A Pocketful of Rye (21 page)

‘Are you jealous?' It gave me a morbid satisfaction to lead her on.

‘If you wish to understand me.' She compressed her lips and faced me directly. ‘While I would not be so common as to have jealousy, I am fond of you and would painfully resent you making love outside the privilege of my bed.'

‘So you value me there … in that sanctuary?'

‘Should I not?' She was losing control now or she would not have spoken so openly. ‘It is something you are very good at, the best I ever knew. Then, when you are not as you are tonight, you are nice really, and amusing with all these lies I can laugh at. Now, however, I wish the truth. Why did you sleep with Mrs Davigan?'

I looked her in the eye.

‘Why did you sleep with C. deV.?'

All the colour seeped out of her skin. Now she was no longer a blonde. An albino. A long pause followed. She moistened her lips.

‘Who spoke of him, Schwartz?'

I shook my head.

She tried again, bitterly.

‘Someone else of my good friends at the airport?' As I made no answer she went on. ‘He is simply a friend. A very distinguished, elderly, quite old in fact, Italian gentleman.'

‘Not so old he changes his shirts in your bedroom?'

‘So? You are a mean, low spy.'

‘Yes, I'm low. And tonight I'm not pretending to be anything else.'

She made an effort to be calm.

‘Come, let's forget it, Laurence. You did wrong. I did wrong. So two wrongs make a right.'

‘Only in Sweden,' I said and stood up. ‘I'm going now, and I'll not be back.'

‘Don't … I'll make a little supper … we'll be together, just as always.' She put out her arm. Trying to smile, she was offering herself. ‘What is the matter with you? Always you tell me you have two of everything for me.'

‘Well now I've one of nothing.' I knew I was cutting my own throat, that I would regret it, but it had to come out.

She was silent with anger and, I think, shame. As I went through the door she said:

‘Don't dare ever come back.'

I skipped the lift and barged down the stairs, just in time to pick up a taxi that was discharging its passenger – I would have liked him to be C.deV., but he was not. I flung myself into the back and said: ‘Zürich Bahnhof.' I was as mad at myself as she was with me, fully conscious that I had botched everything during the day, and was now swinging wild punches from the floor, yet somehow trying to compensate, to get the whole mess out of my system, and above all, dying for another desperately needful drink.

At the station I paid off the taxi and went direct to the
Auskunft
board. I had a vague idea that a Coire train was due to leave around seven. Hurriedly, I checked the red figures of the
rapides
, only to find that this particular evening express ran only on Saturdays. But, in the black
Abfahrt
column of slow, secondary trains, a departure was scheduled for 7.15. A glance at the clock showed 7.13. Support of some kind was essential, and I knew what would give me the lift I needed. I had barely two minutes to spring to the buffet, buy a bottle of vodka and beat the gate on Quai 9 before it slammed shut.

The train, strictly non de luxe, was an
omnibus
, the cheapest and slowest form of Swiss travel, with, of course, no possibility of a
Speisewagen.
It was practically empty. Who wanted to go to Coire at this season of the year and this time of night? As we crawled through the outskirts of Zürich, snow began to fall, the large drifting flakes jaundiced by the neon lights of dirty, deserted streets. With a shiver, I shot down the blinds in the bare compartment and, without hope and strictly against regulations, turned the heating switch a couple of notches. It did not click. This would be a long, sad, chilly journey, yet with commendable Carroll foresight I had the means to anaesthetize myself against the sick, despondent sense of botchery, failure and personal disgust let loose in me this afternoon. I settled in a corner of the hard wooden bench, pulled up the collar of my overcoat, and examined the bottle.

The label was in German.

Superior Slovene Vodka.
Specially for Export.
This pure vodka is made by the original Slovene recipe entirely
from rye and green rye malt and not, as with inferior brands,
from potatoes and maize.

Trust the Swiss to import the best. But a couple of peasants were passing me on the way to the forward coach; I shoved the bottle back into my overcoat pocket. So now, Carroll, I thought sourly, you have a pocketful of rye, it follows naturally, after your juvenile maunderings, and I hope it nourishes you. It was time to try, for now I was quite alone.

