Mrs. Gonzalez had relaxed a bit and was now happily puffing the cigarette. “You are Serene Natacha, you are quite calm and you are relaxing gently. Now tell me what you were going to say when you came in.”
“It concerns a Message from the Great Beyond which was bestowed upon me by a tall bearded man.” Her voice now had the quality of a sleep-talker. She still gripped the chair spasmodically, however, till the knuckles stood out white. “This Towering Bearded figure glided into my bedroom and handed me a wreath of white roses saying ‘You are Natacha, upon this fount of light I build my teaching, to You I give the roses of Heaven, Your Odour of Sanctity is fragrant like blossoms to the Lord. My name is Peter, which is Rock.’ ”
“Tell me all, Natacha, you are Serene and calm, blissfully calm and Serene,” said Dr. Gambit, placing a forefinger on Natacha’s forehead.
“Then the Holy man took my hand and we were gently wafted upwards and he stroked my hair saying ‘Natacha these Holy Roses from the Kingdom of Heaven are the Symbol of your Work amongst men and women. You are the Pure Vessel through which the Will of the Master is made manifest to his flock. Rejoice for you are chosen to lead others, Natacha Blessed amongst women.’
“Then,” continued Natacha, gripping the chair and opening one eye, “he told me there was a message for Georgina Sykes. He said ‘Tell Georgina Sykes that if she goes on spreading vicious gossip about Dr. Gambit and herself that her ever-decreasing chances of Salvation will be petrified forever.’ ”
I saw the doctor twitch nervously. “What sort of gossip?” he asked sharply, then, modifying his tone to a hypnotic drawl, “What sort of gossip, Natacha?—you are blissfully calm and Serene—What sort of gossip?”
Natacha’s voice was anything but blissfully calm and serene as she replied viciously: “You are going to get a nasty surprise about that backbiting, malignant old Trollop. Those sagging, baggy eyes of hers are going to ogle once too often.”
Dr. Gambit made a slight gesture of impatience, “What sort of gossip, Natacha? Reply, you are now relaxed and Serene, REPLY.”
“She goes around the whole Institution telling people that you are trying to seduce her, and even tried to enter her bungalow at night.”
“Monstrous!” exclaimed Dr. Gambit angrily. “The woman must be mad.”
“Georgina Sykes is an obscene old woman,” said Natacha with unction. “She is a sex maniac and ought not to be allowed to mix with the other members of the community. She warps their minds.”
“I shall have to talk to her at once,” said Gambit in extreme agitation. “This might ruin the reputation of the whole Institution!”
“That is not all,” added Natacha. “She insulted me outrageously. Naturally I hurried to her bungalow to transmit the Message, with all the purity of mind I have cultivated for my Mission. ‘Georgina,’ I said gently, ‘I have a message for you.’ She replied very rudely, saying: ‘If it’s a message from Heaven stuff it up your something or other.’ I was shocked and pained but I maintained my Inner Radiance and I admonished her to listen to what could only be for her own good. Then she pushed me out of the place and slammed the door. Still glowing with secret peace I went about the day’s toil joyfully, till I had the misfortune to meet Georgina a half an hour ago on the fuchsia walk. She stopped me and hissed like an angry serpent: ‘Natacha Gonzalez you are a lamentable little hypocrite and if you ever try and relay any more of your beastly messages to me I shall spit in your face.’ That is an entire account of the whole affair. It is my duty to open your consciousness to the danger and perfidy of this horrible woman. I will resign from the Institution if she stays on.”
Dr. Gambit seemed to have forgotten about blissful serenity. He was now pacing up and down wringing his hands saying, “This is a terrible occurrence. Georgina Sykes is kept here by her nephew, who pays twice as much as anybody else because she takes extras. Morning Bovril, clean sheets twice a week, massage and Ovaltine at bedtime. It is most distressing, Mrs. Gambit must be spared all this, her migraine would prevent me sleeping for weeks.”
Natacha, who did not seem interested in these reflections, got up to go, saying, “Take my advice and get rid of her, she is a public menace.”
