The Listening Walls

by Margaret Millar

  The big man and the little dog seemed so vivid, so close, that when the knock came on the door she jumped in shock at the intrusion on her private world.

  She opened the door, expecting only the girl with the towels again. But it was an elderly Mexican man carrying an object loosely wrapped in newspaper.

  “Here is the box the señora ordered this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t order any box.”

  “The other señora. She wished it initialed. I bring it in person, not trusting my no-good son-in-law.” He removed the newspaper carefully as if he were unveiling a statue. “It is a beautiful box. Everyone agrees?”

  “It’s lovely,” Amy said.

  “The purest silver. None purer. Feel how heavy.”

  He handed her the hammered silver box. She almost dropped it, its weight was so unexpected in spite of his warning.

  He grinned with delight. “You see? The purest of sil­ver. The señora said it looks like the sea. I have never see the sea. I make a box that looks like the sea and I have never see the sea. How is it possible?”

  “Mrs. Wyatt—the señora is asleep right now. I’ll give it to her when she wakes up.” Amy hesitated. “The box is paid for?”

  “The box, yes. My services, no. I am an old man. I run like lightning through the streets, not trusting my no- good son-in-law. I run all the way here so the señora would have her beautiful box tonight. She said, ‘Señor, this box is of such beauty I cannot bear to be without it for one night.’ “

  It was practically the last thing on earth Wilma would have said but Amy was in no mood to argue.

  “For the señoras,” he added righteously, “I run any­where. Even though I am an old man I run.”

  “Would four pes—”

  “A very old man. With much family trouble and a bad kidney.”

  In spite of his age and infirmity and running through the streets he seemed ready to talk at considerable length. She gave him six pesos, knowing it was too much, just to get rid of him.

  She put the box on the coffee table, wondering why Wilma, who always made such a fuss about being charged for extraweight baggage on planes, should have bought so heavy an object, and for whom it was intended. Probably for herself, Amy thought. Wilma rarely squan­dered money on other people unless she was in an elated mood, and God knew there was no evidence of that on this trip.

  She opened the box. The initials were on the inside of the lid, engraved so elaborately that she had difficulty deciphering them. R.J.K.

  “R.J.K.’’ She repeated the letters aloud as if to clarify them and to conjure up an image to match them. But the only R.J.K. she could think of was Rupert, and it didn’t seem likely that Wilma would buy so expensive a gift for Rupert. Most of the time Amy’s husband and her best friend were barely civil to each other.

  3.

  It was Sunday afternoon when Wilma awoke from her long sleep. She felt weak and hungry, but her mind was extraordinarily clear, as if a storm had passed through her during the night leaving the inner air fresh and clean.

  As she showered and dressed, it seemed to her for the first time in many years that life was very simple and logical. She wished there were somebody around to whom she could communicate this sudden revelation. But Amy had gone, leaving a note that she would be back at four, and the young waiter who brought her breakfast tray only grinned nervously when she tried to tell him how simple life was.

  “When you’re tired, you sleep.”

  “Si, señora.”

  “When you’re hungry, you eat. Simple, logical, basic.”“Si, señora, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Wilma said. “Go away.”

  The waiter had almost ruined her revelation, but not quite. She opened the balcony doors and addressed the warm, sunny afternoon: “I shall be absolutely basic all day. No fuss, no frills, no getting upset. I must concen­trate only on the essentials.”

  The first essential was, obviously, food. She was hun­gry, she would eat.

  She removed the cover from the ham and eggs. They were black with pepper, and the tomato juice tasted strongly of limes. Why in God’s name did they have to put lime juice on everything? It was difficult enough to be basic, without fools and incompetents thwarting you at every corner.

  I am hungry, I will eat turned into I am hungry, I must eat and finally I’ll eat if it kills me. By that time she was no longer hungry. The revelation joined its many predecessors in oblivion and life once more became, as it always had been for Wilma, complex and bewildering.

  Later in the afternoon Amy returned with an armload of packages. She found Wilma in the sitting room reading a copy of the Mexico City News and drinking a Scotch and soda.

  Wilma peered over the top of her spectacles. “Buy any­thing interesting?”

  “Just a few little things for Gill’s children. The stores were jammed. It seems funny, everyone shopping on Sunday.” She put her packages on the coffee table be­side the silver box. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right. I must have passed out like a light after the doctor gave me that junk.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do all evening?”

  “Nothing.”

  Wilma looked faintly exasperated. “You can’t have done nothing. Nobody does nothing.”

  “I do. I did.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I didn’t have any.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was—upset.” Amy sat down stiffly on the edge of a green leather chair. “The box came.”

  “So I see.”

  “It looks very expensive.”

  “It was,” Wilma said. “The least they could have done was wrap it. My purchases are my own private business.”

  “Not this one.”

  “Obviously not.” Wilma tossed the newspaper on the floor and took off her spectacles. She couldn’t read with­out the spectacles, since she was far-sighted, but she could see across the room better without them. Amy’s face looked pale and numb. “I gather you noticed the initials?”

