Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  "Well, there were youth camps. Some were good, most weren't so good. When things got tough—in the middle of the winter, maybe, or when I was sick—I'd head for one of the good ones. But I never stayed. I'm not sure why—some sort of independent streak, I guess."

  "But you're so well educated—Shakespeare, Chekhov—when did you have time to learn?"

  I laughed and sipped my juice. "Time has never been my problem, Kathy. I often wish it was. See, I don't sleep very much. Maybe an hour or two a night. The rest of the time I've got nothing to do but read and learn and think. I'm a mutant, I suppose, but it's not the sort of thing one complains about to fellow mutants.

  "One other mutation that I sometimes wish I didn't have: I don't forget. I read something, and it stays with me. My mind is stuffed full of all this useless information, like an attic where nothing ever gets thrown away. You wanna do a scene from The Seagull? How about the awful monologue Konstantin wrote for Nina: 'Men, lions, eagles, and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that dwell in the water, starfishes and creatures that cannot be seen by the eye—all living things, all living things, all living things, having completed their cycle of sorrow, are extinct.' That about sums up modern life, huh?"

  Kathy continued. "'In me the consciousness of men is blended with the instincts of the animals, and I remember all, all, all! And I live through every life over again in myself.'"

  "That's me, all right. It's a sad little irony of my life, Kathy, that I would like nothing better than to forget my past, but I can't. I simply can't. It's all there, waiting for me every night when the rest of the world is asleep."

  "I'm terribly sorry, Walter. I didn't know—"

  "Quit apologizing. There's not much left, anyway. Eventually the government got working again, and I was drafted. I spent a couple of boring years as a soldier, and then I went back to Boston. I figured it was about time I did something with myself, and so I decided to give the private-eye business a try."

  Kathy looked puzzled. "The private-eye business?"

  I stared at her, and I realized that I had never exactly explained it to her. It wasn't all that obvious, apparently. "I'm a private investigator, Kathy—or at least I pretend to be. Lineal descendant of Sam Spade, Lew Archer, Philip Marlowe. Friend of the distressed, foe of the distressor. I ran an ad in the local paper, and I commandeered an office in an abandoned building, and I waited for clients. Winfield was the first one that came along."

  I half expected her to laugh, but she didn't. "Do you think you'll be a good private eye?" she asked.

  I considered. "I'm not doing very well so far, I'm afraid. A private eye should be in control of things, I think, and I sure haven't felt that way yet about this case. Instead, I feel as if something is taking its course, and I'm just standing around watching—or worse, as if I've been made a sort of unwitting agent in the thing, helping it along when required, shoved aside otherwise."

  Kathy was crying again—abruptly, unexpectedly. She rubbed at the tears vainly with her fist. "I'm sure you're mistaken," she whispered.

  I made a forlorn gesture. Her sorrow was catching. I stared at the tomato juice, stared out the window, bared my soul. "I decided to become a private eye because I figured a private eye could change things, could make a difference," I said. "Oh, he can't change history, he can't rebuild America, but who can? At least he can help a few people who need help. But I'm beginning to think even that's asking too much, that I've been deluding myself with fantasies out of popular fiction. Maybe the pull of events is as strong for people as it is for nations. Maybe what's going on between your father and Winfield is as uncontrollable as—as war, as fallout. You told me on the train that you had become an actress so you could find the right role. I think I'm acting, too, Kathy—looking for a role. But I'm also beginning to think maybe it isn't worth it, maybe there are no roles worth playing. Maybe all we should do is duck the fallout and try to stay alive."

  Surprisingly, my speech did little to cheer Kathy up. "Oh, don't say that, Walter," she sobbed, "don't say that." And she came over from the sofa and buried her face in my lap. I put my tomato juice down. I stroked her black hair. I felt her body convulsing with an anguish I didn't understand. Reality was too complicated. I didn't know what to do, and so I waited.

  And eventually Kathy got to her feet and took my hand, and we went into her bedroom together. She undid a button or two and pulled the nightgown over her head. She was naked except for the gold chain her father had given her, and her nakedness almost stopped my heart. She lay back on the bed and waited. I took off my clothes and lay next to her. We kissed, and our bodies came together.