Finally I also got up and left. I doubt if the doctor saw me go. He was staring out of the window, looking so distressed that I felt sorry for the poor man. I noticed the doctor always seemed deflated in the presence of Mrs. Gambit, and I now understood that he was actually afraid of her. Possibly she also punished him through the stomach. The person who controls the distribution of food has almost unlimited power in a society such as ours. Mrs. Gambit’s despotic rule of the kitchen seemed an unfair advantage. I wondered if it would not be possible to organize a small mutiny.
Sunday afternoon was the usual period for receiving visitors. More affectionate relatives would arrive with picnic lunches which were eaten in different corners of the garden or on the lawn. The rest of us unfavoured by this special attention would sit near the lunchers and observe them as closely as possible in order to be able to criticize them later on; subjects for discussion were always welcome. Also, people receiving sumptuous gifts such as roast chickens and chocolate cake merited close observation.
Several Sundays went past before Galahad and Muriel came to see me. They arrived towards five o’clock in the afternoon, bringing a box of multi-coloured jujubes and a letter from Carmella. I was most excited to get news of Carmella at last, but I controlled my impatience and kept the fat envelope in my pocket in order to delect it alone and unperturbed.
Muriel looked fatter than ever and Galahad, I thought, looked rather tired.
“I know you will be very happy to hear that Robert is engaged to be married,” said Muriel, whose voice was always so unpleasantly loud that I was obliged to listen to her. “We are very pleased because he has chosen a nice English girl whose family are very comfortably off. They are an old yeoman family from Devonshire. Colonel Blake was here with Flavia and the two children fell in love at the annual tennis tournament, organized by the British Club. We both think it is a most suitable match, don’t we Galahad?”
Galahad said something I did not hear and Georgina walked close by giving me a prodigious wink.
“Poor old creature,” yelled Muriel at Georgina’s retreating back. “She looks quite dotty. Somebody ought to give her some proper clothes.”
Georgina turned her head and leered, so I knew she had heard Muriel’s remark. I felt ashamed of having such an insensitive daughter-in-law. Besides, pity for Georgina was most displaced and we all admired her elegant and rather extravagant clothes.
“So my own baby Robert is a grown-up man now and taking a wife,” continued Muriel in the same strident voice. “They are to be married in June. Isn’t that exciting news?”
“Nothing about Robert excites me,” I replied. “How are the cats? the red hen? and Rosina and her children?”
“Old Mrs. Velasquez took charge of the cats and Rosina took the red hen back to her pueblo. We had to get rid of Rosina, she became too impertinent. The house was repainted. That was Robert’s idea. He wanted to invite his fiancée to a nice comfortable home. You would hardly recognize the house now. The living room is dark rose and the kitchen is seascape blue. They sell a new plastic paint which is also washable. Galahad bought some palms to stand in the vestibule and I repotted them in red lacquered tubs which I picked up bargain price at the American Episcopal Jumble Sale.”
Carmella had taken the cats, bless her, that was a relief. I felt less happy about the red hen. Hens in pueblos are very thin if they survive at all. Muriel went on telling me news as loud as she could. During our fifteen years’ cohabitation she had not talked to me half as much.
“Colonel Blake is staying over to see Robert and Flavia married. In England he is a keen sportsman and will miss the shooting season. However he is golfing a lot and playing canasta in the evenings, so he seems to be having a
lot of fun.
“Robert and Flavia are taking up amateur theatricals with the Footlight Company. They are doing a Noël Coward play which ought to be a great success. Flavia has the second most important part in the play.”
The idea of Robert acting in a play gave me nausea, so I said nothing.
“Mrs. Birch,” went on Muriel, “was so upset that Flavia got the part in the play that she made a public scene. Really that woman has no shame, at her age. Acting! She must be sixty at least.”
The sun had started sinking when they left at last. I felt sorry for Galahad, but the day when I could have helped him was long past.
Carmella’s letter crackled in my pocket, and I hurried off to read it in peace. It was really delightful to look once more on her delicate handwriting and violet-coloured ink.
