The Self-Enchanted (18 page)

“The music’s pretty horrible,” he said. “Would you like to go for a walk? We can go along the hotel beach.”

“Should I get a wrap?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He waited impatiently, and she knew that something was bothering him. They went down to the beach. The music grew fainter and less bothersome. They stood on the coarse sand and she looked across the river. The city lights had disappeared, being hidden by the embankment. They might have been miles in the wilderness, and she could hear the soft
invisible
splash and echo of the restless surf, as it
turned and withdrew and returned and spluttered on the sand. The distant music from the hotel only made the silence seem the more intense.

Christopher did not speak. He was clearly upset. He angrily smoked at a cigarette. “You really want to go, don’t you?” he said at last.

“Don’t you think it would be nice?”

“I think it would be pretty terrible, but it
might be convenient. It gave me an idea.”

“What sort of idea?”

“A business idea.” He laughed. “I think we’ll make it,” he said. “If I’m right we won’t have to stay here much longer. We can go back to the mountains.”

She did not quite understand what he was talking about. “It’s so quiet,” she murmured, “So quiet and peaceful and far away.” Here and there, on the water, a small power boat left a wake glistening in the starlight.

“Do you know what those boats are? They’re smugglers’ boats, taking gold to Hong Kong at a dollar a brick,” he said. He began to walk up and down the shore, watching the slow alternation of the waves and the thin ravel of the surf, like an edging of yellow lace, as it spread along the water. Usually the water was warm, and the bathing was considered the best in Asia. But now it seemed hostile and insipid. It wanted something.

“It would be wonderful to stay here for ever,” she said. “You don’t feel wicked or sinful or stupid here.”

“Why should you?” he asked angrily.

She was surprised by his tone. “I don’t know, but I do sometimes. Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” he said shortly. She glanced at him, but he was looking out across the bay, not at the ships, but at nothing.

“A beach is sort of lonesome and scary,” she said, trying to explain.

“I hate the sea,” he said. “It’s too big. It just lies out there, waiting.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“No. I want to watch. I want to shout it down. I lie in my room and I can hear it. It never stops. It’s like a conscience. It’s everywhere in this damn town, and it waits. But I’m not afraid of it.”

Sally shivered. “I’m cold, Christopher.”

He paid no attention to her, but fumbled with his fingers, twitching them nervously. He looked terrified.
He reached in his pocket and something came out and fell on the sand with a metallic chink. He stopped, and picking it
up, hurled it
out to sea. It caught in the moonlight, and she thought it was the medal she had seen earlier. She heard a soft splash, and Christopher stood looking at the sea, trembling.

“Oh, God,” he said. “God help me.”

She tried to take his arm, but he wrenched away. And then he began to run. She tried to follow him, but the sand got into her shoes and she could not. When she reached the stairs to the embankment, he was nowhere in sight.

She went straight to the hotel, but he was not there either. She had no idea where he had gone, and it was futile to look for him, for Macao was a maze of alleys. She sank down into a chair, in the darkness, not even bothering to turn on the light. It was the pain again, she knew, and it seemed to her that she could hear him
running
through all the nightmare streets of that nightmare city.

W
hen she woke up, Christopher was in the room, standing in the door diffidently,
silhouetted
against the light. “It’s late,” he said. “You’d better get ready. I expect your friends will be calling for us soon.”

“You can’t go. You’re in no condition to go.” He looked haggard and his clothes were a mess. She did not dare to ask him where he had been.

“Nevertheless, I’m going.” He shifted about uneasily. “Get ready.”

It was useless for her to protest. She pulled herself
together
and went in to take a shower. When she same back she heard the phone being put back on the hook. “They’re downstairs,” he said.

“Do be careful, Christopher, for my sake,” she begged. He looked so shaky.

“We’re going to the picnic for your sake,” he said. “As I remember you were eager to see China. Get dressed and go down to pacify them. I’ll be along in a minute.”

