Poly stood in a roomful of El Grecos and turned round and round, slowly. Then she stopped in front of a large painting of St. Andrew and St. Francis, the two of them standing together in obvious and direct communion. “I’m staggered,” she said, “absolutely staggered, Father. Why haven’t I seen it before?” She contemplated the picture again for a time in silence, assuming a junior version of Canon Tallis’ stance, her legs braced slightly apart, her hands behind her back. “Of course it’s impossible,” she said.
“What?” Adam asked.
“That they should be there, like that, standing, talking together when they lived eleven hundred years apart. But I’m so glad they are. It does make time seem unimportant, doesn’t it?” She turned to Canon Tallis and smiled. “I’m sorry I was horrid about not going to Geneva with you. But we’ll do it another time, won’t we?”
“Yes,” he said gently. “Yes, we’ll do that, Poly.”
Just as Adam felt super-saturated, they paused for lunch in the museum cafeteria. This, at least, Adam found not unlike the cafeterias in the Met or the Museum of Natural History, except that it was much smaller, and most people automatically ordered a bottle of wine with lunch.
Here, for some reason, the canon and Poly switched into Spanish, so Adam joined them. Poly smiled at him warmly, “Oh, good, I’m so glad you aren’t one of these Americans who refuses to speak anybody else’s language. You speak awfully well.”
“Thank you.”
“Adam, do have a hamburger. Spanish hamburgers are the funniest things. The meat even is different. People who want some good Amurrican food order them and then go into a state of shock. Then they say it’s bad meat cooked in rancid oil.” She grinned at the canon and slapped her own hand lightly. “I’m being judgmental again, aren’t I? I’m sorry. But do try one, Adam. I find them absolutely cordon bleu.”
The hamburger was indeed unlike an American hamburger; Poly’s milkshake, too, bore little resemblance to anything Adam had had at home. He and the canon had coffee; without it Adam by now could not have stayed awake, and fatigue multiplied the already existing confusion in his mind. Poly, like the hamburger and the milkshake, was unlike any American child Adam had ever met, but she had evidently spent most of her life abroad. It was obvious that she adored Canon Tallis, and he, in his turn, seemed to love her deeply, but Adam was still very unsure of the canon. After all, a man in ecclesiastical garb could get away with murder—well, perhaps not murder, exactly—a lot more easily than anybody else.
After lunch they wandered around the museum for a while longer. Adam’s legs were beginning to ache with fatigue. He now felt only irritation at some of the pictures which were so badly hung that they could hardly be seen for the glare; at others Adam found he was squinting, one eye closed, his nose almost touching the canvas. In many of the rooms were smocked art students copying paintings. The canon stopped by a young girl who was copying a baroque Annunciation. She turned around and smiled at him, brilliantly and warmly, in recognition. He pressed one hand briefly against her shoulder, but neither of them spoke, nor did he seem to consider introducing her to Adam or Poly. They moved on into a large rotunda full of statues watched over by a uniformed guard. As Adam and Poly followed the canon in, the guard moved over to them quietly, saying in English,
“My avocation and my vocation—”
“—As my two eyes make one in sight,” the canon replied. The exchange was so swift, the voices were so low, that no one but Adam, and perhaps Poly, was aware that anything had been said.
Adam’s retentive memory, the envy of his friends at school, came to his rescue now. For a moment he seemed to be back in the secret police room in the airport with the grim-faced canon speaking to the inspector.
—They rhyme! Adam thought suddenly.—What he said with the inspector then, and with the guard now. I don’t remember the words, but I’m sure if I could get them and put them together and make four lines of them, they’d rhyme. An ABAB rhyme scheme.
He looked at the canon. The canon looked at him. Neither of them spoke.
—It’s familiar, Adam thought.—It’s vaguely familiar. Maybe something I had at school. If I could only figure out what it was I’d know more what I think about him.