As a temperate, or at least a cautious drinker, I was more or less unaccustomed to excess. This is the alibi I create, like Davigan's miracle wind, to exonerate myself from the subsequent events of this inconceivable Walpurgis night. I took out my pocketful of rye. I had no glass, it was necessary to drink from the bottle, a difficult technique, with the short squat neck and one which, badly accomplished, made me choke and cough. Nevertheless, I managed a good slug that warmed my insides, but for the moment afforded me no alleviation of my misery which, rather, was intensified by the discovery that the Slovenes had really gone to town not on purity alone, but on strength. This stuff must be two hundred over proof and would probably rot my liver.

Yet, did I not deserve to suffer? What an S.O.B. I had been, what a Gadarene swine, what a putrefying bastard. And what a B.F. I had been to top it off by reading that bloody, beautiful poem. All Dingwall's doing of course, he had probably made a Novena to have the action delayed, so it would score a bull's eye on me at the psychological moment, when I was most vulnerable.

I felt like throwing a healthy curse at the old schemer, but no, that I could never do, particularly since, after a second slug, I had begun to feel more hopeful. Carroll, I told myself, do not despair, it is always darkest before the dawn.

Thus encouraged, I took a third slug, more skilfully accomplished and with more positive results – this vodka might be unhealthy, but it had an Iron Curtain kick. The old Carroll morale began to assert itself, the blood began to pulse, the spirits rose. Yes, I could bring myself, decently, to forget it, wipe out the entire complex mess, and get myself set for the future. Life was full of mistakes, everyone made them, why should I be the exception to the rule? We were all sinners, humanity was frail. Why mourn, why shed crocodile tears? No use crying over spilled milk, the only reasonable attitude was to wipe the slate clean and start afresh.

As the train jogged through the snowy darkness, leaving the valley behind, climbing higher towards the mountains, halting at interminable wayside stations, I continued my application to the rye, achieving not personal exoneration alone, but a state of physical and mental euphoria in which all my faculties, while somewhat blurred, seemed fired up to a point of abnormal activity. In this expansive mood my present situation in the empty coach offered neither scope nor opportunity. Conversation with the conductor, who gave me a strange look and my ticket a quick punch, proved unproductive. Song, in the circumstances, would have been an infringement of good taste. Instead, with shut eyes, rolling slightly with the movement of the train, I created a series of brilliant situations justifying my position, the most diverting set in a court specially convened at my request at the Vatican wherein, with the Pontiff's blessing, I successfully brought charges of malfeasance against Dingwall, who appeared, much to the amusement of His Holiness, in a full dress kilt. What, I asked myself, with a grin,
is
malfeasance? Anyway, I really loved that old Highlander.

Two hours later, when I tumbled out on the deserted platform of Schlewald Dorf, leaving the empty bottle on the hat rack as a testimonial to its country of origin, I was virtually airborne, yet with a calculating and elevated perception of myself, my surroundings and my condition. This last convinced me, after a careful study of the station clock which on closer examination showed nineteen minutes past eleven, that it would be unwise to present myself to the good Matron immediately. A cooling off period was indicated and, indeed, the Arctic blast loaded with icy flakes that tore down the deserted platform caused me a preliminary shiver. In my absence a blizzard had apparently taken over. Where should I find sustenance and shelter? As I floated off through the village, a sensation to which the deep wet snow contributed, thinking in terms of coffee, I had to admit that Edelmann's was closed. Yes, confound it, everything must now be shut and, in the wise Swiss fashion, shuttered, except the Pfeffermühle. This was an establishment that, unofficially, never closed. But there I should indubitably drink more and, rather disconcerting, be flailed with recollections of the chess match. That match, the young participant therein and his maternal relative were henceforth to be eradicated from the tablets of my memory.

I would have to chance the possibility of Hulda staying up to wait for me. Even so, everything would be arranged to her entire satisfaction. With this in mind I set off up the hill towards the main street of the town.

