The Self-Enchanted (10 page)

Her bedroom was cold and immense. The sheets were always cold at first. She liked the delicious feeling of
getting
warm in them. Then she would wait. Sometimes she would read, sometimes she would sit up in the dark, smoking. She had begun to smoke heavily these days. But mostly she left the light on, for as long as she left the light on she knew she was safe. With the light off it was worse. Christopher refused to have draperies or curtains for many of the windows, so that the mountains seemed to bear down on her directly from every side. And as she was dozing off, she would hear the whine of the sliding door from the dressing-room to his bedroom, and her body would go rigid.

Usually he said nothing. To-night he paused in the doorway, watching the room, and she could tell, through half-open eyes,
that something was wrong with them. He started across the room, but seemed to walk with
difficulty
. There was never any love in him. And there was a rank smell pouring out of him that nauseated her.

He was strong and he liked to cause pain. It seemed to be the only thing that satisfied him. It was as though he wanted to destroy her.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, and heard him laugh in a strangled voice that was not his ordinary voice at all. He was not usually so brutal as this. She tried to reach out for the light, but he would not let her. He twisted her arm until she cried, and would not stop until she began to scream. He covered her mouth with his free hand, and she bit it. Then he stopped, and turning over on his back, began to breathe stertorously.

“Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“Get out,” he shouted. “Get out or I’ll kill you.” He kicked her hard in the side, and she fell out of the bed. She fled from the room, going into his, and behind her she could still hear him shouting. Then he stopped, and she heard the door to her room slide to and the click of the lock. She stood in the centre of his bedroom, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. His room was kept even colder than hers. It worried her. She went back through the dressing-room and tried the door, but it was locked.

“Christopher,” she called. There was no answer. Alarmed, she rapped on the door, pulling at the handle. At last she heard a movement on the other side.

“I’m all right,” he called. “Go away.”

Reluctantly she went back to his room and sat propped up on his bed for a long time. She knew for certain that he was not asleep. Then, despite her fright, she slept herself.

Much later she thought she heard something. She struggled up from sleep. She heard the heavy sounds of ripping and tearing, as though someone were ripping the flesh off her bones. It was almost dawn. She sat upright,
trembling and listening. She struggled to get loose from the covers and stood in the centre of the room.

The sound was repeated. She stumbled through the dressing-room and tried Christopher’s door. It was
unlocked
, and hesitating for a moment, she slid it open. She saw that the bed was a tangled mass of covers, with the pillows flung on the floor, but Christopher was not there. She heard the sound again. It came from the hall. She crossed the room, avoiding the bed, and sliding open the hall doors, stood there blinking.

The hall was of glass on four sides and rose above the roof-line of the house, so that even at night it was brightly lit. At the other end of the hall she saw
Christopher
. He had not heard her.

He was standing with his back to her, and was wearing a robe. In the clear light she could see the tight muscles of his calves, and his feet were white at the soles, though the rest of his skin was deeply tanned. He had a crowbar in his hand and was attacking the crate with it. It was a remarkably solid crate. While she watched, one slab of it came away with a prying of nails. Christopher put his foot on it and forced it to the ground. Wiping his
forehead
he straightened up.

“What is it?” she asked.

He whirled, and when he saw her, tried to change his expression, but she had seen the ashen mask. His eyes were dilated. Running his hands through his hair, to hide his face from her, he tried visibly to get a grip on himself, but it was too late. She had taken him badly off guard, and she knew that he did not like that. She did not go any closer. She did not dare to go too close to him.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep through that.”

He gestured with the crowbar, but she saw that
something
had drained all the energy out of him. He went back to work on the crate, slashing it with the bar, as though he wanted to smash it to pieces.

“You’ll break whatever’s inside,” she said.

“I’d like to slash it to ribbons,” he told her. “Go back to bed.”

“No.”

“Then watch,” he shouted, and once more brought the crowbar down on the crate, shattering one of its corner supports and sending a shower of dust and splinters across the floor. Again and again he swiped at it, until it leaped into the air, leaving a settle of dust.

“There,” he shouted. Putting down the bar, he ripped off the remaining slats with his hands, so that the two parts of the box came apart, leaving a mass of thick wrappings jammed in the frame. With a sob he squatted down on his heels and began to tear away the wrappings and excelsior padding underneath. The excelsior blew over the floor, like strands of yellow hair. Suddenly the bundle came apart with a loud clatter, a piece of gilt plaster skittering across the floor towards Sally.
Christopher
leaped back, taut and on edge.

“Damn,” he said, but she could see he was scared. She moved across the room and helped him lift the bundle up. Somehow they righted it. It was a large picture. She tipped it on one corner and leaned it against the wall.

It was certainly not a pleasant picture. She did not like the look of it at all. It was a life-size portrait of a woman seated in a chair, holding in her lap a pair of gardening shears. The shears were oddly painted, and grasped firmly
in a bony, shrivelled hand. But it was the face that startled her, for it was Christopher’s face, a Christopher shrivelled up, with thin, mean, cruel lips and watery old eyes that were at the same time piercing and malevolent. It was a proud face, but also a mad one. It looked more horrible because the painter had obviously tried to make it agreeable and had failed. It seemed to stare at her. The eyes were painted in such a way that as the light caught them they sparkled with malice.

“Who is it?” she asked. He did not answer. He was still looking at it with frank disbelief. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But how did it get here?”

“She left orders that this was to be forwarded to me on her death. That’s typical of her.”

“Maybe she wanted you to have it.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think that was the reason.” He stared at it. “You wouldn’t think a heap of ash could hurt you,” he said. “But do you know what she said, she said I’d never get away. Well, she’s dead, and I can get rid of this, too. I’ll destroy every trace of her.”