The canon pulled out a very plain gold watch with a Phi Beta Kappa key on the chain. Something clicked in Adam’s mind. —But he’s English. He shouldn’t have a Phi Beta Kappa key. Not unless he went to an American university as an undergraduate. Not likely. So then he must be a phony, the way Kali said. Unless—well, it could be honorary, like Churchill’s. I don’t know.
His eyes flickered back over the canon. For the first time Adam noticed that the plain black of the priest’s clothing was broken by the tiny red sliver of the French Legion d’Honneur ribbon in his lapel. This was possible. Old Doc had one, too.
“Time to go,” Canon Tallis said briskly.
Perhaps because of Poly’s words Adam was not too happy with the Plaza Mayor. Then again it may have been simply the rain which dripped down the collar of his trenchcoat, though Canon Tallis tried to shield the three of them with his big black umbrella as they walked slowly about. The Plaza Mayor was a great, beautiful square, cobblestoned, with magnificent buildings, horses sadly pulling wagons, arches leading to narrow, winding streets with shops and restaurants and laundry hanging out even in the downpour: perhaps it was the sullen stream of rain which was responsible for the dark aura that Adam felt as he looked across the vast, echoing space of the square.
It was almost five when they got back to the hotel, and Adam went up to his room to collect his things. When he opened his briefcase, which he had not taken to the Prado, he was quite sure that someone had gone through it while he was out, that his books were not as he had left them. His first thought was to rush to Canon Tallis with this disturbing news. Then he realized, with a sudden jerk of the stomach, that the trip to the Prado might have been engineered by the canon simply to get him out of the room.
Adam went through the briefcase again, carefully. Nothing had been taken, but he was quite certain that its contents had been examined and then replaced as accurately as possible. —When I get to Lisbon, he thought,—I’ll make some excuse at least to telephone Kali. If I see her again now maybe I’ll be able to sort things out.
Downstairs the Swissair man and almost all the other passengers were already assembled. Those who had been going on to Geneva and Zurich, with the exception of Canon Tallis and Poly, had left, so it was a smaller group gathered together in the lobby. The perpetually pleasant Swissair man told them that the bus was waiting, that they would be taken to the airport and flown to Lisbon, and would be there in time for dinner.
Since the canon was staying in Madrid instead of going on to Geneva, as originally planned, or even to Lisbon, there seemed to be some question about his being allowed to go in the bus with them to the airport. Adam felt like saying that he could take care of Poly perfectly well by himself, but at this point he thought it wiser not to cross the older man who was talking in a quiet but most determined way to the Swissair man, who finally smiled and nodded, shook hands with the canon, and then ushered the passengers out into the rain and onto the bus.
At the airport the Swissair man, still smiling, but beginning to look tired and harassed from all the questions being thrust at him, took them into the dining room where he told them to order refreshments, compliments of Swissair. Adam sat at a large, round table with Poly and Canon Tallis and five other passengers, so that conversation was perforce general, and mostly about the weather. Bits of gossip flitted from table to table as the Swissair man would appear, speak to one group, then hurry off: the airport in Lisbon was still closed; the airport in Lisbon was open; the airport in Lisbon was open but might close at any moment; the airport in Lisbon was closed but might open at any moment. Strangely enough the downpour in Madrid never seemed to be any concern.
After a little over an hour had gone by the Swissair man came hurrying in and told the entire grou
p, in a voice now slightly hoarse, that they would be served dinner since the airport in Lisbon was definitely still closed down.
There was a small, smug, middle-aged couple at Adam’s table who decided that they would like to stay on in Madrid and were furious when the Swissair man wouldn’t pay for their hotel or passage to Lisbon unless they traveled with the rest of the group. Adam was embarrassed by their rudeness, and ashamed that they were American. Poly leaned sleepily against Canon Tallis who sipped at a small glass of Tio Pépé.
