "No, you weren't. Shall we go? Dinner first, before I take you back to the hotel?"

  No, she thought; not dinner. Let me go now. But she said, "All right, Chris. If you'd like." Outside in the heavy early-evening heat they turned into Königsallee, stopped at a sidewalk cafe for an aperitif.

  "Not shashlik tonight," he said. "It's too blasted hot and small and crowded in that place. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  "We'll go to the restaurant across from your hotel if you'd like. The cellars are cooler these nights. And the waiters there are old and remote and cranky and apparently hate all Americans. They won't hover warmly."

  "Agreed also."

  "You'll want Bratkartoffelen? You still like them?"

  "You could hardly think my passion for Bratkartoffelen would cool in a week."

  He paid the check and took her arm as they wove through tables to the sidewalk. "Home-fried potatoes to the rest of the world. Manna from heaven to you," he said lightly.

  At the end of the meal he said: "Would you like a pastry? A cake? They have a wonderful touch here with t
hings that come out of the oven."

  Nothin' says lovin' like something from the oven, and Cha-a-amplin says it best.... Not here. Now now. David, go away. Go away. I don't want you here or anywhere, not unless we can see each other, and hear each other and touch each other. David, what did you make out of me, what kind of monster did you make out of me?

  "Dessert, Sara? Come back to Düsseldorf."

  "No! Nothing. I'm sorry. I sounded cross, didn't I? It's just —I mean, I can't eat any more."

  Outside the restaurant there was the inevitable traffic jam in the narrow street as cars tried to park and other cars tried to pass them, engines growling like angry cats until they could move forward. The air was foul with exhaust smoke and the smell of hot pavement. Four young men, their voices loud in the evening heat, were running toward them, headed for the stage door of the theatre next to the restaurant. Chris drew her back quickly to avoid them, and they stood together in a doorway, facing each other.

  "I won't cross over with you, Sara. That would be asking too much."

  No questions; no searching, prying questions into her heart and mind; no pleading. He knew, and he had taken into his own hands the task she had dreaded, lifted from her the burden of telling, of explaining, even, perhaps, of comforting.

  Thank you, Chris, thank you, and then she thought how old he looked, how chiseled out of marble his face seemed, with only the eyes alive and full of pain. No man so young should look so old. His eyes were steady, fixed on hers. "Chris—"

  "I know. I think I knew in the taxi when you said you had not moved, said it was too hot to pack. I was sure in the hotel when you didn't come up with me. Sara, don't look like that. It's all right."

  "No. No, it's not all right. It's dreadful and horrible and it's tearing me to pieces—"

  "Is it, Sara? Is it now?"

  "Chris, don't—"

  "That was unkind. I'm sorry. Sara, I love you. I love you with all that there is left in me to love a woman with. And I've learned during our year together that one of the strange things about love is that one can have more left over than one started with. I haven't put it well, but perhaps you'll learn it someday—"