by Vance, Jack
For want of any better occupation, Wayness pushed the teapot to the side, brought out paper and pen, and wrote another letter to her father and mother.
She concluded: “I find myself involved in a gigantic game of paper chase, played to occasionally unpleasant rules. At the moment I am hard against a certain Irena Portils, who stands between me and Adrian Moncurio (an old friend of Uncle Pirie, by some strange chance, or perhaps it is not so strange after all). This information, incidentally, is highly confidential, and must not be discussed with anyone but Glawen, for whom I hopefully enclose another note. Sooner or later I suppose I will discover what has been happening.”
In her note to Glawen, she again mentioned Irena Portils. “I don’t know how to approach her. She seems to be hyper-neurotic, whatever that means.
“I wish this business were over. I find myself continually confused and baffled; I am walking around inside a kaleidoscope.
“But I am not really complaining. When I look back I can actually find cause for encouragement. Step by step, inch by inch, I make progress. I must repeat that I am not at all pleased with Julian. He may or may not be a murderer, but he is many other things.
“In regard to Irena Portils, I must use my ingenuity, and find some way to make her acquaintance. I don’t think that the library provides any real opportunity, but this seems to be her only contact with the outside world. Except for the doctor who visits her children every week. I wonder if something could be effected from this direction. I must think about this. As always, I wish you were here with me, and I also hope that you receive this letter.”
In this hope Wayness would be denied. By the time the letter arrived at Araminta Station, Glawen had already departed and was on his way to Earth.
Wayness took the letters to the nearby post office, returned to the hotel and went up to her room. She bathed; then, thinking to resuscitate her morale, she dressed in one of her most attractive evening costumes: a soft black tunic and a skirt striped black and mustard-ocher. With her mood only slightly improved, she went down to the hotel restaurant for her dinner.
Wayness dined without haste on lamb chops and asparagus. By the time she had finished, twilight had arrived, to bring the young folk of Pombareales out for the evening promenade. Girls strolled clockwise around the square; the young men went counter-clockwise, the groups exchanging salutes and repartee as they passed each other. Some of the young men issued compliments; others feigned heart attacks or a convulsion in response to the impact of so much beauty. The most fervent bravos of all uttered passionate outcries, such as: “Ay-yi-yi!” or “Ahay! I am turning inside out!” or “What exquisiteness!” or “Caray! I have been ravished!” The girls ignored such excesses, sometimes with disdain, but none desisted from the promenade.
Wayness went out to the café and seated herself at a table in the shadows. She ordered coffee and watched the moon rise into the Patagonian sky. Her presence did not go unnoticed; she was approached several times by socially inclined young men. One proposed that they visit the Cantina La Dolorosita for music and dancing; another wanted to order a pitcher of pisco punch so that they might drink and talk philosophy; a third invited Wayness to go riding with him in his fast car. They would speed across the pampas in the light of the full moon. “You will be intoxicated by the freedom and space!” he told her.
“That sounds nice,” said Wayness. “But what if the car broke down, or you became ill, or something else happened and I had to walk back to Pombareales?”
“Bah!” growled the young men. “The most practical females are also the most dull; present company excepted, of course.”
Wayness politely extricated herself from the invitation. She went up to her room and went to bed. She lay awake an hour, perhaps longer, looking up at the ceiling, thinking of places far and near, of persons she loved and others whom she hated. She reflected upon life, which was so new and dear to her and which someone had already tried to destroy, and of death, which presented little scope for serious analyses. Her thoughts returned to Irena Portils. She had seen the haggard face, with its clenched narrow jaw and lank loose hair a single time, but already she felt the quality of Irena’s personality.
Through the open window the sounds of the Promenade dwindled as the good obedient girls went home, and the others, perhaps, went for rides in the moonlight.
Wayness became drowsy. She had decided upon an avenue of approach to Irena Portils. It was an uncertain method which, at best, had perhaps one chance in three of getting off the ground. Still, it was better than nothing and Wayness felt a comforting intuition that she might succeed.