The Swissair man disappeared again and the table was quickly set and a full dinner served, soup, omelette, chicken, fruit, cheese. Adam discovered that he was starved. They were finishing their coffee when the Swissair man appeared again, beaming like the Cheshire cat. A Spanish plane would take them to Lisbon where the airport was at last open. He hurried off; in a few minutes the plane was called and everyone trooped to the gate where they were completely unexpected. Canon Tallis was trying to sort out the situation with the Iberian Airlines official when the Swissair man came panting up. Wait! A plane was being flown in from Geneva for them.
It was well after ten when they were finally herded through the gate. Canon Tallis stood watching after Poly and Adam as they paddled out into the rain and onto the bus, stood watching until the bus was driven off. This time it was more than a few yards to the plane. The bus began to gather speed and although the rain was letting up and the atmosphere was lighter it was not long before the dark figure of the canon had disappeared.
Poly turned anxiously to Adam. “You will stay right with me, won’t you?”
“Yes, if you want me to. Why? Are you nervous?” Adam asked, hoping to get some information out of her.
Poly contemplated him as the bus jolted along over the wet ground. Finally she said calmly, “I have never traveled alone before, and, after all, I am still a child.”
Adam felt like crying,—Okay, child, why are you holding out on me, too?
But if he ever wanted to get anything out of Poly it would not do to antagonize her now. Granted she was an odd kid, but she was obviously a bright one, and he liked her, and he knew that she liked him, despite the deliberate evasiveness of her last answer. Sooner or later she would talk to him, as long as he didn’t push her. Most people did seem to talk to Adam, which may have been one reason he wasn’t more surprised at Kali’s confidences or at anything else that had happened.
Giving him a wary look Poly put her hand in his as they left the bus, and held it firmly until they were safely in the plane. “A caravelle,” Poly said. “You don’t mind if I sit next to the window, with you on the aisle, do you, Adam? It’s just because I like to look out.”
“Is that the only reason?” he asked her, stowing her small blue case and his briefcase under their seats.
“Isn’t it reason enough?” she asked as he sat down beside her.
It was to be a short flight, they were told, about forty-five minutes. After they had been in the air less than half an hour Poly said, “I have to go to the washroom, Adam.”
He moved his knees to let her go by. At the aisle she stopped, started to say something, walked on for a couple of rows, then came back. “Watch after me, Adam, please,” she said tensely, then hurried up the aisle and disappeared into the washroom.
Adam had looked over the passengers and a more normal lot, he felt, could not have been found. The original group was all American, vocal, and eager to be on the way. Only a handful of new passengers had been added, and none of these looked in the least sinister or even curious. The only figure who was even faintly colorful was a rabbi with a long, luxuriant growth of brown beard. He had a look of quiet dignity, and sat, isolated in contemplation, until he turned to a book which Adam could see, by straining, was something by Martin Buber.
Poly’s small voice as she had turned back toward him made him a little tense, but after all she was only a kid, and a girl, and girls are apt to be hysterical, and that doggoned canon had evidently frightened her about something. He shook himself and settled back to read an article on starfish which Old Doc had stuck into his hand that last day in Woods Hole. Adam could usually concentrate but his eyes now kept flicking to the face of his wristwatch. After Poly had been gone a couple of minutes he began to look back toward the washroom door every few seconds. After the hands showed that five minutes had passed he put the starfish article aside and did nothing but look at the washroom. After another minute he felt a distinct queasiness in the pit of his stomach, and went to the back of the plane.
The steward looked at him, saying courteously, “The other washroom is empty, sir.”
“Yes,” Adam said. “I’m traveling with a little girl and she’s been in there several minutes and I’m afraid she may not be well.”
The steward tapped lightly on the door. Nothing happened. Adam knocked, rather more loudly. “Poly!” he called.
Nothing.
“Not so loud, please, sir,” the steward said. “We don’t want to disturb the other passengers. Just a minute and I will unlock the door from this side.”
He took out a key and after a certain amount of manipulation the door swung open.
The washroom was empty.
5
“You must have been mistaken, sir,” the steward said.