With hurried dread, knowing what might happen, she did as she was told. She put on a light linen suit, and going down the corridor, reached the top of the stairs and looked down into the lobby. She saw only Mrs. Carter,
who was dressed in a filmy taffeta that suited her florid looks, and who was wearing a floppy garden hat with outrageous roses.

“Where’s that husband of yours?” she demanded. “Come outside and meet Colonel and Mrs. Blair.”

“I should wait for Christopher.”

“He’ll find you. We won’t be hard to miss,” said Mrs. Carter, and led the way outside.

Lined up in the bright sunlight before the hotel were two cars. They were both roadsters and both American. In the front one sat two people, obviously Colonel and Mrs. Blair. In the second car, surrounded by wicker baskets, sat two Chinese houseboys, perched very erect in white jackets, their faces blank. At the wheel was a hired driver.

“Get in the back, dearie,” said Mrs. Carter, opening the door of the first car for her. Sally got in and sat down. The rear seat was cramped. “Sally, dear, this is Colonel and Mrs. Blair, from Marion, Arkansas. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

“How do you do,” said Colonel Blair, and Mrs. Blair said: “Pleased to meet you.”

Sally tried to make small talk with them, but they did all the talking. They were enchanted with Macao,
because
it was so wicked; and they didn’t know what they would have done without Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Blair was a fat, podgy woman heavily covered with powder and
perspiring
in the sun. Colonel Blair was lean and stringy, with a licentious little laugh and naughty eyes, whose chief joke it was that he was always putting something over on his wife. Mrs. Blair’s name was May.

“What on earth is keeping that husband of yours?”
asked Mrs. Carter. “We can’t wait all day. We’ll have to go without him. We have to pick up George, and the whole day will be gone before we even get there.”

“Do you know George, Mrs. Barocco?” asked Colonel Blair. “He’s a wonderful guy. Shrewd, too.”

Sally looked towards the entrance and saw Christopher appear. While she watched him he straightened up and came down the stairs. He looked rapidly at the car and seemed relieved.

“Get in,” said Mrs. Carter, at the wheel. “We can’t wait all day.”

Christopher got in and Mrs. Carter made the
introductions
. She was clearly annoyed. She threw the car into gear with a sudden jerk and they were off.

“Quite a caravan,” said Christopher.

“Mrs. Carter believes in doing things in style,” Colonel Blair approved.

“So I see,” muttered Christopher. He sat back against the seats. Sally leaned forward, listening to Mrs. Blair ramble on about the superior advantages of Hong Kong, where at least the people spoke English. Mrs. Carter was not a relaxing driver. She drove the car recklessly and expected people to get out of her way. She honked her horn, approaching a crowd of Chinese, and it scattered in alarm. Beside Sally Christopher closed his eyes.

Mrs. Carter stopped the car abruptly before a building on a side street and everyone lurched forward.

“What the devil,” said Christopher, his eyes wide open.

“We have to pick up George,” said Mrs. Carter. “I couldn’t leave him behind. He’s mad to see China.” She put the heel of her hand on the horn and the raucous
squeal got on Sally’s nerves. George came out of the building and jumped into the car.

“Do you have to make that racket?” he asked angrily. “There’s no need for the whole world to know our business.”

“Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,” snapped Mrs. Carter.

“You’d better let me drive.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Where are those damn boys?”

At that moment the other car appeared round the
corner
. Mrs. Carter swerved out into the street and turned down it, until she reached the Praia Grande. “Now
remember
, everybody,” she said, “we’re going to a funeral, so look solemn.”

Glancing behind her, Sally saw that the boys in the other car had propped upright a large floral wreath with the enlarged picture of some bespectacled Chinese in the middle of it. She turned around, bewildered.

“No idea who he is,” said Colonel Blair, “but I thought it looked authentic. Nothing like a little realism.”

Christopher leaned back again and closed his eyes.

