The Girl With the Jade Green Eyes

by John Boyd

  B.S.

  He had not noticed before how appropriate Slade’s initials were, and he knew when he read the note that he would not see Slade Tuesday. Slade used cover stories as a conditioned reflex, and the only thing one could be sure of about a cover story was that it was not true. Also Slade’s absence explained why there had been no afternoon lecture to Kyra’s interviewers—there had been no Friday interviews. Kyra had left Seattle and her entire security force had gone with her, with one exception, Breedlove.

  He went upstairs to inspect his new lodgings and found them rather unusual for a family motel. The suite held two bedrooms separated by a spacious living room containing in addition to the standard furnishings a small open-leaf table for intimate dining and a sparsely stocked bookshelf. The living room opened onto a balcony directly above the swimming pool. Flanking and overarching the balcony, the artificial coconut palms gave a tropical touch to the scene.

  He easily determined from Slade’s title, “the ready room,” which of the two bedrooms was his. It had red carpets, orange walls, and purple drapes. Long, phallicized bedlamps on two-ball bases flanked the king-sized bed, and a bifurcated rump pillow of hymen pink lay atop the purple bedspread. A huge mirror was anchored to the ceiling above the bed. Kyra’s bedroom was more tastefully decorated, and her bathroom was entered through a large dressing room.

  As it developed, he would have almost six days to grow inured to the bedroom’s ghastliness, and each day added an increment to his loneliness and anxiety in the semi-deserted building. Each day of Kyra’s absence postponed her hearing, and he could sense the solstice rushing down on the northern hemisphere like an express train.

  He augmented the collection of books on the shelf by shopping at used-book stores, balancing the Bible with The Golden Bough, Uncle Tom’s Cabin with Gone with the Wind. He felt somewhat sheepish for shopping at the literary equivalent of a Salvation Army counter for so elegant a girl as Kyra, but he had decided to buy her the Polinski Creation, and he had to save money somewhere.

  Once on a book-buying expedition he splurged, getting her a brand-new Pelican edition of Shakespeare and a copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology. On the flyleaf of the latter, he wrote, “Kyra, read about Merope on page 186. That is you. T.B.”

  Evenings he spent mostly in the bar, nursing a drink and talking woods lore with a bartender who was a summer outdoorsman and who seemed particularly entertained by Breedlove’s tales of the Quinault Indians. On Wednesday he called Abe Cohen, who assured him the hearing would “probably be sometime this week.”

  “The week’s half gone and they haven’t brought her back. Aren’t they dragging their feet?”

  “Not as much as usual. If they held the hearing in mid—June, it’d be setting a track record.”

  On Thursday morning he was awakened by Kyra tweaking his toes beneath the covers and calling, “ ‘Up, lad; thews that lie and cumber sunlit pallets never thrive.’ ”

  He jackknifed to a sitting position to see her seated crosslegged at the foot of his bed, wearing navy-blue slacks and a white sailor’s tunic unbuttoned at the neck to reveal a golden tan. She had pulled the drapes, and sunlight flooded the room.

  “Who’s been quoting Housman to you?”

  “A cute little bluejacket in Diego.”

  “What were you doing in San Diego?”

  “The Navy is training porpoises for undersea rescue operations and wanted me to analyze their language with my acoustic converter.”

  So here had been the reason for Slade’s exultation,—he had instantly spotted a use for the device that would gain Kyra the Navy’s vote.

  “Were you able to talk with the dolphins?”

  “Oh, yes. They have a simple language, mostly sailor talk, ‘Ahoy, there… Man overboard… Watch out for the doggamned propellers!’ I didn’t eat on the plane, Breedlove, so we could eat together, and I’ve ordered breakfast sent up.”

  “Thank you. That’s a beautiful tan. Your complexion would let you pass for any ordinary, shapely, indescribably charming earth woman.”

