The Dead of Night

by Oliver Onions

  The only way out of the Mahdia Rooms is by way of the Salle of the Dionysos. Therefore, as nobody had passed Xena as she had knelt before the god, but praying to the Saint, Amalia must have been in the inner room all the time. Both girls paused as they approached the god now. A complication of strapwork forms the back of the statue’s head, and down its right side a band of bronze ends in a finger-like curl near another emblem. Xena saw Amalia pass round to the statue’s front and stoop to pick something up. It was the bunch of violets she had dropped.

  ‘Somebody seems to have dropped these,’ Amalia remarked.

  Xena was still thinking how terribly, terribly sorry she felt for the poor drowned sailors.

  ‘Looks like they were meant for an offering. They’ll get swept up there. I don’t suppose that old fellow ever expected to see violets again. Well, they’re his, I guess –’

  And she pushed the scented bunch into the curl of bronze near which Xena had prayed.

  At the entrance of the Mahdia Rooms they met the rest of the party coming in, but nothing would have dragged Xena back. She wanted to be out of the Museum altogether. She did not even tell the others she was going. She descended the staircase alone and sought the waiting carosse. And there she sat until the others should come down, thinking all the time of those poor, poor sailors.

  For the return journey they arranged themselves differently, Xena and Amalia sitting one on either side of Mrs Van Necker. The pack of carts and donkeys and people in the streets were almost impass­able; they went at no more than a walking-pace; merchants sat under their sagging awnings; children played almost under the wheels of the carosse; the swing-boats of a fair rose in twos and threes, with the mushroom dome of a mosque behind; but Xena still thought of the sailors. They were going back to the hotel for lunch; she didn’t want any lunch. Still thinking of the sailors she drew in her breath, so that Mrs Van Necker turned.

  ‘What’s the matter Xena?’

  ‘I’ve got rather a headache,’ Xena murmured.

  ‘Aspirin,’ said Mrs Van Necker.

  They were approaching the Porte de France.

  ‘I don’t think I want any lunch. I think I’ll get out and walk,’ said Xena.

  ‘Child! As if I could have you walking about Tunis alone!’

  ‘We’re nearly there. Stop him, please.’

  Mrs Van Necker thought for a moment. After all, nothing could happen to her at midday in the principal street of the town. And three in a small carriage was rather a crush

  But while she was thinking Xena had stopped the driver herself and got out.

  She watched Mrs Van Necker settle herself more comfortably, and then slowly followed the carosse down the boulevard.

  She had no headache, but for all that a bathe with toilet-water and perhaps a shampoo might be refreshing. A hairdresser’s shop adjoined the hotel, with a ladies’ saloon upstairs. She could go through the ground floor from the street without entering the hotel. She quick­ened her pace a little. She turned the corner by the terraced café; she reached the shop door and pushed. As she did so somebody inside made haste to assist her. A pair of heels clicked, a pair of spurs jingled. It was Mollie’s young cavalry officer, freshly barbered and smelling of essences. It had not occurred to her that the ground floor was the men’s part of the shop. A couple of towelled men sat before basins, one on them quite old and bald.

  That he had spoken to Mollie on the boat and kissed her behind the deckhouse seemed no reason why he should claim to know Xena too, but in a tone that Xena thought quite nice and respectful he murmured a ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

  ‘Je vous ai vu sur le bâteau?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  ‘Mademoiselle your friend, have you lost her?’

  ‘No, she is in the hotel, monsieur.’

  ‘Vous dansez ce soir?’

  ‘I don’t think they dance in this hotel,’ murmured Xena, quite aware that he was trying to detain her.

  ‘But they dance at the Majestic. There is even dancing elsewhere,’ the officer smiled.

  ‘Pardon, monsieur – on m’attend – bonjour, monsieur.’

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  And with another click and a salute he opened the interior door for her and closed it again behind her.

  Hot, blushing and annoyed, she sought the ladies’ saloon upstairs. At that hour she had it to herself. Her hat was removed and her smoky hair deftly taken down.

  What a strange morning it had been, she thought as her cheeks grew cooler. First her being so naughty and cross, and then trying to say her prayers in a public museum before a god of bronze, and then her being so sorry about the poor sailors! It had been the most extraordinary morning of her whole life. Why had she felt so con­trite when those mournful eyes that weren’t eyes at all had looked at her? And – this came to her the more powerfully that it came tardily – what an astonishing thing for Amalia to have done! On a glass shelf before her as she sat were coloured bottles of toilet preparations, creamy, pale green, with little coloured capsules round their stoppers and tied up with coloured ribbons. One had a chocolate-coloured ribbon, another a purple one. Bronze and violets . . . What a strange thing for Amalia to have done! To tuck a bunch of violets into that curl of bronze! And to have said that he never expected to see violets any more! Of course he hadn’t. He might as well as have expected his poor eyes back. And they had really been her violets, Xena’s violets, that Amalia had given.

  And if Amalia had been watching her from the inner room she would think it was to the Dionysos that Xena had been praying –

  Wicked as it might be, it was more wicked to tell a lie about it. Xena knew now that she hadn’t really been praying to the Saint at all. Or if she had the Saint had taken no notice. If they really were struggling for the soul of a little girl like Xena she was sure the Saint hadn’t won. And now that for the first time in her life she came to think of it, she wasn’t quite sure what a Saint was. It wasn’t God – not the Big God. If it was a lesser god, why didn’t they call it a lesser god? Why didn’t they speak of Saint Venus and Saint Mars and dear little Baby-Saint Cupid, and the goddess Rosalia and the god Giovanni? At least the gods gave you something to look at. There were Flora’s flowers, Ceres’ grain, Olympus’ Mount and the mountain here. But meekness and resignation and hope were ever so much harder. Xena was sure they were too hard for her. All her life she had tried, and it all seemed very unsatisfactory. She would have to make up her mind about it somehow or else be very unhappy.

  Brush-brush, sweep-sweep: the feeling under the man’s hands was as if he brushed away a lot of things she wanted to get rid of. Under the glass shelf of bottles was a mirror, and she lifted her eyes to it. They met the other eyes, vaguely saw the shape of the white-jacketed hairdresser. And looking at herself she suddenly thought she would like Amalia to paint her. Amalia was very clever. Xena had been a little afraid of her at first, but she wasn’t now. Amalia under­stood. ‘I guess that old fellow never expected to see violets any more.’ Amalia too had been sorry for the poor neglected god, and had given him something to comfort him all alone and unworshipped in the Museum there.

  Yes, at first she hadn’t wanted Amalia to study her, but now she would ask her to paint her. And suddenly her eyes met those of the barber in the glass. She spoke without the least premeditation, and had said it almost before she was aware.

  ‘I think I’ll have it cut off,’ she said.

  The barber seemed surprised, but ‘Mademoiselle would like it bobbed? Shingled?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Shingled.’

  And suddenly she laughed for fun.

  How astonished they would be to see what she had done while they were sitting at lunch! She could see Mrs Van Necker’s face, Mollie’s, the faces of the English girls. But she knew that Amal
ia would put her head critically on one side and Say, ‘Well, I guess that’s just right.’ Amalia and her ‘I guesses!’ But it was true. Amalia did guess. And Amalia should paint her.

  The hairdresser had moved away. He returned with scissors and comb. He was pausing, deliberating, considering the processes of his art.

  ‘Coupez,’ she said.

  It was quite a loud, harsh noise, and there was something cruddley and thrilling about it. Flakes fell to the floor; there; that was gone! Another slow crunch, another lock fell. How suddenly cool it felt! She had wanted that coolness. She had been bothering herself too much, about Saints and such matters. What did Saints do with their hair? Nuns, she knew, had it cut or shaved off but Saints were so wimpled and wrapped up that you couldn’t tell. But Verney would be pleased. Indeed it would be queer (she thought with a delicious little pushing-out of her mouth) if she couldn’t please Verney, what­ever she chose to do with herself! She would be all eyes for his first glance at her, would miss not a jot of his surprise and delight. Now for the shampoo.