  “Yes.”

  “And concluded, of course, that Rupert and I are madly in love; that we have, in fact, been carrying on an affair for years and years behind your . . .”

  “Shut up,” Amy said. “I hear the girl in the bedroom.”

  Consuela had let herself in with her passkey and was now making up the beds. Her shoulders slumped and her feet dragged from weariness because she’d had a fight with her boyfriend that had lasted well into the night. The cause of the fight was, to Consuela, absolutely ridic­ulous. All she did was pilfer a black nylon slip from 411, but her boyfriend became very angry and told her she would lose her job and accused her of trying to steal the smell off a goat if she got the chance. Besides all that, the slip had been too small for her and she’d torn the seams attempting to force it over her hips.

  Life was unfair. Life was cruel as a bull’s horn. Con­suela groaned as she changed the sheets, and made small suffering sounds as she slopped a little water around the washbasin. Why would I steal the smell off a goat?

  “You’re jealous,” Wilma said softly. “Is that it?”

  “Of course not. It just doesn’t seem proper to me. And if Gill finds out he’ll make a big fuss about it.”

  “Don’t tell him, then.”

  “I never tell him things. But he always finds out in some way.”

  “Why do you still care what your brother thinks, at your age and weight?”

  “He can cause a lot of trouble,” Amy said. “He’s al­ways been suspicious of Rupert anyway. I don’t know why.”

  “I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it. You probably wouldn’t even listen.”

  “Then why bother telling me?”

  “I’m
not going to.” Wilma finished her drink. “So you don’t care whether I give Rupert the box, just so long as Gill doesn’t find out about it. That’s very funny.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t. And I don’t see why you had to buy such an expensive gift in the first place.”

  “Because I wanted to. You wouldn’t understand. You haven’t done anything because you wanted to in your whole life. I have. I do. I saw this box in the window of a little shop and it reminded me of something Rupert said once, that the sea looked like hammered silver. I never really understood what he meant until I saw the box. So I bought it. I simply went in and bought it, without thinking of money, or you, or Gill, or all your weird, com­plicated…”

  “Not so loud. The girl . . .”

  “The hell with the girl. The hell with the box, too. Take the damn thing and throw it over the balcony!”

  “We can’t very well do that,” Amy said quietly. “There are too many people on the street. Someone might get hurt.”

  “But that’s what you’d like to do, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, admit it. Admit something for a change. You want to get rid of the box.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Do it then. Chuck the thing over the railing. That’ll be the end of it. And good, good riddance.”

  In the bedroom Consuela let out a little bleat of pro­test. To throw a silver box out into the street like gar­bage would be a terrible sin. Suppose someone very rich saw it falling through the air and caught it and became even richer—Consuela groaned at the thought of such injustice and cursed herself for her stupidity in pretend­ing to the two ladies that she couldn’t speak English. Now she could not present herself to them and state her case: I am a very poor and very humble peasant. Sometimes I am even tempted to steal. . . .

  No, that would not have been good, giving them ideas about her stealing. Perhaps it was just as well that she had pretended not to know English. This way she could simply confront the ladies, looking very poor and humble and honest, and they might offer to give her the box.

  Consuela glanced in the mirror above the bureau. How did one go about looking honest? It was not easy.

  She picked up the carpet sweeper and headed for the sitting room, already making plans for the silver box. She would sell it and buy lottery tickets for tomorrow’s draw­ing. Then, on Tuesday morning when her winning num­ber was published in the papers, she would tell her boyfriend to go kiss a goat, thumb her nose at the hotel man­ager, and leave immediately for Hollywood where she would have her hair bleached and walk among the movie stars.

  She spoke in Spanish, sounding very poor and humble. “If the good ladies will excuse me, I have come to clean the room.”

  “Tell her to go away and come back later,” Wilma said.

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

  “I thought you took Spanish in high school.”

  “That was over fifteen years ago and only for a semes­ter.”

  “Well, find the book of common phrases for tourists.”

  “We—I left it on the plane.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Well, get rid of her some way.”

  Consuela had discovered the silver box on the coffee table and was making excited noises over its beauty, its craftsmanship, and the number of lottery tickets it was worth.

  “She must be talking about the box,” Amy said.

  “Let her talk.”

  “If you’re just going to throw it away anyway, you could give it to her instead.”

  “I could,” Wilma said, “but I won’t. And who said I intended throwing it away?”

  “You did. You practically promised.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I said if you wanted to throw it away you were to go ahead and do it. But you didn’t have enough nerve, so you lost your chance. The box is mine. I bought it for Rupert and I’m giving it to Rupert.”

  Consuela, cheated out of her blond hair and her movie stars, squawked in protest and held her hand against her heart as if it were breaking.

  Wilma glared at her. “Go away. We’re busy. Come back later.”

  “Oh, you are a wicked one,” Consuela moaned in Span­ish. “A selfish one, a bad one. Oh, may you spend eternity in hell.”