“Feeling ill?” asked Baird, leaning around to squint at Christopher. Sally could see the veins in his high
forehead
, which gave him a lizard
look.

“Quite well, thank you,” snapped Christopher. He lay with his eyes closed, passively accepting the sun.

Mrs. Carter narrowly missed a cart, and then they were out of the main traffic and drew up before the Chinese Gate. She stopped the car. The gate was primitive, but solid. On the other side of it
lay China. Colonel Blair waggled his finger at one of the Chinese boys, who got out
of the car behind. The sun was merciless. Sally could feel her face growing hot, and looked anxiously at
Christopher
, but he was merely staring at the gate. Colonel Blair got out of the car and went with the boy up to one of the guards and they began to talk. Then he came back and got into the car.

“The boy’s related to one of the captains, or whatever he is,” he said. “And money’s money.”

Sally heard Baird let out a long breath. The car
manœuvred
under the gate, past the blank-faced soldiers in their worn uniforms, and the other car followed. Sally turned and saw the gate receding from them. They were in China.

“Isn’t it wonderful what you can do when you aren’t supposed to?” giggled Mrs. Carter. “Where do I go now?”

Baird leaned forward, his arms on the dashboard. “Just go down the road. I’ll tell you when to turn right.” Sally realized that Christopher was watching him closely.

“Not a pagoda in sight,” said Mrs. Carter. “What a disappointment.” She seemed once more in the best of spirits. Sally looked at the car behind. The floral
presentation
was wilted and bounced about in the rear seat, propped up by the two boys. There was scarcely a tree in the landscape. The road was narrow and in bad condition.

“Here,” said Baird suddenly.

Mrs. Carter made a wild pass at the wheel and the car skittered down a side road which was even bumpier than the one they had been on. They started to descend through a ravine lined with trees. It had been concealed from the road above.

“You’d better drive in,” said Baird. “We don’t want the cars out in plain sight.”

Mrs. Carter jerked the car along under a tree. The drooping branches scraped against the windshield.
Grabbing
the ignition key, she thought for a second, and then dropped it into her purse. The other car pulled up behind them.

“Isn’t this quaint,” said Mrs. Blair. She got out of the car, glancing around her.

The cemetery was run down. The wind rustled the trees. There was a wall with an elaborate gate of smeared plaster. They moved forward, followed by the boys, and through the gate. Inside the grass was wild and high, and the horseshoe shaped graves alternated with small wooden crosses, some almost fresh, the ideograms on the others all but obliterated. Looking at the trees, Sally realized that it was autumn. She had not realized that before. She could smell autumn in the air, the smell of decay and leaf-mould, and she thought of the valley. Christopher walked beside her, and she saw that he was looking around him suspiciously. She heard him sigh. He was watching Baird ahead of them.

“What a wonderful turtle,” cooed Mrs. Blair, catching sight of the placard bearer in front of one of the horseshoes. “Whatever will people think when I tell them I had a picnic in China, in a cemetery. I wish we’d brought a camera, Charles; why didn’t we bring the camera? I told you to bring it.”

Colonel Blair looked embarrassed.

“I must say it doesn’t feel like China,” continued Mrs. Blair. “I should think at least they’d have a pagoda.”

“There are some north of here,” said Baird.

“I’d love to see a real one.”

“I think we’d better stay where we are.”

Mrs. Carter had gone on ahead of them and was
standing
in the grass, picking burrs from her stockings. “This should do,” she said. “Besides, we’ll be protected from the wind. In the arms of death,” she added, for on either side of her were the walls of a horseshoe. “Isn’t that romantic?” Baird beckoned to the boys, who spread blankets, and she sat down. “I’m glad that’s over with,” she said flatly.

Baird glanced at her quickly.

“The driving, I mean. I like driving, but not through these nasty little streets. It makes me so nervous I could scream.”

“Cora!”

Mrs. Carter looked at Baird and shut up. The boys began to bring the wicker baskets. One of them seemed unduly light.

