Garden of Eden (28 page)

"Where
did you put them, Devil?" David asked.

She
turned away from the mirror and looked at him. "I won't tell you,"
she said. "I took care of them."

"I
wish you'd tell me," David said. "Because I need them very
much."

"No,
you don't," she said. "They were worthless and I hated them."

"Not
the one about Kibo," David said. "You loved Kibo. Don't you
remember?" "He had to go too. I was going to tear him out and keep him
but I couldn't find him. Anyway you said he was dead." David saw Marita
look at her and look away. Then she looked back. "Where did you burn them,
Catherine?" "I won't tell you either," Catherine said.
"You're part of the same thing." "Did you burn them with the
clipping?" David asked. "I won't tell you," Catherine said.
"You talk to me like a policeman or at school." "Tell me, Devil.
I only want to know." "I paid for them," Catherine said. "I
paid the money to do them." "I know," David said. "It was
very generous of you. Where did you burn them, Devil?" "I won't tell
her." "No. Just tell me." "Ask her to go away. "I
really have to go anyway," Marita said. "I'll see you later,
Catherine." "That's good," Catherine said. "It wasn't your
fault, Heiress." David sat on the tall stool by Catherine and she looked
in the mirror and watched Marita go out of the room. "Where did you burn
them, Devil?" David asked. "You can tell me now. "She wouldn't
understand," Catherine said. "That's why I wanted her to go. "I
know," said David. "Where did you burn them, Devil?" "In
the iron drum with holes that Madame uses to burn trash," Catherine said.
"Did everything burn up?" "Yes. I poured on some petrol from a
bidon in the remise. It made a big fire and everything burned. I did it for
you, David, and for all of us."

"I'm
sure you did," David said. "Did everything burn?"

"Oh
yes. We can go out and look if you like but it isn't necessary. The paper all
burned black and I stirred it up with a stick."

"I'll
just go out and have a look," David said.

"But
you'll be back," Catherine said.

"Sure,"
David said.

The
burning had been in the trash burner which was a former fifty-five-gallon
gasoline drum with holes punched in it. The stick used to stir the ashes, and
still freshly blackened on one end, was an old broom handle which had been used
in this capacity before. The bidon was in the stone shed and contained
kerosene. In the drum were a few identifiable charred bits of the green covers
of the cahiers, and David found scraps of burnt newsprint and two charred bits
of pink paper which he identified as those used by the Romeike's clipping
service. On one he could distinguish the Providence RI dateline. The ashes had
been well stirred but there would doubtless have been more unburned or charred
material if he had cared to sift or examine them patiently. He tore the pink
paper with Providence RI printed on it into small pieces and dropped them in
the former gasoline drum which he had replaced in an upright position. He
reflected that he had never been in Providence, Rhode Island, and replacing the
broom handle in the stone shed, where he noticed the presence of his racing
bicycle, the tires of which needed inflation, he reentered the kitchen of the hotel,
which was empty, and proceeded to the salon where he joined his wife Catherine
at the bar.

'Wasn't
it just the way I said?" Catherine asked.

"Yes,"
David said and sat down on one of the stools and put his elbows on the bar.

"It
probably would have been enough to burn the clippings," Catherine said.
"But I really thought I ought to make a clean sweep. "You did, all
right," David said. "Now you can go right on with the narrative and
there will be nothing to interrupt you. You can start in the morning."
"Sure," David said. "I'm glad you're reasonable about it,"
Catherine said. "You couldn't know how worthless they were, David. I had
to show you. "You couldn't have kept the Kibo one that you liked?"
"I told you I tried to find it. But if you want to rewrite it I can tell
it to you word for word." "That will be fun." "It will be
really. You'll see. Do you want me to tell it to you now? We could if you
want." "No," David said. "Not just now. Would you write it
though?" "I can't write things, David. You know that. But I can tell
it to you anytime you want. You don't really care about the others do you? They
were worthless." "Why did you do it really?" "To help you.
You can go to Africa and write them again when your viewpoint is more mature.
The country can't be changed very much. I think it would be nice if you wrote
about Spain instead though. You said the country was almost the same as Africa
and there you'd have the advantage of a civilized language." David poured
himself a whiskey and found a bottle of Perrier, uncapped it and poured some in
the glass. He remembered the day they had passed the place where they bottled
Perrier water on the plain on the way to Aigues Mortes and how—"Let's not
talk about writing," he said to Catherine. "I like to,"
Catherine said. 'When it's constructive and has some valid purpose. You always
wrote so well until you started those stories. The worst thing was the dirt and
the flies and the cruelty and the bestiality. You seemed almost to grovel in
it. That horrible one about the massacre in the crater and the heart lessness
of your own father." "Can we not talk about them?" David asked.
"I want to talk about them," Catherine said. "I want to make you
realize why it was necessary to burn them." 'Write it out," David
said. "I'd rather not hear it now." "But I can't write things,
David." "You will," David said. "No. But I'll tell them to
someone who can write them," Catherine said. "If you were friendly
you'd write them for me. If you really loved me you'd be happy to."
"All I want to do is kill you," David said. "And the only reason
I don't do it is because you are crazy. "You can't talk to me like that,
David." "No?" "No, you can't. You can't. Do you hear
me?" "I hear you. "Then hear me say you can't say such things.
You can't say horrible things like that to me." "I hear you,"
David said. "You can't say such things. I won't stand for it. I'll divorce
you. "That would be very welcome." "Then I'll stay married to
you and never give you a divorce." "That would be pretty."
"I'll do anything I want to you. "You have." "I'll kill
you. "I wouldn't give a shit," David said. "You can't even talk
like a gentleman at a time like this." "What would a gentleman say at
a time like this?" "That he was sorry."