  My hands moved over and over her flesh, as if unwilling to believe that this awful world could produce such beauty—and that the world would let me touch that flesh, that the person inside that flesh would think me worthy. That the person would think my own flesh worth touching, her need as strong as my own.

  And so another dream came true, more or less. In the dream I had never kissed away her tears—she was too perfect to cry. In the dream, entering her flesh was like entering a new world, a world of warmth and happiness and hope, where I could leave my past like a shed skin far, far behind. Reality, as always, was different, but reality had its own pleasures. I experienced them all that night, and I would not have traded that night, those pleasures, for any dream.

  Chapter 26

  I was staring at Kathy when she woke up. She smiled at me. "Were you awake all night?" she asked.

  "I dozed off a bit, that's all."

  "What did you think about?"

  "I was thinking that I'm probably the luckiest guy in the world."

  She kissed me on the cheek. "Why don't we go over to your hotel and get your things?"

  "Okay, but there may be trouble. Winfield and I owe them a good bit of money by now."

  "Oh, I forgot. How much?"

  "I've lost track. Eighty pounds or so."

  Kathy shook her head. "Haven't got it."

  Thinking about that hotel room made me very uncomfortable. "I suppose I could at least check out and keep the bill from getting any higher," I said. "Maybe they'll let me have my clothes, anyway."

  Kathy ran a hand over my chest. "Why don't we just forget about it for today? Let's just stay here and be happy. It's a holiday, after all."

  That was certainly okay with me. "Great. Um, what holiday is it, by the way?"

  She laughed. "Boxing Day, Walter. It used to be about giving gifts to your household staff or the poor or something, but now it's just a way of surviving your Christmas hangover."

  "Ah. Sounds like a wonderful holiday."

  "It will be this year, anyway." She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and we forgot about the hotel bill and the holiday and everything else.

  * * *

  We went out and got some food and a newspaper, then returned to the flat and had a late breakfast. Christmas hadn't changed the world much:

  TYPHOID EPIDEMIC SWEEPING MEDITERRANEAN STATES

  NEW ULSTER ACCORD SEEN POSSIBLE BY SPRING

  NERVE GAS REPORTEDLY USED IN MIDEAST CONFLICT

  CHRISTMAS DAY SHOOTING IN SHREWSBURY: MURDER HUNT FOR YOUTH'S KILLER

  TIPS ON USING THOSE CHRISTMAS LEFTOVERS

  I wasn't interested in any of it, although Kathy appeared to be. She stared at the newspaper long after I had given up and returned to staring at her. "I saw those same headlines in a thirty-year-old paper once," I said finally. "They aren't worth memorizing."

  Kathy looked up at me, startled, and then smiled. "I'm sorry, Walter. I was just daydreaming."

  "About what?"

  "Oh, about the future."

  "Stick to the present. It's safer."

  "I suppose you're right."

  I reached out and caressed her hand.

  There was a knock on the door. Kathy clutched at me. "I'm not expecting anyone," she whispered.

  I got up from the table and went to open the door.

  It was
Inspector Grimby. He did not look pleased to see me. "Ah, Mr. Sands, I was wondering where I might find you," he said. "You haven't been at your hotel since yesterday."

  "Has a crime been committed?" I asked. "I have an alibi."

  He glanced at my rumpled clothes with distaste. "Indeed. May I come in? I'd like to speak to Miss Cornwall, if she's here."

  I stepped aside, and Grimby entered. Kathy was standing by the door to the kitchenette, looking worried. "Have you found out anything, Inspector?"

  "Nothing of great consequence, but I had to come in to London today, so I thought I'd look in on you and tell you what we know. I also called at the Guilford Hotel, but you are apparently aware of the situation there."

  Kathy blushed. "Won't you sit down?"

  Grimby sat on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea. I sat opposite him. He looked as if he were about to protest, but he said nothing.

  "No word of my father, then?" Kathy asked when she brought in the tea.