Dear Marian [she wrote] I hardly know if you will read this letter even if it ever reaches you. I cannot trust that horrible Muriel to deliver it safely and even if she does you may be suffering too much to read letters.
I have had some awful nightmares about you in that huge dreary cement building. Modern style architecture is always so depressing. Those stark exercise yards full of menacing hounds, those lantern-jawed policewomen making you all tramp around in your grey uniforms. Do they make you sew sacks? I always thought that such an unprofitable occupation. Tuesday night I dreamt you escaped in a strait jacket and hopped for miles. If you can, smuggle out a short note. I should feel very much relieved as I am not sure that they don’t give truth serum all the time.
The two cats are well and happy. I did not arrive in time to save the red hen. Alas, she is almost sure to be eaten soon. The cats felt a little strange at first but they soon settled down. All cats are psychic, as you know, and they felt my sympathy immediately.
Apart from the nightmares I have had about you I have been having recurrent dreams about a nun in a tower. She has a most interesting face, which is slightly deformed by a perpetual wink. I cannot imagine who she is. One of my correspondents, perhaps?
I am thinking of organizing a visit to you, although if we have to talk through bars under the eye of a policewoman I shall not be able to bring you chocolate cake and a bottle of port as I wished. If possible let me know the exact measurement between each bar and I will be able to calculate what could fit through. Cigarettes are always a comfort and even the narrowest space would be wide enough to pass cigarettes. Should I bring marijuana cigarettes to alleviate your misery? Arabs, I am told, sell this herb behind the San Fandila Market. In order to buy it I would have to go armed, as it is a very dangerous and tough part of the city. Naturally I would go to any lengths to lessen your suffering, however it would be very difficult to obtain marijuana in any quantity so please be precise in your letter if you really need it.
Planning my visit to you has been most absorbing as I have different disguises for each visit so that they do not get suspicious in case I have to help you to escape. Elisa, the new maid, tells me her grandfather has an old charro costume which was left to him by his late employer and he would be willing to hire it out for a small sum. I had rather hoped to arrive dressed as a Hungarian general but this is rather a rare uniform in these parts. A toreador costume would also be colourful, but I think this might turn out too expensive. In any case I ought not to be too elaborate as that might arouse their suspicions. A large false moustache and dark glasses are usually enough to change one’s appearance considerably.
Of course it would be much more convenient if we could communicate by means of underground passages. With this end in view I made some plans based on termite engineering, as I do not suppose we would be able to obtain machinery. I enclose the plans in this letter, please take care that they do not fall into the hands of the authorities. The consequences might be disastrous for us both. Brain Washing, they say, is the latest method of torture, thumb screws went out of fashion long ago. In case you have not heard of Brain Washing this is a form of Mental Torture provoked by constant anxiety inflicted by others. It soon drives you mad, so be careful to take no notice if they say you are to face the shooting squad. Refuse any injections even if they say they are vitamins, it might be Truth Serum. This is the part of the Brain Washing which makes you swear you have done a lot of things you never even thought of doing.
I keep dreaming that I am dead and have to bury my own corpse. This is most unpleasant as the corpse has begun to go bad and I don’t know where to put it. Last night I had the same dream, the winking nun, and then the arduous duty of interring my own corpse. I had decided to have it embalmed and sent here to my house, cash on delivery. But as soon as the funeral agency arrived here I was so alarmed at having to face my dead body that I sent it back again to the funeral parlour without paying. What a relief it is that we don’t really have to undertake the worry and trouble of our own burials.
Do study the enclosed plans carefully and reply by return of post. I enclose two pesetas that you could use to bribe somebody to smuggle the letter out of the Institution. I would also need the drawing of the entire layout which you could do in secret. You draw it as if you were hovering above in a helicopter, not as an ordinary watercolour. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I won a helicopter in a crossword puzzle competition? There is not much hope though I am afraid, as they never give such practical prizes.
Do not give up hope entirely in spite of the horror of your situation. I am mobilizing all my mental capacities to obtain your unconditional freedom.