  “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “Oh, I wish you could, you black witch with the evil eye. Children grow pale and sicken when you look at them. Dogs put their tails between their legs and slink away. . . .”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Wilma said, addressing Amy. “I’m going to the bar.”

  “Alone?”

  “You’re perfectly welcome to come along.”

  “It’s so early, barely five o’clock.”

  “Then stay here. If you can dig up some of that high school Spanish of yours, I’m sure you and the girl can have a ball.”

  “Wilma, don’t drink too much when you’re in this mood. It will only depress you.”

  “I’m already depressed,” Wilma said. “You depress me.”

  At seven o’clock Amy set out to look for her.

  The hotel operated two bars, an elaborate one on the roof with a lively orchestra, and a smaller one be­tween the lobby and the dining room for people who preferred martinis without music. Amy tipped the ele­vator boy two pesos and asked him what direction Wilma had taken.

  “Your friend in the fur coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “First she went up to the roof garden. A little time later she came down again. She said the marimbas made it too noisy to talk.”

  “Talk?” Amy said. “To whom?”

  “The American.”

  “What American?”

  “He hangs around the bar. He is what you call home­sick, for New York. He likes to talk to other Americans. He is harmless,” the boy added with a shrug. “A no­body.”

  They were at a table in a corner of the crowded bar, Wilma and the harmless American, a dark-skinned, blond-haired young man in a garish green and brown striped sport coat. Wilma was doing the talking and the young man was listening and smiling, a trained profes­sional smile without warmth or interest. He looked harm­less enough, Amy thought. And he probably was—except to Wilma. Two marriages and two divorces had taught Wilma nothing about men; she was both too suspicious and too gullible, too aggressive and too vulnerable.

  Amy crossed the room uncertainly, wanting to turn back, but wanting even more to be reassured that Wilma was all right, not drunk, not nervous. This is the wrong place for her. Tomorrow we’ll go to Cuernavaca as the doctor suggested. It will be more restful, there will be no homesick Americans.

  “Why there you are,” Wilma said, very loudly and gaily. “Come on, sit down. I’d like you to meet a fellow San Franciscan. Joe O’Donnell, Amy Kellogg.”

  Amy acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod and sat down. “So you’re from San Francisco, Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “That’s right. But call me Joe. Everybody does.”

  “I somehow got the impression you were from New York.”

  O’Donnell laughed and said easily, “Woman’s intui­tion?”

  “Partly.”

  “Partly the sport jacket, maybe. I had it tailored in New York. Brooks Brothers.”

  Brooks Brothers, my foot, Amy thought. “Indeed? How interesting.”

  “Let’s have a drink,” Wilma said. “You sound too sober, Amy dear. Sober and mad. You’re always getting mad; you just don’t show it like the rest of us.”

  “Oh, stop it, Wilma. I’m not mad.”

  “Yes, you are.” Wilma turned to O’Donnell and put her hand on his sleeve. “You want to know what she’s mad about? Do you?”

  “I can take it or leave it,” O’Donnell said lightly.<
br />
  “Sure you want to know.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “A little. A very very very little. Make up your mind. Do you want me to tell you what she’s mad about?”

  “All right, spill it and get it over with.”

  “She thinks—Amy is always thinking, it’s a very bad habit—she thinks I have designs on her husband because I bought him a silver box.”

  O’Donnell grinned. “And have you?”

  “Of course not,” Wilma said vigorously. “Rupert’s like a brother to me. Besides, I like to buy things for people. Sometimes, when I’m feeling good, that is. Other times I get depressed and stingy and I wouldn’t give the time of day to a blind man.”

  “Right now you’re feeling good, eh?”

  “Very good. Let me buy you a drink. Or perhaps you’d like a silver box?”

  “We could start with the drink.”

  “O.K. Waiter! Waiter! Three tequilas with lime.”

  “Wilma,” Amy said. “Listen. Why don’t we go and have dinner?”

  “Later, later. I’m not hungry right now.”

  “I am.”

  “You go and have dinner, then.”

  “No. I’ll wait for you.”

  “All right, wait. Just don’t sit there looking mad. Try to be cheerful.”

  “I’m trying,” Amy said grimly, “harder than you think.”

  O’Donnell’s smile was becoming a little strained. The evening wasn’t turning out as he’d planned—a few free drinks, some talk, perhaps a small loan. One woman he could usually handle nicely. Two women, especially two women who didn’t like each other, might become a burden. He wished there were some quick, quiet way of ditching them both without any hurt feelings. Hurt feelings could result in complaints to the man­ager, and he didn’t want the welcome mat pulled out from under him. The bar was his headquarters. He never got into any trouble. The Americans who came in were always glad to set up drinks for a fellow Friscan or New Yorker or Chicagoan or Angeleno or Milwaukeean or Denverite. Some of the cities he claimed as home he had visited. The others he’d read about or heard about. He’d never been to San Francisco but he’d seen many pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman’s Wharf and the cable cars. That was enough real information. The rest he could fake, including an address if he was asked for one. He always used the same address, Garden Street, because every city had a Garden Street.