  "I'm afraid not, Miss Cornwall. The local police have conducted inquiries, but have turned up nothing. Unfortunately, it's difficult to say how thorough their inquiries have been. Since your father is not wanted for a crime and is not apparently the victim of foul play, I doubt that searching for him would rank high on their list of priorities."

  "I see. What about Winfield?"

  "Well, we've had a little more luck there, although actually it does seem to complicate matters." Grimby reached into his breast pocket and took out the photograph Kathy had given him. He handed it over to her. "The owner of a pub near your father's house recognized the snap," he said. "Winfield was at the pub on the night of the fire. Apparently the publican noted the resemblance to your father, who frequents the place."

  "How does that complicate matters?" Kathy asked.

  "Because Winfield didn't leave until after the fire began. The publican clearly remembers when people came in with news of the fire—it was a major occurrence, you may well understand. And he remembers that Winfield left immediately afterward—to watch the fire, or so the man thought."

  "But that isn't much of an alibi," Kathy pointed out. "You say the pub is nearby. Winfield could have left and come back, and no one would be likely to notice."

  "Possibly true, but the publican seems convinced otherwise. Apparently he kept his eye on Winfield, who was drinking heavily and being rather obnoxious. The publican tried to engage him in conversation, assuming that he was Professor Cornwall's son, and was apparently rebuffed in no uncertain terms."

  "Ms. Cornwall mentioned that her father got a phone call shortly before the fire," I pointed out. "Did anyone see Winfield use the phone?"

  Grimby shifted awkwardly. He hadn't thought to ask. "If Winfield was at the pub at the time of the fire, it doesn't matter if he made any calls or not, does it?" he demanded.

  "If you don't think Winfield started the fire, who do you think started it?" Kathy demanded in turn.

  Grimby's gaze moved in my direction.

  "Oh, but that's absurd," she said. "The fire wasn't set when I left the house. I went to the railway station, got Walter, returned to the house, and it was on fire."

  Grimby rubbed his finger alongside his mustache. "There is more to this case than meets the eye," he said. He had obviously been studying his lines.

  "Well, here's something you should consider," Kathy said. "My flat was broken into sometime on Christmas Day. The lock's all twisted—you can see for yourself. It wasn't a robbery—nothing was stolen. And it couldn't have been Walter, because he was with me all day. We think it was Winfield, trying to find out where my father might be."

  Grimby rubbed a little harder. "Difficult to prove that, though," he said.

  "You could dust for fingerprints," I suggested, trying to be helpful.

  Grimby glared at me. "And what would that prove?" he asked. "We don't have Winfield, so we don't have any prints to compare with whatever we might find here."

  "Cornwall's prints are probably available somewhere, for his security clearance," I responded. "And Winfield's prints may actually be the same as Cornwall's. Be interesting to find out, anyway."

  The idea was so absurd that Grimby couldn't bring himself to reply. He returned his attention to Kathy. "Miss Cornwall, we are still interested in finding this man Winfield, and I assure you that he will be questioned about all aspects of this affair when he is apprehended. Please try to be patient."

  "I'm afraid that I might be in danger," Kathy said. "Winfield sounds as though he may be mentally unbalanced."

  "I understand your concern. But believe me, we are doing all we can."

  Kathy stood up. "Well, thank you for taking the time to visit me, Inspector. I appreciate it."

  "Not at all." Grimby stood up too. "I'll be in touch if there are any new developments." He gave me a final glare for good measure, and then Kathy escorted him to the door.

  She was smiling when she came back. "He warned me about you just now," she said. "He says he can spot a bad one right away. And you're clearly a bad one."

  "It's true, I admit it. I was lurking in the bushes behind you when you left your father's house. I set the fire, then took a shortcut to the railway station so you could find me there. It was very clever of me, I thought."

  "And I was just beginning to trust you." She took the empty teacups out to the kitchenette.

  "You know," I said, "it sounds as if the police aren't looking very hard for your father. I was thinking—we could go look for him ourselves. I mean, I've spent my entire professional career tracking him down; there's no reason why I couldn't do it some more."