Ever most affectionately, Carmella
Having read Carmella’s letter over several times I sat plunged in thought. The winking nun could be no other than Doña Rosalinda Alvarez Cruz della Cueva. How very mysterious that Carmella should have seen her telepathically. How excited she would be when I told her about the oil painting and how the abbess occupied my thoughts.
Carmella’s plans for the underground passage between the Institution and her house seemed very difficult to realize in actual fact. Who would do all the digging? Where would we find dynamite to explode our way through underground rocks? And with pickaxes it would take Carmella and me forever to burrow at least ten kilometres underground.
Nevertheless I decided I would make a careful plan of the Institution and send it to Carmella as soon as possible. I had not heard of anybody having any difficulty sending off correspondence and a lot of ladies received uncensored letters, so it would not be necessary to smuggle out the letter as Carmella suggested. This made everything easier. How kind of Carmella to take charge of my dear cats at her own expense. How I longed to see her again and suck violet flavoured lozenges on the porch.
It was Sunday, so supper was rather more informal than usual. Cold roast beef and potato salad were placed on the table and not passed around. Junket and buns were taken with coffee in the lounge. We did our own washing up in relays, as the maids were out that day. An hour of quiet recreation was allowed after this meal. Some of us talked, knitted or played simple games. The Marquise Claude la Checherelle and Maude always played snakes and ladders after supper. It was a ritual which I liked to watch. The Marquise always moved her square with military strategy, giving us lurid accounts of battles she had fought and won all over Europe and Africa. Maude, who was timid, hardly ever dared interrupt these repetitive wartime souvenirs.
“The mud was up to our necks,” the Marquise would say, tossing the dice on the board. “The Captain and I had bullets whizzing through our caps as we peeped over the trenches. The Germans were pressing forward mercilessly with their heavy artillery. Tanks chattered their machine guns like avenging robots. The situation was desperate. We were mortally tired, yet duty kept us staggering at our posts. ‘The only hope is direct attack, mon capitaine, we are under fire on both flanks.’ The Captain’s strong jaw tightened perceptibly, ‘It would be coldblooded murder for the troops,’ he replied looking through his mudcaked face with sharp blue eyes. I gripped his arm and pointed at the sea behind us, ‘Where shal
l we retreat?’ I said, my voice husky with emotion. ‘Should we not rather die fighting than be squashed into the mud by the tanks?’ ‘As usual I must bow to your advice,’ said the Captain, ‘en avant!’
“And that’s how the battle of Ypres turned out in our favour,” continued the Marquise modestly. “Most of us were wiped out, some of us drowned trying to swim the channel to Dover. Our little battalion forced the German tanks to retreat after twenty-four hours of constant fire.”
At that moment Maude threw a six and her square climbed up a ladder almost to victory. The Marquise swore under her breath and threw a two which got her nowhere. “I never am lucky on Sundays,” she said. “I was born on a Tuesday. If one could consider that lucky. But I do not complain, for my life has been full of excitement and pleasure. For instance I remember how we escaped the German snipers in North Africa. It was a forced march through barren mountainous country. I was second in command of our battalion. We were escorting two Red Cross ambulances to the desert . . .”
“I am afraid I have won,” said Maude timidly. “Pure luck of course. This game requires no real skill like chess.”
“So you have,” said the Marquise, peering closely at the snakes and ladders. “Well I believe a sporting instinct is more important than always winning, so let me congratulate you warmly. Of course I might have won if it had not been Sunday.”
Mrs. Gambit rang a small bell. We all rose to retire to our respective villas. I was thankful that I lived in a Lookout and not in a cement toadstool like the Marquise, although she never complained about climbing up a ladder every time she wanted to get into bed. It must have reminded her of the happy days when she was climbing in and out of shell holes.
The moon was almost full and lighted our way through the garden. I walked with Maude back to the double bungalow she occupied with Mrs. Van Tocht.
“Moonlight always makes me think of Switzerland,” said Maude sadly. “As a girl I used to go to Mürren for the winter sports. I never was much good at skiing although I could skate a bit. Not figure skating or anything fancy, just ordinary getting along.”
The Hearing Trumpet Page 6