“She can’t harm you now,” said Sally. “How could she?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I won’t destroy it.” He glanced at the portrait again. “I’ll hang it up.”

“There’s no need to make a scene about it,”
said Sally. She was exhausted.

He paid no attention to her. “Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll hang it up over the bed. Then she can watch all she wants. She can hang there and watch us into eternity. Does that bother you?” He laughed. “I hope to hell it bothers her, wherever she is.”

“I won’t have that over my bed,” said Sally.

“You said yourself it would be a pity to destroy it. Or does it frighten you?”

“Of course it doesn’t frighten me. But I don’t want a picture of your mother over my bed, either. I won’t have it, Christopher.”

“Oh, but you will,” he told her. There was no point in arguing with him. She went to her own room to try to rest, but when she finally got up for breakfast the
portrait
was still in the hall, and she found Christopher directing the houseboy to hang it. She did not say
anything
. She finished her breakfast and went out on to the terrace. It was a crisp, clear morning and the snow was perfect for ski-ing. She knew that she had to get out of the house. Staring down, she saw the broken balustrade, its armature creaking in the wind. Frightened, she went back to her room.

The picture was on the wall all right, but it had been slashed. Christopher stood before it, holding a kitchen knife and a hammer in his hands. He did not hear her. Again he reached up and slashed the painting. The brittle canvas cracked and split with an angry snarl, dust rising from its surface. The released flap of canvas sprang into the air and then went limp, trembling from the frame.

She did not speak to him. She went out to put on her skis. And later, when she paused at the rise of ground above the house, looking back, she could see him through the glass wall of the hall, standing there alone in his house.

*

After that she went ski-ing as often as she could, all through the winter. It was the only freedom she had. She
could not believe that the rest of her life would be like this. It was pretty bad.

One day she was sitting on the terrace, adjusting her boots, and felt him watching her dubiously. She ignored him.

“Do you think you should do so much ski-ing?” he asked. “You might injure yourself.”

“I’m not going to have a child, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not what I mean,” he said quickly.

She had a moment of insight. “You don’t like people to do anything you can’t do, do you?” she asked.

He just stared. “The snow is getting mushy, I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

She felt afraid. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said.”

She stood up, and it gave her confidence to do
something
that he could not do. But she was aware that he was watching her, and she did not like the look on his face. He was anxious that she should be back by four, and she said that she would be. She could stand him no longer, pushed off, and began to climb the hill. She was damned if she would be back by four.

When she reached the top of the rise and looked down, he was no longer in view, and it seemed to her that the emptiness of the terrace had about it something of
foreboding
. Then her spirits lifted. She loved to be by
herself
. Skimming along the white uplands, among the trees, she began to take stock of herself. She could feel her own healthy body rising and falling as she went up and down across country. She was twenty-three. She had made a mistake. But having made it, she would also make
the most of it. He wanted to dominate her. She would let him. She would wait, and would learn from him, and then she would fight free.

When she thought things over that way she could feel self-confidence flowing back into her, so that the events of the past four months did not matter. If she could live in the present and wait for the future, she would be able to pull through. Shooting out of a copse and on to a barren sweep of snow close to the cold edge of a cliff, she knew she was strong and that she would get pleasure out of beating Christopher at his own game. She was free again. And it seemed to her that at last she knew why Christopher had come to this valley. He had come
because
he was frightened and because he was weak, hoping that he could absorb the health and strength of the
mountains
. There he could pretend to be strong. For though he had power, she knew now that he was not really strong. She belonged here. He did not. He had married her because she did belong here, but he would never get in. He would always be a desperate stranger.

And yet, she thought, pushing off from the rise and down a diamond sprinkled slope in long slow loops, there was something about him that held her to him.

She ski-ed until dusk, among the lengthening shadows, and was, for the first time in many months, altogether happy. But once she was back at the house again, she could feel her spirits fall. It was almost night, and it was at night that she was most afraid. She opened the door to the living-room, where a single lamp was burning.
Because
there was still a trace of daylight left, the lamp seemed very dim. And she could sense as soon as she stepped into the room that something had happened and
instinctively she braced herself. The doors to the library were closed. While she looked at them they slid apart and Christopher appeared. He looked sleek.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I lost my way.”

“That’s hardly likely, is it?”

“It happens to be true.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “We were disappointed,” he said. “We wanted to surprise you.”

“We?”

“You’d better go dress,” he said. “I know you’ll want to look your best.”

It was useless to ask him what he had up his sleeve. She went to her room and dressed. She deliberately wore a dress he did not care for, and cursing him and herself, went back to the living-room reluctantly.

The little surprise he had arranged for her was Curt. Instinctively that angered her, though she did not quite know why.

Christopher rose and reached for the cocktail shaker.

“Won’t you have a drink?” he asked. His manner was almost indifferent, and yet, carefully concealed beneath the precision of his tone was a glint of eagerness. He was showing off.

She knew she had interrupted not conversation, but silence. The room was full of it. Christopher, she saw, disapproved of her dress, which was one point scored for her. His hand halted ever so slightly as he bent to pour her a drink.

She held out her hand to Curt and somewhat hesitantly he took it. “You’re looking well. What have you been doing?” she asked, shocked to see how pale he was. She
wondered if he knew how attracted he was to
Christopher
. Certainly Christopher knew it.

“He’s still working for me,” said Christopher. “He’s designing some clubs I’m thinking of opening.”

It seemed to her that Curt, without saying anything, was trying to answer her question.