  Kathy came back into the living room. She sat on the sofa and closed her eyes. "I just don't know," she said after a while. "I mean, how seriously should I take all this? Rehearsals start again tomorrow, and classes start the day after that. Should I disrupt my life looking for him, if he's just on a binge somewhere?"

  "It's up to you. I could look for him by myself, I suppose."

  She opened her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, please, Walter, don't go anywhere. Just stay here with me."

  "Okay," I said, more than willing to do that. "I only thought—"

  "Look," she said, "we'll enjoy our holiday, and then tomorrow you can see about the hotel, and after rehearsal we can decide what to do about my father. Maybe he'll have shown up by then. Maybe everything will be fine."

  "All right," I agreed. I sat down next to her.

  She leaned her head against my shoulder and looked enormously relieved. "What shall we do with our holiday?" she asked.

  "Well, uh, you wouldn't by any chance be a Humphrey Bogart fan, would you?"

  * * *

  The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca were playing at Notting Hill Gate.

  Kathy hadn't seen The Maltese Falcon before. "Oh, but Casablanca..." she sighed.

  I admitted to being quite fond of The Maltese Falcon as a novel. I didn't know anything about Casablanca.

  "Well, it will be fun to compare our opinions," she decided.

  We went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner first. Strange, wonderful food. Wonderful companion. Kathy confessed that she had been attracted to me from the start. "I couldn't figure you out—still can't, I suppose. But I thought you were utterly charming, especially compared to Winfield."

  "I wish I had known," I said. "We wasted some lonely nights."

  Kathy nodded. "Christmas Eve, I sat at home by myself staring out the window. I thought it would be too forward to invite you over."

  I groaned. "I was sure you were out having a wonderful time with your boyfriend."

  She smiled. "No boyfriend, Walter. I've been working too hard at becoming an actress."

  "Do you think you'll make it?"

  "Oh, I expect I have the looks to get some work. But I want to be good. I'm hoping to apply to RADA next year—the Royal Academy, you know, very exclusive, and that's why I'm taking all these classes. I've got so much to learn. This Chekhov is only a student production, but it's my first really
big role, and I want so much to do it well."

  "You sound like Nina and Konstantin—desperate to be an artist."

  Kathy stared into her wonton soup. "Maybe I'm just desperate."

  Desperate to please her father, to prove her mother wrong? Maybe all of the above. I didn't want to press it. This was our holiday, after all. I covered her hand with mine, and eventually I got another smile.

  Later, we held hands in the darkness as the double feature began.

  The Maltese Falcon was every bit as good as the novel; the actors seemed to have been born to play those roles. Watching it, I felt the same old adolescent yearning I had felt when I first read the novel—the yearning to be tough and smart and honest, according to my code, and irresistible to good-looking women. The yearning to be in control of events. To have happy endings.

  I had read the novel on Boxing Day, too, I realized with a pang. And Gwen, not Kathy, had been by my side. I decided not to think about that just now.

  Kathy didn't share my enthusiasm for the movie. "I didn't expect the ending," she said quietly. "I kind of hoped—"

  "It's your standard trick ending," I explained. "Private-eye stories have to have trick endings."

  "They should have happy endings."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "But I guess maybe it's tough to have both."

  "I expect you're right."

  The lights in the theater dimmed, and Casablanca began.

  Casablanca did not have a particularly happy ending either—at least, boy did not get girl. But I thought it was a wonderful movie, and I fully concurred with Kathy's judgment. She was crying at the end. "They were in love," she sobbed. "They belonged together."

  "I guess sometimes love doesn't amount to a hill o' beans in this crazy mixed-up world."

  "Well, it should."

  I couldn't disagree with her. I was thrilled by the movies, but they didn't exactly leave us in a jolly mood. We rode the Tube in silence back to Kathy's flat and made slow, almost pensive love. Kathy held me tight afterward, but she still had nothing to say, and eventually sleep claimed her. I stayed with her for a long while, and then I wandered out to the living room.