In the morning Wayness rose early, dressed in a gray tweed skirt, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket: a neat unobtrusive costume which might have been worn by a lesser bank clerk, or a junior teaching assistant, or even a university student of conservative views.
Wayness left her rooms and descended to the ground floor. She took her breakfast in the restaurant, then left the hotel.
The day was clear but windy, with sunlight of a pale cool color slanting into the square from the northeast. Wayness walked briskly down Calle Luneta, wind flapping at her skirt, dust swirls racing down the middle of the street. She turned up Calle Maduro and proceeded until Casa Lucasta was visible only a hundred yards ahead. Here she paused and took stock of the surroundings. Directly opposite she saw a small white house, dilapidated and untenanted, the glass broken from its windows so that they gazed out upon the street with the bleary blank gaze of a drunkard. Wayness looked right and left, up and down the street. No one was watching. She waited for the passage of a wind-swept plume of dust, then, wrinkling her nose, ran across the street. After another furtive glance to right and left, she jumped up to the porch of the vacant house and drew back into the shadows of a shallow curtain wall. Here, sheltered from the wind, she could lurk unseen while watching to discover who approached along the street.
Wayness composed herself to wait: all day if need be, since she had no idea at what time the doctor might make his call at Casa Lucasta.
The time was close upon nine o’clock. Wayness made herself as comfortable as possible. A vehicle came along the street: a delivery truck loaded with building materials, evidently on its way to the cemetery. Another small vehicle appeared: a baker’s van, delivering bread and other goods to houses along the street. A young man rode past on a motorcycle; the delivery truck returned from the cemetery. Wayness sighed and changed her position. The time was now five minutes before ten o’clock. A car of medium size painted an institutional white and black turned into Calle Maduro. This was almost certainly the car she was expecting. Jumping down from the porch, she ran to the sidewalk and as the car drew near, stepped out into the street and made urgent signals. The car slowed and halted. Wayness was relieved to find that the inscription on the side read:
INSTITUTE OF PUBLIC HEATH
-Montalvo-
ADAPTATIONAL SERVICES
She had not stopped the wrong car.
The driver and Wayness examined each other. She saw a dark-haired man of medium stature, aged perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, sturdy of physique, with a square resolute face. Wayness thought him quite good-looking, and she also thought that he seemed reasonable and open-minded, which was good, although the rather grim set of his mouth might imply a lack of humor, which was bad. He was dressed casually, in a green pullover and tan twill trousers, indicating a lack of institutional formality, which again, from Wayness’ point of view, was good. On the other hand, his expression, as he looked her over, was impersonal and analytical, which was bad, since she would be unable to melt him with an appealing smile and a bit of flirtation. Such being the case, she must accept the more difficult task of using her intelligence.
“Yes, miss?”
“You are the doctor?”
He looked her up and down. “Are you sick?”
Wayness blinked. Humor? If so, it was sardonic. She saw that she had her work cut out. “I am quite well, thank y
ou. But still I have something important to say to you.”
“That sounds a bit ominous. Are you sure you have the right person? I am Dr. Armand Olivano; please do not shoot me by mistake.”
Wayness held up her empty hands. “You are safe. I only want to make a suggestion which I hope you will consider wise and necessary.”
Dr. Olivano deliberated a second or two, he gave an abrupt shrug. “Since you put it like that, I can hardly refuse to listen.” He opened the door. “I have an appointment up ahead, but it can wait a few minutes.”
Wayness climbed into the car. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to drive somewhere and park where we can talk.”
Dr. Olivano made no protest. He turned the car about, drove back down Calle Maduro and parked in the shade of the eucalyptus trees beside the poultry cooperative. “Is this satisfactory?”