“Leave it in the car,” said Baird, and muttered
something
rapidly to the boys.

“Let’s have a drink,” said Colonel Blair. The sun was bright and he was sweating. The beads of sweat stood out on his wide red forehead. George opened one of the baskets. He squatted down on his heels and Sally
wondered
why he was so tense. The basket was lined with ice, from which protruded the necks of several bottles.

“The glasses,” screamed Mrs. Carter. “Tell the boys to unpack the glasses.”

The boys came and Baird handed them the bottles. Then they all sat on the grass and drank raw burgundy, looking down over the cemetery. The boys served the meal. There was a decent salad, and if Sally had not been so worried about Christopher she would have completely
enjoyed herself. At the same time she was aware that something was going on between Mrs. Carter and Baird. In repose, which was not often, Mrs. Carter looked strained and unexpectedly old.

“I wonder what these things say?” asked Mrs. Blair.

“Rest in peace. What else do tombstones ever say?” demanded Colonel Blair. He was already slightly drunk.

Mrs. Blair stood up and looked down across the
cemetery
. “Oh, look!” she cooed.

The rest of them looked. Coming into the cemetery at the far end was a procession of mourners, and Sally could see that they bore a small wooden coffin. For a moment they sat in silence, watching the procession halt and lower the coffin to the ground.

“Another drink?” suggested Colonel Blair.

Christopher sat watching the coffin, and Sally noticed that Baird was looking at him closely.

“Gives you ideas, doesn’t it?” said Baird.

“What?” Christopher seemed startled.

“Coffins have so many uses,” said Baird, and drifted away to Mrs. Carter.

“Damn him,” said Christopher. “I’d like to know what he’s up to.”

Sally did not think he was up to anything.

“Sally, dear,” called Mrs. Carter. “Do come over here. I want to talk to you.”

Sally looked at Christopher, and getting up, went over to Mrs. Carter and sat down beside her. Mrs. Carter was also a little drunk. “I don’t think you’re enjoying
yourself
, dearie,” she said. “It was George’s idea, but I do think for once it was a good one.” She squinted at Sally. “And I want you to enjoy yourself. I want everybody
to enjoy himself. I want to enjoy myself. And I am. Isn’t that nice? I am. I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

“Neither have I,” agreed Sally.

“Oh, stop worrying about that gloomy husband of yours. Do you think I worry about George? And George is much gloomier than your husband. Sometimes he’s
downright
sadistic. But I don’t let that spoil my fun. Stand on your own two feet, my dear. Absolutely.” Mrs. Carter nodded at Sally wisely. Sally tried to get away, but Mrs. Carter would not be stopped. She went babbling on. When she finally managed to break away, Christopher was not in view.

“Do they really put roasted pigs on the graves?” asked Mrs. Blair. “I wonder how they taste.”

Sally ignored her and walked around the horseshoe. She should not have left him for a moment. She began to search through the cemetery. The grass was dry and brittle underfoot, and the place had a bad odour. She passed the place where the funeral procession had been, but the earth was smooth and the grass still grew on it. The grass had a rank smell.

Though the sun was so hot, in the shadows it was freezingly cold. Wherever she looked, going more and more quickly, she was followed by the sound of Mrs. Carter and the others. Mrs. Carter’s thin, high-pitched, hysterical laughter bored into her ears, and seemed to haunt the whole cemetery. Mrs. Blair’s sharp explosive yap always followed it. She could hear them laughing drunkenly over the ceaseless restlessness of the trees. She turned her ankle in the grass and winced with pain. Somewhere a car started up, backfiring.

At last she found him. Turning one of the horseshoes, she saw him inside, leaning against the wall, writhing on the grass. He did not even know she was there. She stood looking at him, and then, despite the pain in her ankle, she ran back to the group on the hill, thinking she would never reach them.

“What on earth is wrong? Have you seen a ghost?” asked Mrs. Carter. She had been talking to Baird, and did not like to be interrupted.