"All
right," David said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever met you. I'm sorry I
ever married you—"

"So
am I."

"Shut
up please. You can tell it to somebody who can write it down. I'm sorry your
mother ever met your father and that they ever made you. I'm sorry you were
born and that you grew up. I'm sorry for everything we ever did good or
bad—"

"You're
not."

"No,"
he said. "I'll shut up. I didn't mean to make a speech."

"You're
just really sorry for yourself."

"Possibly,"
David said. "But shit, Devil, why did you have to burn them? The
stories?"

"I
had to, David," she said. "I'm sorry if you don't understand."

He
had understood really before he had asked her the question and the question had
been, he realized, a rhetorical one. He dis liked rhetoric and distrusted those
who used it and he was ashamed to have fallen into it. He drank the whiskey and
Perrier slowly while he thought how untrue it was that everything that was
understood was forgiven and he tightened his own discipline as conscientiously
as he would have worked in the old days with the mechanic and the armorer going
over the plane, the engine and his guns. It was not necessary then because they
did the work perfectly but it was one way of not thinking, and it was, to use a
wet word, comforting. Now it was necessary because what he had said to
Catherine about killing her he had said quite truly and not rhetorically. He
was ashamed of the speech which had followed the statement. But there was
nothing he could do about the statement which was truly made except tighten his
discipline so that he would have it in case he began to lose control. He poured
himself another whiskey and put in Perrier again and watched the small bubbles
form and break. God damn her to hell, he thought.

"I'm
sorry to be stuffy," he said. "I understand of course.

"I'm
so glad, David," she said. "I'm going away in the morning."

"Where?"

"To
Hendaye and then to Paris to see about artists for the book."

"Really?"

"Yes.
I think I should. We've wasted time as it is and today I made so much progress
that I just need to keep on."

"How
are you going?"

"With
the Bug."

"You
shouldn't drive alone."

"I
want to."

"You
shouldn't, Devil. Really. I couldn't let you."

"Can
I go on the train? There's one to Bayonne. I can rent a car there or in
Biarritz."

"Can
we talk about it in the morning?"

"I
want to talk about it now."

"You
shouldn't go, Devil."

"I'm
going," she said. "You're not going to stop me.

"I'm
only thinking about the best way."

"No,
you're not. You're trying to stop me.

"If
you wait we'll go together."

"I
don't want to go together. I want to go tomorrow and in the Bug. If you don't
agree I'll go by train. You can't stop anyone from going on the train. I'm of
age and because I'm married to you doesn't make me your slave or your chattel.
I'm going and you can't stop me.

"Will
you be coming back?"

"I
plan to."

"I
see. "You don't see but it doesn't make any difference. This is a reasoned
and coordinated project. These things aren't just tossed off—" "Into
a wastebasket," David said and remembered the discipline and sipped the
whiskey and Perrier. "Are you going to see your lawyers in Paris?" he
asked. "If I have any business with them. I usually see my lawyers. Just
because you don't have any lawyers doesn't mean everyone else doesn't have to
see their lawyers. Do you want my lawyers to do anything for you?"
"No," David said. "Fuck your lawyers." "Do you have
plenty of money?" "I'm quite all right on money. "Really, David?
Weren't the stories worth a lot? It's bothered me terribly and I know my
responsibility. I'll find out and do exactly what I should." "You'll
what?" "Do exactly what I should." "Just what is it you
propose to do?" "I'll have their value determined and I'll have twice
that paid into your bank." "Sounds very generous," David said.
"You were always generous. "I want to be just, David, and it's
possible that they were worth, financially, much more than they would be
appraised at." "Who appraises these things?" "There must be
people who do. There are people who appraise everything." 'What sort of
people?" "I wouldn't know, David. But I can imagine such people as
the editor of the Atlantic Monthly, Harper's, La Nouvelle Revue
Francaise."

"I'm
going out for a while," David said. "Do you feel all right?"

"Except
for the fact that I feel I've probably done a great wrong to you that I must
try to set right I feel very well," Catherine said. "That was one
reason I was going to Paris. I didn't want to tell you."

"Let's
not discuss casualties," David said. "So you want to go on the
train?"

"No.
I want to go in the Bug."

"All
right. Go in the Bug. Just drive carefully and don't pass on hills."

"I'll
drive the way you taught me and I'll pretend you're with me all the time and
talk to you and tell us stories and make up stories about how I saved your
life. I always make those up. And with you it will all seem so much shorter and
effortless and the speed won't seem fast. I'm going to have fun."