  Twenty minutes later she stood examining herself between two mirrors. She thought it lovely. It didn’t make her look in the least boyish, but more than ever a girl. She thought that everybody would be sure to like it. She would have it parted on the right side. She sat down in the chair again for the final brushing. She must compose herself to walk into the hotel in a natural way, as if nothing had happened. Would they notice it at once? With her hat on?

  She put on her hat, gave the number of her room, and walked out.

  The communicating way into the hotel led to the bookstall where the guide books and picture-postcards were sold. A man stood there buying a newspaper. She saw that it was the middle-aged man who sat at the corner table with Verney. And of course it had been fearful cheek of Mollie’s young officer to speak to her like that in the barber’s shop, because he was a man, but girls could speak first if they liked, and could stop whenever they liked, and pass without speaking the next time if they wanted. It was part of their power, and Verney’s vis-à-vis would do for the first, to see whether he noticed her shingle with her hat on.

  Mr Thorne heard a musical little voice in his ear. – ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good – ah – good morning, good morning. You are Miss Franca­villa, are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She knew that Mr Thorne was admiring her, but she didn’t think he had noticed about the shingle.

  ‘I missed you at lunch. I always miss the people who aren’t there. I had lunch by myself too,’ he said.

  From the way he said it she was almost sure he had noticed about her and Verney.

  ‘And I think – I heard somebody say – that the concièrge has news for you.’

  ‘What?’ Xena asked quickly, though it was hardly likely that the concièrge had news for her about Verney.

  ‘I think it’s something about a car,’ said Mr Thorne.

  ‘Oh! . . . ’

  She ran across to the concierge’s desk.

  ‘Has a car come for me?’ she demanded.

  A deep bow. – ‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I will fetch the chauffeur instantly.’

  ‘No, I will go to him.’

  ‘François!’ The concierge’s voice and arm were raised. ‘Conduct mademoiselle to the garage.’

  9

  A handsome young Moor, dressed from head to foot in a white livery, stood in the courtyard, looking on while two of the garage attendants were busy with a hose on the wheels of an enormous car. It was a magnificent Itala, with a nobly-rounded and streamlined black body and two spare wheels in a leather valise. It seemed part of Francavilla’s power that some of it descended to his chauffeur too, so that others performed the menial work for him. Xena walked up to him.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  His manner was not that of the obsequious staff of the hotel. She had asked his name, and he told it. – ‘Achmed.’

  ‘I am Miss Francavilla. What made you late?’

  ‘There were many camels on the road, many goats. Also the Signor’s telegram was delayed,’ he replied.

  ‘Have you made arrangements for yourself?’

  ‘Oui, madame.’

  ‘You will take your orders from me, and from an American lady, Mrs Van Necker.’

  ‘Oui, madame.’

  ‘How soon will the car be ready?’

  ‘In half an hour, madame. It is only dust.’

  Xena returned to the hotel.

  The car had come; good. Nominally she had placed it at Mrs Van Necker’s disposal, but she would have it herself just as often as she wanted it, and she knew where she would make Verney drive her first. She would make him drive her to that mountain with the two horns that she had so strangely seemed to know the other morning from the boat. Why wasn’t he here to take her today? They could have been there in half an hour. But perhaps that wouldn’t have left enough time for the mountain itself. Still, he ought to have been there. Bother his old business. If he was going to let his business interfere with their plans like this it was going to be very dull. To kiss her and tell her he loved her one day, and the very next day not to come near her at all! And where had the others got to? They hadn’t seen her new crop yet.

  With a sudden wish to see it again herself, she ran up to her room. She threw off the red hat, and stood before the tall glass with her small mirror in her hand. Oh, she was glad she had had it done! Now what frock should she wear that evening that Verney hadn’t seen before?