  “I got lots of sun. That’s a fantastic collection of books in the living room, and I’ll kiss you for comparing me to Merope as soon as you’re shaved.” She arched her neck and looked up at the mirror above his bed. “What an odd place for a mirror!” Then she looked at him, almost accusingly, and said, “Breedlove, you belong to a weird species. Now, get shaved and dressed. Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  He emerged into the living room only a few moments before a maid wheeled a serving table in and unfolded the leaf table. She was about Kyra’s age and size. Her coppery skin, twin-plaited black hair, and the slogging motion of feet accustomed to moccasins told him she was Indian, but there was about her too a tantalizing familiarity. He studied her covertly until a memory returned to him of a little girl, five years ago, on the Quinault Indian Reservation, the sister of the youth who had acted as Breedlove’s guide.

  “Fawn Davies! How did you get here?”

  She was pleased that he recognized her.

  “I was going to beauty school,” she told him, “and yesterday a man came in and hired me for this job. When I get here each morning, Mr. Slade wants you and me to exchange a few remarks in the language of my people.”

  “Why does the chief warrior wish this?” he asked her in the Quinault dialect.

  “He fears a warrior greater than he from beyond the sunset who might come to take Kyra wearing my face,” Fawn answered in her tongue.

  “Can you imagine,” he turned to Kyra, “that Slade’s afraid some Oriental disguised as Fawn might slip into these quarters and kidnap you?”

  “Fear is Ben’s stock in trade,” she said. “When he can’t find it, he invents it.”

  Over breakfast she described her excursion to San Diego, where she had been taken out to sea in a Navy barge to swim with trained dolphins. “They have a terrific sense of humor and really love one another—or any other mammal that gets in loving distance.”

  Her skittering, breathless narrative was interrupted by three quick raps on the door. Slade entered, carrying a briefcase. In Kyra’s presence the security chief’s manner was courtly. He inquired about her breakfast with the interest of a chef inquiring about his own culinary creation and asked if her new quarters met with her approval.

  “Our rooms are lovely, but you’ve taken my horizon and given me two potted palms.”

  “You’ll not have to tolerate them long, ma’am. Your hearing is tomorrow at ten, and you’ve won the Navy vote with the dolphin caper. The commissioner’s name is Hunsaker. He has the power to veto your request, but he won’t, because the committee’s going to okay it and Hunsaker’s too cautious to assume sole responsibility for the committee’s action. He’ll forward the approval to the President, who can okay it or hand it back to the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy, but he should approve it. You may get a ‘No’ vote from Norcross, who commands the North American Air Defense. He once bragged that an acorn couldn’t fall in his air space without showing on his radar. Now that you’ve landed a spaceship undetected, the scrambled eggs he used to wear on his hat are on his face,—but if you can charm him into a ‘Yes’ vote, it’ll make the President’s approval easier. Your permit should be signed by Tuesday, and you should be on your way by Wednesday.”

  Listening to the quiet confidence in Slade’s words, Breedlove felt no elation. Instead he felt sad and morose over Kyra’s imminent departure. He was not alone in his dejection.

  Three tentative raps sounded on the door, and Kyra called, “Come in, Little Richard.”

  Turpin entered, greeted the group, and Kyra said, “Pull up a chair while I pour you coffee. Ben tells me I’ll be leaving Wednesday.”

  “I wish you would stay with us,” Turpin said. “The world has need of you.”

  “Now for the best news of all,” Slade said, opening his briefcase and speaking directly to Kyra. “To get a seat at the petition hearing, the State Department has designated you a �
��head of state.’ That status entitles you to a credit card issued by State. The cover story is that you and Breedlove are newlyweds in town on your honeymoon. You’ll have the freedom of the city under covert surveillance, which means you’ll be guarded unobtrusively. As your husband, Breedlove will carry the credit card, but you’ll have control of the purchases, and whatever you buy will be a gift to you from the people of the United States.”

  It was a subtle ploy to cement Kyra’s allegiance to the country, Breedlove felt, but it was nevertheless generous.

  “We’re off to Mason’s, Breedlove,” Kyra said, “to buy you know what.”

  “For you, Breedlove, there’s one proviso,” Slade began, shuffling through his papers, when Laudermilk entered without knocking and said, “Good morning, folks. This cat’s come to look at the queen.”

  “Take a seat on the sofa, Gravy,” Kyra said, “and pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

  Slade had taken a document from his papers and began to read: “ ‘At all time the head of state’s escort will observe appropriate behavior in the presence of the visiting dignitary, showing proper deference to the emissary’s status—’ ”

  “That means no hanky-panky, Breedlove.” Laudermilk interjected.

  “ ‘—and at all times his manner shall be friendly, helpful, cheerful, and reserved.’ ”

  With a ceremonial bow Slade handed Breedlove the credit card. “You’re also entitled to sit on Kyra’s left at the hearing tomorrow, but sit is all. The pleading will be handled by Abe Cohen. Here’s another prop for the cover story.” He took two wedding bands from the briefcase. Breedlove’s was the larger and heavier of the two rings. “You can place the ring on Kyra’s finger, but I’ll kiss the bride.”

  “I’ll put the ring on her finger, but the articles of protocol apply to you also.”

  Breedlove slipped the ring on her finger. She held it out admiringly and said, “Now, Breedlove, we can go shopping, and Saturday you can take me to the lake in the mountains.”

  “Splendid. We’ll drive up.”

  “No, I’ll fly you up in a helicopter,” Laudermilk said. “Where Kyra goes, we all go. Breedlove, you’re the official eunuch.”

  Laudermilk was jocular, but Breedlove’s expendability was given official weight by Slade, who unfolded a map of the city on the coffee table to plot Kyra’s shopping tour. If Kyra was threatened by an armed assailant at any point on the tour, Slade explained, Breedlove, as her closest guard, was to interpose his body between the assailant’s weapon and Kyra. “Security is a split-second business. In the time it takes the hostile to waste you, we can liquidate him before he hits Kyra.”

  Mason’s, the only Seattle store offering the Polinski Creation, opened at ten. Breedlove and Kyra would arrive at the store at 10:37 in an unmarked green sedan driven by a former member of the Green Beret. After she had finished shopping, the three other members of her bodyguard would join her for lunch at the Mandarin Palace. With its wide selection of vegetables, Chinese food should appeal to her, and the atmosphere would give her some idea of the varied life styles on earth.

  Afterward, at Kyra’s suggestion, they would go to a bookstore to augment the library Breedlove had selected for her. She wanted more scientific volumes. After the afternoon’s shopping Breedlove suggested dinner at Pierre’s, overlooking Puget Sound. At a French restaurant that featured old-fashioned cheek-to-cheek dancing, he felt he could review for her the recent history of social dancing and broaden her knowledge of world cuisine. Slade postponed the visit to Pierre’s until Friday night. Abe Cohen was coming by the motel this evening to interview Kyra for tomorrow’s hearing.

  After plotting the tour, Slade left for the command room on the first floor to instruct the security guard on the day’s activities. Kyra excused herself to go to her room and dress. As she walked from the room, Breedlove noticed that Turpin’s gaze followed her and focused on her hair, while Laudermilk’s gaze followed her and focused on the sway of her hips.

  “I’d die for that woman,” Turpin said.

  “I’d rather live for her,” Laudermilk said, “and be her man for all seasons, particularly the early summer season.”

  Obviously Kyra had won the hearts of her bodyguard, Breedlove told himself. Turpin’s admiration verged on idolatry, possibly because he was religious and it was his nature to worship something, and Kyra responded to his adoration with gentle sensitivity. After she learned of his practice of saying grace before each meal, Breedlove discovered, Kyra had taught Turpin the Lord’s Prayer in Kanabian, and with that gesture she had earned his fealty. Laudermilk’s attraction to her was more pragmatic.

  An atmosphere of wealth hung over the exclusive dress department at Mason’s. A uniformed guard stood at the entrance. No dresses hung on racks in the plushly carpeted area. All the garments were fitted on manikins, and even the manikins were patrician,—here Breedlove saw his first dummy with gray hair. Nowhere could he see a price tag.

  He and Kyra were the only customers in the showroom. As they wandered among the displays, a woman wearing a panache of dignity glided up. About thirty, she was trim and poised, with well-groomed hair framing an aristocratic face.

  “Good morning. I’m Annette Duchamps. I’d be happy to serve you.” Her softly modulated voice carried a trace of a French accent.

  “My name’s Breedlove. This is my wife, Kyra. You advertised a Polinski Creation.”