Wayness nodded. She spoke carefully: “Since I want you to take me seriously, I must start with some facts. My name is Wayness Tamm, which of course will mean nothing to you. But let me ask this: are you a conservationist, philosophically or even emotionally?”
“Of course. Who isn’t?”
Wayness made no direct response. “Are you acquainted with the Naturalist Society?”
‘“There I draw a blank.”
“No great matter. There is very little left now. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary. I am Assistant Secretary. There are three or four very old members, and that’s about all. A thousand years ago the Society was an important organization. It became trustee of the world Cadwal, at the end of Mircea’s Wisp at the back of Perseus, and established a permanent Conservancy. I was born on Cadwal; my father, in fact is the Conservator.”
Wayness spoke on for several minutes. As briefly as possible she described the crisis on Cadwal, her discovery that the Charter and the Grant had been lost and her attempts to find them again. “I have traced them this far.”
Dr. Olivano was surprised. “Here? In Pombareales?”
“Not exactly. The next rung on the ladder is Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. At Pombareales he is known as Professor Solomon, and is famous for his lead doubloons.”
“Ah! Now I am beginning to understand! We are closing in on Casa Lucasta!”
“So we are. Irena Portils may be Moncurio’s legal spouse, though I suspect not. Still, she is probably the only person on Earth who knows where to find him.”
Dr. Olivano nodded. “What you have to say is interesting, but you may accept, as an article of faith, that Irena Portils will tell you nothing.”
“That was my own feeling, after I saw her walking along the street. She seems a determined woman and under great strain.”
“That is an understatement. I took her some forms to be filled out, routine inquiries regarding the family situation. The law insists upon knowing the father’s address, but Madame Portils would reveal nothing. Not name, age, birthplace, occupation, or current address of her missing spouse. I pointed out that if she persisted the law might take away her children and put them in an institution. She became very agitated. “Such information is important to no one but me. He is off-world; that is enough for you to know. If you take my children I will do something terrible.” I believed her, and said that perhaps it was not necessary after all. Later I wrote in a false name and address, and everyone was satisfied. But it’s clear that Madame Portils herself is a border line case. She hides behind a mask as best she can, especially when I come to call, since I represent the awful majesty of the Institute. I know that she hates me; she can’t help herself – especially since the children seem to like me.”
“Can they be cured?”
“That’s hard to say, since no one can define their affliction. They fluctuate; sometimes they seem almost normal; a few days later they are lost in their reveries. The girl is Lydia; she is often rational – unless she is put under stress. The boy is Myron. He can glance at a printed page and then reproduce it in any scale, large or small, letter by letter, word for word. The drawing is exact, and he seems to derive satisfaction in finishing the job – but he can’t read, and he will not speak.”
“Can he speak?”
“Lydia says that he can, but is not so sure after all that it was not the wind talking to her as it often does. If the wind blows at night, she must be watched or she will climb from her window and run through the dark. This is when she becomes difficult, and must be sedated. They are a fascinating pair, and I am in awe of them. One day I set up a chess board in front of Myron. I explained the rules and we started to play. He barely glanced at the board and trounced me in twenty moves. We played again. He looked at the board only long enough to move his piece and beat me with contemptuous ease in seventeen moves. Then he became bored and lost interest.”
“He does not read?”
“No, nor does Lydia.”
“Someone should teach them.”
“I agree. The grandmother lacks skill and Irena is devoid of patience and far too capricious. I would suggest a tutor, except that they can’t pay.”
“What about me?”
Olivano nodded slowly. “I thought it might be coming to something like that. Let me place the issues before you. First, I believe that you are sincere, and that you deserve all the help I can legitimately give you, but my first duty is to the two children. I can’t be an accomplice to any program which might be to their harm.”
“I would not harm them,” said Wayness. “I only want to get a status in the household so that I can discover Moncurio’s address.”
“This is clear.” Dr. Olivano’s voice had taken on a quality Wayness could describe only as ‘institutional.’