“I saw her go in.”
“Then she must have left without your noticing it.”
Wildly Adam looked round the plane, but his hope of seeing Poly safely in her seat vanished. “Find her for me, then,” he said, angrily.
“What does she look like?”
“A tall, thin child, about twelve. Red hair and blue eyes.”
The steward went methodically up and down the aisles, even looking into the pilot’s cabin. When he came back to Adam he spoke soothingly. “Are you absolutely certain, sir, that any such child came onto the plane?”
“Get the stewardess to check the records,” Adam suggested.
The steward summoned the stewardess, speaking in Spanish. “This young idiot,” he said, “seems to think he brought some kid on the plane with him, and now he’s lost her. He has a wild idea she’s been flushed down the toilet or something. Just another American crackpot. But check your records.” Turning to Adam he said, in English, “Her name, please.”
“Polyhymnia O’Keefe.”
Adam stood, seething, until the stewardess looked up from her papers. “No O’Keefe got on the plane.”
Adam burst into Spanish. He had learned a good deal of picturesque language from Juan and his family and he let it all out now. Up and down the cabin passengers roused from snoozing and turned their heads in curiosity.
Adam thought he saw the steward press some kind of signal. In any case the FASTEN SEAT BELTS light flashed on and the stewardess moved briskly through the cabin, seeing that the passengers, many of whom had risen at Adam’s flow of invective, were seated and their seat belts snapped on.
The steward turned to Adam. “We are going through some turbulence, sir,” he said, though this time in Spanish, seeming not at all abashed that Adam must have understood his words to the stewardess. “You will have to go to your seat.”
Adam did not move. “I’m going through turbulence all right. I was put in charge of the child and I am responsible for her. I saw her go into the washroom.”
“Sir.” The steward sighed in resignation at Adam’s idiocy. “No child came onto the plane with you. You saw us check the passenger list. I must insist that you sit down, and in Lisbon—are you being met, sir?”
“Yes,” Adam snapped.
“Then perhaps you should see a doctor.” The steward’s hands shot out with unexpected suddenness and strength, grasped Adam’s arms, and forcibly propelled him down the aisle. He was put into his seat with a quick shove, and the belt tightened around him.
The loudspeaker coughed. “This is your captain. We are now beginning the descent to Lisbon.”
The stewardess walked up and down the aisle, adjusting a pillow here, asking a pass
enger to put out a cigarette there. The steward stood lounging by Adam’s seat.
“Listen,” Adam said, “if you don’t believe me, the blue case under the seat belongs to Poly. How did it get there if she didn’t come onto the plane?”
The steward spoke gently. “There is no blue case under the seat.”
Adam looked down. His briefcase was there, but not Poly’s little blue bag. “Hey!” he called wildly, looking up and down the plane. “I did get on with a redheaded kid, didn’t I?”
The steward’s hand pressed against the boy’s mouth as he explained apologetically to the passengers that Adam wasn’t well, that a doctor would be found as soon as they had landed in Lisbon, that there was no cause for alarm. No one need worry. Over the steward’s hand Adam looked frantically at the passengers, but nobody said anything or moved to rescue him. He heard one woman say, “I thought I saw a child, but maybe it was at the hotel with that priest. I’m so tired I just don’t remember which way is up.”
The steward removed his hand. If Adam had thought it would do any good he would have started a physical battle with the man. But that course would, at this point, seem to lead into worse trouble than already surrounded him.
“If you will stay quietly where you are until we land,” the steward said, “everything will be all right.” He walked back the length of the plane to his post.
Again Adam looked up and down the cabin, though he did not move in his seat or turn his head more than necessary. Surely they must have heard him; surely someone must have noticed Poly and would come to tell him so.
The rabbi was sitting with his hands in his lap, his book evidently put away in his briefcase. His head was back against the seat rest and he appeared to be contemplating the ceiling. To Adam’s surprise he began to whistle thoughtfully.
The Arm of the Starfish Page 4