It was a steep hill, ankle deep in soggy slush and where the snow, earlier, had drifted, an unwary step frequently took me in up to the knees. The wind, too, was hitting me in the teeth in an effort to knock them down my throat. Altogether, to my immense surprise, when I reached an intermediate level, I found myself gasping for breath and actually hanging on to a convenient railing. That the railing belonged to the church was ridiculous enough, but not more so than the realization that this very edifice would provide me with the respite I must have before taking off again on the higher slope to the Maybelle. As usual, it was open and received me in darkness and silence when I staggered in, animated by the feeling that I was participating in the joke of the century.

Naturally I treated myself to the front pew, sat down, and shook the wet snow off myself. Not that I minded the wet, it gave me a soft, steamy feeling, as good as a sauna – that further tickled my fancy, having a steam bath in this dark, crummy church. Yet it was not all dark, for suddenly I saw a little red light flickering like an eye. They kept it at the side underneath the bas-relief on the wall. No more than a rushlight in a red glass holding oil, it still diffused a glow and I knew that, as usual, He was watching me. But tonight nothing could worry me, I had the answer to that idiotic phobia, in fact I had the answers to everything, and the situation suddenly

seemed to me so amusing I broke into a loud laugh and exclaimed:
‘You didn't expect to see me in here, did You?'
Naturally, there was no reply, and that put my back up. So I

threw my voice over and answered for Him.
‘Certainly I did not expect you, Dr Carroll.' It came back perfectly

with a slight echo from the hard, granite wall. ‘As you are now

aware, I've been following you around without much success for

years. But I am only too pleased to see you.'
Off I went again into a fit of laughter. This was going to be

good, so I slewed round, put my feet on the seat and returned the

compliment.
‘You don't mean that, You're just being polite. I'm afraid I'm

disturbing You.'
I threw the voice again.
‘It's quite agreeable to be disturbed. It's a long night here, all by

Myself.'
I was enjoying this, I wanted it to go on, and it did.
Me: ‘You mean no one looks near You all night?'
The Man: ‘Yes, Father Zobronski looks in occasionally. He has

T.B., you know, and the cough keeps him awake, so he pops in to

have a word with Me.'
Me: ‘That cheers You up?'
The Man: ‘Naturally. But of course I'll not have him much longer,

he's booked to go next year.'
Me: ‘He's being transferred?'
The man: ‘ No, buried. On the 9th of October.'
I had another good laugh at this, but not quite so hearty. Why

the date? This thing seemed to be getting a little out of hand.
Me: ‘That could be a pretty good guess, since he probably has

a large cavity in one lung.'
The Man: ‘In both lungs, doctor.'
Now He was going too far, I had to slow Him down.
Me: ‘Please don't let us have any of that know-all stuff. While

I have no wish to offend, You are … well … just a bit of stucco

on that wall.'

The Man: ‘How right you are, dear Carroll, and how I wish they hadn't stuck Me up in this half empty little chapel. Naturally I enjoy the children, and your good self, on the rare occasions when you are here, but as you surmised, it is often extremely lonely and, indeed, unrewarding.'

Me: ‘You'd have preferred one of the larger city churches?'

The Man: ‘Yes, a church where I would come across some of the bigger sinners, not just run-of-the-mill transgressors like you, Dr Carroll.'

Had I said that? Like the date, it had slipped out so easily, quite unpremeditated, and it jarred me. I could barely see Him but I threw a hurt look in His direction.

Me: ‘Forgive me, but need we be so personal. Of course, I know You've always had a down on me.'

The Man: ‘How wrong you are, my dear Carroll. When you were young I was quite devoted to you. And I believe you had some slight regard for Me.'

Me: ‘I suppose so.' He forced it out of me.

The Man: ‘You weren't afraid to look Me in the eye. You didn't try to avoid Me as you do now.'

I said nothing. When I started the joke I hadn't expected it to sour off into a dissection of my character. But as such it continued.

The Man: ‘Indeed, on several occasions I was rather proud of you. You recollect perhaps your admirable behaviour when they put you in gaol for helping that unfortunate girl?'

Had Carroll said that? Of course, you fool. Don't fancy you've started any of that miraculous stuff. You're lit up with rye vodka and answering yourself back. Nevertheless, it was pretty damn queer and I felt an uncomfortable pricking of my scalp as He went on: