The Self-Enchanted (19 page)

“I’ve got to get Christopher back to town. He’s ill.”

“Just a touch of sun,” suggested Baird.

She paid no attention to him. “You’ve got to help me, somebody’s got to help me carry him,” she said.

“But what on earth is it?” asked Mrs. Carter. She looked petulant.

“Will you drive me back?”

Mrs. Carter and George exchanged quick glances, and Mrs. Carter bit her lip. “You can take the car, dear,” she said. She fumbled in her purse and took out the keys. “There,” she said. She glanced firmly at Baird.

George got up languidly. “Come along, Colonel,” he said. “I guess our guest has the megrims.”

Sally led them down through the cemetery as fast as she could and then round the corner of the wall.

“My God!” said Colonel Blair, but Baird only looked down at Christopher as though he was amused.

Somehow they got him back to the cars. Or to the car, for the other was missing. “The boys had an errand,” said Baird, but she only half-listened. “It’s okay. They’ll pick us up on the way back.”

They got Christopher into the car, and she put in the ignition key.

“Watch out,” shouted Baird.

Looking out the window, she saw a coffin half-
concealed
in the grass, its lid off. She shot the car into gear. Christopher lay beside her, sprawled in the seat. She did not know whether he was conscious or not. His eyes were closed, and his facial muscles twitched. She swerved up the hill and back on to the road. She could scarcely find the way for the clouds of dust billowing up about the car. Then, ahead of her, she saw the gate.

She had forgotten about the gate. Automatically she slowed down, but she had to get through it, and there was only one thing to do. Biting her lip, she drove the gas pedal to the floor, stepping the car up to sixty, seventy, seventy-five, ignoring everything, and steered right for the gate, honking her horn. It loomed up before her, a massive block of solid masonry with a narrow opening in it
.
She saw the soldiers. They leapt aside, and closing her eyes for a second, she zoomed through the gateway.
Behind
her, she could hear them jabbering to one another, but they did not come in pursuit. She jammed on the brakes, to avoid ramming a building, and swung down a street at random, in the general direction of the Praia Grande. Once there, she headed for the hotel. A car pulled out from the
porte-cochère
,
and she stopped right where it had been. She had a momentary picture of the startled doorman.

“Help me get him inside,” she called.

The doorman looked at her stupidly.

“Help me get him inside.”

The doorman disappeared into the hotel. She ran round to the other side of the car. “Christopher,” she urged, but he would not move. She reached into his pocket and
found a small bottle, empty. She shook him desperately. “Christopher.”

Some men came down the steps to the car, and she ordered them until they got him inside. They took him up the back way. They insisted on it, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Finally she got him up to his room and dismissed the manager, who was worried if he was dying.

“Of
course he’s not dying,” snapped Sally. “But get a doctor.”

The manager looked at her curtly and went into the other room to phone. She stood alone, looking helplessly down at Christopher. At least he was breathing regularly. She found she was still clutching the bottle in her hand.

T
he room was unbearably close. She tried to sit still on a chair, but could not. The doctor was still inside with Christopher. She counted every rose in the elaborate wallpaper, and every leaf in the carpet. At last the bedroom door opened and the doctor came out. His expression was not reassuring.

“He’s resting now,” he said. In his hand he held the bottle. “He took an overdose of this, apparently. I’m afraid he’s very ill.”

“How ill?” she demanded.

He looked at her dubiously. “You’ll have to talk him into getting to a specialist in Hong Kong. There’s a Dr. James there. He’s quite good. I’ve tried to talk to him, but I can’t get anywhere. Perhaps you can.”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid it may be cancer of the stomach. Why hasn’t he gone to a doctor before?”

“He refuses.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to go this time.”

“Is it that serious?”

“I’m afraid so. My advice is, get him to Dr. James.” It was impossible for her to tell what the doctor was
thinking
. “He’s quiet now.” He held out a card. “You can
find me here. But get him to Hong Kong as soon as you can.”

“Can I see him?”

“Better wait for an hour or two. If you have any trouble, let me know.”

“Thank you,” said Sally, and saw him to the door. When he had gone she went into her own room and sat on the bed. She did not know how she would get him to Hong Kong, but she knew she would manage it.

She shivered. It seemed to her that death was all around her. She went over and flung open her window. The dance band was playing. Its brassy noise hit her in the face as soon as the window was open. She leaned against the sill, looking out over the twilit hills. Far below her she could hear, over the noise of the band, a clatter of dishes and the sounds of laughter.

At around ten, when she could wait no longer, she went to his room and opened the door. The room was in
darkness
, but she could hear him breathing lightly. Closing the door softly behind her, she went over to the bed and knelt down beside it, putting her head on the clothes. Raising her head, she looked at him.

The moonlight made his face pale and luminous. She could see his chest rise and fall, and his lips were slightly parted. The hair was clotted around his forehead, and he was sweating. The sweat made his face glow, and beneath his closed eyes his eyeballs seemed hard and round.

She could not bear to be parted from him. She saw every pore and line on his face. “Christopher,” she
whispered
. His eyes opened. It took him a moment to focus and then he began to stir. He smiled slightly and closed his eyes again, and she put her head in the crook of his arm.

“How did we get back?” he asked.

“I drove you.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He wants you to see a specialist in Hong Kong.” She reached out her hand, stroking his hair. “I love you,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you.” She began to cry,
because
she could not help it. “Christopher,” she said. “I’m frightened.”

“There’s no reason to be,” he said, but hugged her closer in the darkness. She stood up, slipped out of her clothes, and got in bed with him.

“Oh, God,” he said. “You feel so young and healthy. Will I ever be young again?”

“Of course you will.”

“I haven’t been too pleasant.”

“I don’t care.”

He turned on his side and she sank down into a
voluptuousness
of exhaustion and desire. She would give him anything now.

“Who is this doctor?” he asked after a while.

“I don’t know. His name is James.”

He was silent for a minute. “When am I to go there?”

“We should leave to-morrow.”

He lay staring at the ceiling, and she could feel his frightened body pressing towards her, trying to flee out of itself and into her.

“I’ve never needed anyone before,” he said, “or been needed. It’s funny. I don’t mind. I always thought I would. When I realized I needed you, I hated you. But I don’t. I love you.” He turned towards her. “I want to live,” he said. He began to sob quietly, the tears trickling down his face.

“I want a child now, Christopher,” she said.

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not,” she said bitterly.

“I wanted to found a family,” he said. “Can you imagine that? I wanted a strong son.”

“He will be.”

“There’s still enough money: he could have everything I never had. But there isn’t much time.”

“That’s not true,” she wailed.

He sat up in bed. He was thinking. “I was nineteen when I met Nora,” he said. “She was rich, and I wanted power. I wanted enough power so nobody could ever touch me, or laugh at me again. I hated her. But she wanted me, and she got me. I thought it was my big chance. She taught me how to go into a room and what to say and how to meet the right people. She told me what to buy and sell, and she got me out of small-time
gambling
. She got me to buy up real estate. And all the time I hated her. She’s obscene. And then she wanted me to marry her daughter. Why? God knows why. Because she wanted me under her thumb and to show she still had the upper hand. She didn’t succeed, and she’s never forgiven me. She wants to ruin me just to prove she can do it. I took you there. I wanted to show her I was free of her. Like Curt, I guess. And she tricked us both. I’ll never forgive her for that. And she’ll never forgive me.”

She could not stop him. He talked on and on. He told her about his family, and his childhood, and the
small-time
days. He told her everything, as though he had to. And she realized that he was confessing to her. Yet there were some things he did not tell her. There were some things that hurt him too much for him to tell her or
anyone
,
and she could guess that. He talked until dawn, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Finally she got him to rest.

“Will you come with me?” he asked hesitantly. But he looked scared.

“Of course.”

“I couldn’t face it alone.”

“You won’t have to,” she said.

At last, after he had fallen asleep and the soft morning sun was creeping across the floor towards the bed, she lay sleepless, looking down at him. There was nothing she could do for him. She could only try to help. And in the meantime there was Hong Kong, and she did not like to think about what she would discover there. She wanted to take him in her arms, like a child, and comfort him.

*

Hong Kong was a nightmare. It lasted three days. She went with him to the hospital, only to have him demand that she leave. She went back to the hotel, plagued by anxiety. When he appeared he would tell her nothing. He was upset and irritable. At night he was brutal. In his heaving shoulders she could read every muscle of a terror she did not understand.

In the daytime he hid from her. At times he could not bear her. He ran to be alone, as a wounded animal runs.

On the fourth morning she found him sitting at
breakfast
, shaking violently.

“What time do you go to see James?” she asked.

“I’m not going.”

“That’s unreasonable.”

“I’m not,” he shouted, so that everyone in the
dining-room
could hear him. She saw the look in his eyes.

“Christopher, you’ve got to go.”

“I Won’t I tell you.”

“I won’t, I tell you.’

“Christopher, everyone is watching us.”

“I don
’
t care.”

“I don’t care.’

“Christopher!”

He blinked at her and stopped. She got him into a car and got in with him, giving the address to the driver. The car pulled up before James’s offices.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” she asked.

“No. I may as well face it. But wait here.” He kissed her and went into the building. She could hear the meter ticking. It ticked on maddeningly, until she thought it would drive her insane. She watched the numbers turn up and knew that the driver was watching her in the
rear-view
mirror. It was an old car with a high tonneau and a square front with two lamps. She found herself picking with her fingernails at the flaking leather upholstery. The flakes got under her nails, and she searched compulsively in her handbag for a nail file, aware that she was doing everything too jerkily. She forced herself to be calm. She took out a compact and powdered her nose, but still Christopher did not come back. She watched the second hand on her watch. It was like a capillary. It swept round and round the dial, hesitating as it approached ten, and when it was over to one, pouring smoothly down again. She got out of the cab and walked up and down. She was starting back towards the cab when she saw Christopher. She knew at once that it was bad news. She could see every detail of his body, and searched his face.

“How did it go?”

“He wants to see you,” he said heavily. Behind him she could see all too clearly the black outline of the cab, and
the driver, who was picking his teeth. Even from this distance she could hear the ticking of the meter. “I’ll wait in the cab,” he told her. “Don’t be too long. I don’t want to be alone.”

She stared at him and then started up the stairs.
Looking
back, she saw him huddled up in the back seat of the cab. She went down the hallway until she found a door marked “Dr. James” and opened it. She was shown into a room furnished with dark furniture. Its walls were panelled and there was a dark Turkey carpet. The doctor at least looked sympathetic. He was an Englishman of about fifty, precise and thin. She looked at him helplessly.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t very good. Why hasn’t he seen a doctor before? If he had …”

“Oh,” she said, finishing the sentence for him.

“Of course, you can check in the States. But I’m afraid the diagnosis will be the same.”

She felt like an idiot. “Will he die?”

“He will unless he consents to an operation. It’s pretty far advanced.”

“And if he doesn’t have the operation, how much longer”, she stumbled on the words, “will he live?”

Dr. James looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps a few months. Perhaps a year. I don’t know. Nobody could. But not more than a year, and the pain will be pretty bad.”

“Does he know this?”

“In substance, yes.”

“And if he had the operation?”

“It’s a chance, a slim chance, but a chance.”

“Did he refuse?”

“He was violent about it. A lot of people feel that way. It’s not a pretty operation. But he’s living on will-power,
and that can’t go on for ever. Will-power won’t pull him through.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m afraid you’re in for a bad time of it,” he said. “But get him to agree to the operation.”

“He never will.”

Dr. James grunted and rose. “What’s he scared of, otherwise?” he asked. “Do you know?”

“In part.”

 “He may crack up. If I were you I’d get him home right away. And if you can, talk him into the operation. Well, you must, that’s all. And you should get a nurse, soon. I’m sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

She went out and waited in the hall for a moment,
unable
to face Christopher. Then she went down the steps to the cab. When she got in he gave directions to the driver. He was very quiet. At last, looking out into the street, away from her, he asked, “Did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

He turned to her and she could see that his eyes were hard and his jaw determined. “I’m not having it,” he said. “Do you think I want to be a cripple? I’d rather die.”

“It’s your only chance,” she said hopelessly.

“Then I don’t want a chance.”

She tried to talk him around, but she knew that he meant it. She tried everything she could think of. She even tried to reason with him in bed, where consent is most easily given, but she could do nothing with him. He would not even leave Macao. She gave up. Her one desire now was to get him back to the valley. She could not get over the idea that things might be different there.

*

For the first time since they had come to Macao the
skies were heavy, with great bruised purple clouds that huddled across the sky. The surface of the river was angry. The wind whipped it to and fro into small white caps that hissed and foamed and subsided, only to form again.

The trees in the hotel garden scraped against the walls like raw bones. The rooms were peculiarly dim with that dimness of electric light burning in the day time. The atmosphere was damp. The whole town seemed to be waiting for the storm to break. She could hear the thunder rolling in the distant hills.

They had dinner together in the dining-room. It was crowded. Even the incessant orchestra was not as insistent as usual. After dinner they went to bed early.

“I wish to hell the damned storm would break,” snapped Christopher.

“It isn’t very cheerful,” She was relieved. She always was when they reached their room and went to bed for the night. Then it was possible to be honest and to be close to him. He had no secrets from her in the night.

“It makes me restless. If it would only either rain or clear up.”

They lay in darkness, listening to the creaking plants below the balcony. The whole town seemed to be
quivering
around them.

“Do you want to be alone?” she asked.

“Would you mind?”

Distressed, she bent over and kissed him, and he put his arms around her angrily. Suddenly he let her go. She went to her own room reluctantly.

He lay alone for a long time, tossing and turning. He propped himself up in bed and lit a cigarette. There was a sudden hush. The wind died. Far off, and then nearer, the
thunder rumbled, and after a pause, with a tremendous roar, the rain began to come down. It crashed around the hotel, until the balcony door opened on nothing but a solid curtain of water, shutting out the world and locking him in this one small room. He sat up in the darkness, watching. He turned over and tried to bury himself in the bed, but the bed was by now rumpled and hot. He got up, stumbled in the darkness, and went to the windows. The rain splattered over his face in hard drops. It was cold rain, icy cold, and he drew back.