Despite her best efforts, her own voice rose in pitch: “I don’t want to sound over-dramatic, but the destiny of an entire world and thousands of people weigh on me.”
“Yes. So it would seem.” Dr. Olivano paused, and chose his words with delicacy. “If in fact, your estimate of the situation is correct.”
Wayness looked at him sadly. “You don’t believe me?”
“Consider my position,” said Dr. Olivano. “In the course of a year I speak with dozens of young women whose delusions are on the whole more convincing than your recital. This is not to say that you are not telling me the truth, as you see it – or even, for that matter, as it actually exists. But from this particular vantage, I have no way of knowing, and I must consider your proposal for a day or two.”
Wayness looked bleakly up the road. “Apparently you want to verify what I have told you. If you call Pirie Tamm at Fair Winds the call will be intercepted. I will be traced to Pombareales and probably killed.”
“That, in itself, would seem an obsessional remark.”
Wayness could not restrain a short rueful laugh. “I have already escaped one attack in Trestle. I dropped an urn or something of the sort on the man’s head. I think his name is ‘Baro’. A shopkeeper named Alcide Xantief who gave me information was not so lucky. He was murdered and dropped into the Canal Daciano. Are these obsessions? You can call the police at Trieste. Even better, if you will come with me to the hotel, I will call Pirie Tamm at his bank, and you may ask him whatever you like about me and the Conservancy.”
“No point in trying now,” said Dr. Olivano. “It would be the middle of the night.” He straightened in the seat. “It would also be unnecessary. Today, I had made up my mind to do something, even if it was wrong. I cannot justify taking the children away; Irena apparently does not abuse them; she feeds them and keeps them clean, and they are not unhappy - at least, not overtly so. But what of twenty years from now? Would we find Lydia still sorting out pieces of colored paper and Myron building five-dimensional castles in the sandbox?”
Olivano spoke on, looking out past the eucalyptus trees and across the desolate pampas. “The next thing I know, you appear. Despite everything, I don’t believe you are crazy, or delusional.” He turned her brief glance. Today I will take you to Casa Lucasta, and introduce you as a junior case worker who has been as
signed to assist with the children for a short period, as an experiment.”
“Thank you, Doctor Olivano.”
“I think, on the whole, that it would be better if you did not live in the house.”
“I think so too,” said Wayness, remembering Irena Portils’ desperate face.
“I suppose you know nothing of psychotherapy?”
“Nothing, really.”
“No matter. You will not be required to do anything complex. You must give Lydia and Myron sympathetic companionship, and try to bring their attention up from within themselves. This means that you must contrive activities which they will enjoy. Unfortunately, it is hard to know what they like and what they do not like, since they make a mystery of everything. Above all, you must be patient, and never show scorn or vexation, since if you do, they will withdraw and cease to trust you, so that all your work will be lost.”
“I will do my best.”
“Above all else, including life, death, honor, reputation, truth, is – need I say it? – discretion. Do not involve the Institute in a scandal. Do not let Irena find you rummaging through her drawers, or examining her mail.”
Wayness grinned. “I won’t let her catch me.”
“One difficulty remains. You are not a convincing social worker. I think I should better introduce you as a student in the School of Psychotherapy, working as my assistant. Irena won’t think this at all strange, as I have introduced such folk before.”
“Do you find her difficult to work with?”
Olivano grimaced and gave no direct response. “She keeps her composure, but only, it seems, after great effort, which puts me on tenterhooks. I feel she is always dancing along the edge of a cliff, and I can never really come to grips with her. As soon as I touch upon something sensitive, she starts to fidget, and I must desist, or risk an outburst of some sort.”
“What of the grandmother?”
“That is Madame Clara. She is sharp and shrewd, and notices everything. The children baffle her and she is brisk with them. I think that she stings their bottoms with a length of cane when it suits her. She resents me and surely will distrust you. Ignore her as best you can. You will get no information from her. She probably has none to give. Well then, are you ready?”