  She began to open drawers. She spread the frocks on the bed, and stood looking at them. Suddenly she thought that she had never seen such a dull lot of frocks in her life. The other girls had admired and coveted those! She herself had liked, chosen and worn those nursery things! Oh, if she had only been in Paris! But surely Tunis could provide something to be going on with. There down in the courtyard was the car. She would go at once. Mollie and the others could have those dowdy old things on the bed.

  With another admiring look at the clean-lined nape she put on the red hat again and ran downstairs.

  That afternoon there went the round of the Tunis shops, driven by a handsome young man in a white livery, a resplendent Itala car, big enough inside for half a dozen blue-eyed girls in red hats to have lolled in its cream upholstery. That is to say Xena wore the red hat as far as the first shop. She came out of the shop again with a small dull-gold toque on her head, with a bird-of-paradise feather tucked into the front of it. The red hat was pinned up in paper, and a cardboard carton accompanied it. She passed to the next shop, and the next, and Achmed and the car waited outside while, inside, Xena said that her name was Francavilla. Before looking-glasses, with looking-glasses to right and left of her, she put garments off and on, choosing, refusing, examining again, tossing aside. Life up to now had been a fast and a penance. That was all over. Verney should see. If he had loved her before he should love her a hundred times more now. When he saw her tonight that would teach him to stay away all day again. And tomorrow he should take her out in the car.

  At last with a happy sigh she cried enough. There was no longer room for six Xenas in the Itala. Two might perhaps have been got in; the rest of the space was occupied with her purchases.

  As she entered the hotel again the concièrge handed her a letter. It was addressed in her father’s hand. Giving orders that her things were to be taken to her room she took the letter into the lounge. She opened it and read.

  Beloved Little Heart,

  I watched your boat till it was quite round the headland, and then went back to the hotel. It was very lonely, little one, but I know it is for the best. I have much business, but that does not prevent my thinking ceaselessly of you. I sometimes think I should like to give up business and be only with you, but that cou
ld not be for ever either, since one day you will wish to leave your father and trust your happiness to somebody else. That I shall have to bear as best I can. Only your happiness matters. I pray nightly for you, and know that you pray for me too. I often hear your voice again saying ‘O cara Rosalia’. I trust the car has arrived, and that amid new scenes you do not forget your father. Rosalia guard you, little one, and good night.

  Umberto

  She sat with the letter slackly in her hand, not looking at it. The blue eyes were on the writing-tables, on Rabat’s coffee-table at the door, on the palms of the garden outside. If somebody had told her a few minutes before that she was going to have a letter she would instantly have thought of Verney. She would have thought he had sent her a little note to say how dreadfully he had missed her all day. Now that the letter was from her father, and all these new things had happened, she knew it was very important that she should be very truthful with herself about it. Of course she couldn’t go on being with her father all the time. She hadn’t quite made up her mind yet, but if she did come to love Verney as much as he loved her she would marry him, and of course she wouldn’t want her father too. So though she was awfully fond of him, and it was nice of him to have written to say how fond he was of her, except for that that part of the letter didn’t really mean very much. He hadn’t wanted his parents about the place all the time when he wanted to kiss somebody else. Young people were more important than old ones. Old people had had their lives, but the young ones still had everything to come. She was very sorry he was lonely, but Rosalia would cheer him up by and by. Xena would write to him tomorrow. She would tell him – she hardly knew yet what she would tell him. That the car had arrived. That they had had a smooth crossing. That at Trápani they had dropped cattle and taken up mules. That she was very well – but not that she didn’t much care for Mrs Van Necker, because that might worry him, and besides, he might come for her and take her away from Verney. As for telling him anything else, she would hardly know where to begin. Oh, and perhaps she would ask him for some more money. She could get most things she wanted by merely pronouncing her name, but it might be as well to have a little in hand. Then her love. Should she say ‘kisses’ too? As she had always done? She must think about that. Perhaps if she said ‘tons of kisses’ that would be all right, because it would be merely an extravagant expression, not meaning real kisses at all.