  “Indeed. A masterpiece from a master designer and the only one offered in the Pacific Northwest. If you and Kyra would be seated”—she waved them toward an intimate settee near the window—“it will only take me a moment to bring the item from our humidity-controlled storage room.”

  When they sat their knees touched and Kyra said, “Remove your knee, Breedlove.”

  “Why?”

  “Protocol.” She laughed and stroked his leg. “I can fondle you, but you can’t touch me.”

  “What are you going to do with all your clothes?” he asked as she gave his knee a final pat.

  “Matty can have them, all except the Polinski Creation. I plan to take it and my Bulfinch as keepsakes of earth.”

  Annette returned, bearing the garment in her arms.

  “Our model will be here shortly to demonstrate the features of the Polinski Creation, but first I want you to feel its fabric. The skirt is made from genuine Irish linen reinforced with starched damask to give it crispness, buoyancy, and a sparkling Bopeep effect. The jacket is lined with silk to offer the ultimate in caressing intimacy, yet as you can see, Kyra, it manages to capture that casual, nonchalant flair.”

  Annette was giving a prepared lecture much as he gave to park audiences, but he had never had such an attentive listener. Fingering the material, Kyra nodded agreement. Beside her Breedlove felt the poignancy of the moment grow almost unbearable. She who looked at the dress with such feminine longing would wear it no more than three times in the setting it was designed for. It would strengthen her affinity for a planet she had grown to love and must soon be leaving.

  She was an airy Moses given only a glimpse of the Promised Land. Soon an iron door would clang shut, and she would have to resume an awesome hegira across a void that might reach to infinity and still deny her a home. At the moment his compassion would have made him willing to cry to her, “Stay,” and, like Faust, exchange man’s destiny for Kyra’s knowledge and beauty, but she was not Mephistopheles and did not wish to barter for his soul.

  From no selfish motive, he decided, he would not let the dress be a gift to her from the people of the United States. He wanted it to come from Thomas Breedlove, from one man to one woman as a meaningful gift of love, and he would buy the dress for her. He would like to get the price down, but up or down he intended to pay the bill.

  With long, jerky strides a model strode from the fitting area, pacing and swirling before them. About Kyra’s size, she wore a platinum wig and green contact lenses. The make-up was an impressive bit of stage business which no doubt upped the pri
ce of the garment, but the performance created a paradox. While the model paraded before them in an exclusive Polinski Creation, Kyra held a duplicate of the garment on her lap.

  “Notice the lilt and swirl of the skirt, assertive yet effervescent, and the casual drape of the jacket revealing the peekaboo V of the blouse—”

  “Hold it, Annette,” Breedlove interrupted. “You said this was an exclusive creation, and I can see two of them before me. If I’m laying out over seven hundred dollars for a yard or so of cloth, I don’t want my wife to be meeting herself when she walks down the street.”

  “Mr. Breedlove, I said it’s the only one of its kind sold in the Pacific Northwest. If Kyra buys it, only her size will be selected. The remaining dresses will be held for six months and remaindered by our outlets in Fresno and Tucson. Kyra will never see anyone in Seattle wearing a duplicate of this dress, I assure you.”

  “But they’re identical. They must be machine-made, so they can’t be all that exclusive.”

  “It’s the pattern that is exclusive, and the dresses are not made by machines. They are handsewn by seamstresses in Warsaw.”

  “What if there’s a defect in workmanship?”

  “The value of the garment would actually increase. A defective Polinski Creation is a collector’s item… Notice the snugness of the waistline, Kyra. The hugging effect gives one the feeling of being loved. Kyra, this dress is you!”

  With a dramatic gesture she leaned down and lifted the dress from Kyra’s lap. Involuntarily Kyra’s hands grasped the garment before she reluctantly let it trail from her hands. Annette was not taking it from her. She was merely holding it at arm’s length, tantalizing Kyra with its nearness as the model wheeled and strutted on the floor.

  “Enough, Mona,” Annette called to the Kyra-like model, who wheeled and strode from the showroom.

  Speaking now to Breedlove, the saleswoman said, “I’ll leave you alone with the Polinski Creation. I realize it is a family investment and that such matters should be discussed privately.” She laid the dress on a pattern table.