The Self-Enchanted (20 page)

The rain fell endlessly, beating everything down to the ground, and turning the earth into a morass of mud in which the flowers struggled and drowned. The wind was rising. Outside the windows it drove the rain backwards and forwards like a steel curtain.

He felt his way across the
salon
and stopped at Sally’s door. He could hear her steady breathing, as she slept. Going back to his own room, he dressed hurriedly and jammed his feet into his shoes. He groped his way through the
salon
,
found the door, and let himself into the hall. It was long and shabby. Some of its lights had blown out.

He reached the top of the stairs and paused. Below him stretched the emptiness of the lobby. He had to find someone to talk to, anyone. He went downstairs and wandered from room to room, but there was nobody there, so he rushed out through the revolving doors and stepped into the torrent. The rain was so thick that he could scarcely see across the street.

He was cold, bitterly cold, and he was soaked through. The rain had driven through his coat into his clothes. His tweeds stank of smoke and rain and clung heavily to his
body. It was as though everything conspired to pull him down.

At last he saw the sign of the Central Hotel,
glimmering
through the heavy mist, and lurched inside. The bright lights made him blink. He did not know which way to turn. Then he saw Mrs. Carter.

“Whatever brings you out on a night like this?” she asked, and he tried to turn away. “Why, you poor man, you’re shivering from head to foot.” She took his arm,
looking
at him sharply and smiling at the same time. “Come and have a drink. You’ll die of pneumonia if you don’t.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course you drink. Everybody drinks. Ask
anybody
.” She tugged at him, and he followed her, finding it difficult to focus. The room whirled round his head. “Here,” she said, and he felt a glass in his hand. “That will do the trick.”

He drank it. It burned him, but it settled him. He looked at her and motioned to the bartender.

“What you need is a good binge,” she said. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost. And I’m just the girl to help you. George is neglecting me.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Let’s see everything, even in the rain. I want to see everything.”

She was flushed. There were two bright spots on her cheeks, and he realized that she was not thirty-five: she must be forty-five or six. She had no business drinking: when she drank her face fell apart and you could see the old face underneath, the face that was older than she was.

“Come on,” she said. “Be a sport. I’ll tell you about my operations.”

He let her drag him along. Her knowledge of Macao was exhaustive. He lost count of where they had been or where they were going. He was dizzy. He ached. He felt wretchedly cold. And all around him fear seemed to seep through the walls, running out in pools of rain, the horrible crushing weight of this dirty city, crashing down to destroy him.

Mrs. Carter told him the abridged story of her life. She had been born in Oklahoma.

This bar was shoddy and crowded with cheap tarts and squat, swarthy Portuguese sailors. The uproar was terrific, but even it
could not drown out the uproar of the rain. He looked in the mirror behind the bar. Mrs. Carter’s
makeup
showed a suggestion of wrinkles underneath her smooth face. Her head was propped against her hand, which held a cigarette. He watched the smoke rise from its tip. It took an endless time to do so.

The pain began again. The liquor must have started it. His palms were wet, and he tried to rise. Mrs. Carter took his arm, but he drew away. He fought his way back out of the crowd, and then he was free, standing panting in a narrow black hall, with the rain a solid curtain again before him. He plunged out, slipping on the glistening street, his footsteps drowned in the rain. His breath came jerkily in short, painful gasps. He realized that he had come to a square. It was inches deep in water. Before him loomed a church. He plunged up the steps, sobbing, and tried the centre doors. They were locked. He tried one at the side, desperately pulling at it, and it gave, half-flinging him back. He fell inside, pulling the door after him, to shut out the awful rain.

He was standing in the darkened vestibule. It was cold
and quiet. Afraid of something behind him, he pulled open an inner door and found himself in the nave. Helpless, he sank down into a wicker chair that stood alone on the flat tiles. There was no one to help him or save him.

When he opened his eyes the nave had settled into place. It seemed immensely long. The floor stretched
endlessly
, scattered with chairs turned this way and that, one or two of them overturned. In the distance, weak, feeble and elusive, shone the altar, almost in darkness except for one or two pale flames. He dragged himself down the nave towards it, sobbing with fear.

When he reached it he tried to fumble in his pocket, to find matches, and getting them, stood up, clutching the rail. The matches were damp, and he struck one after the other, futilely. In the rows of candles only one was now burning, close to its socket. He thought that if it went out he would die. Thrusting a taper into it, from the rack, he began to light the candles. He lit them all. Even so, they did not cast enough light, and he went to the side altars with another taper, until every candle in the building burnt with a light too dim.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Save me. Let me live. I want to live. I’ll do anything, but let me live.” Before him the little lights burned feebly, buffeted this way and that, and the rain dinned louder and louder on the roof, bringing the building down around his ears. He would have done anything to stave off the pain and the darkness, but he could not. His eyes were heavy. He could not keep awake. The world whirled rapidly away from him.

Monsignor Parr found him there, collapsed on the tiles.

I
n the early morning hours the Bella Vista was deserted. It was then that the scrubwomen washed the marble floor of the terrace and that the dining-room was swept clear of debris. At five the gambling rooms stank of cigarettes, cigar smoke, and alcohol. All stains had to be removed by eight. The kitchens, of course, were never still. The fires in the stoves were not permitted to sink below a hot ash.

But the rain had stopped. The clouds were being pressed out to sea, where they hovered over the harbour on their way down to the roads. Just before dawn the fishing boats put out through the thinning mists, and slowly, to the east, the sun rose above the water, tinting the horizon pale gold and touching feebly the farther hills. And in the bowels of the hotel the cleaning people had begun to stir. In the kitchen the boys pokered up the fires and soon had them roaring.

The boats reached the channel and pulled out towards the open sea, circled by beady-eyed and hungry gulls. The sun hit the city of Macao, shimmering in the cleansed air, and glanced from the domes of the churches.

Sally did not wake until ten o’clock. She went at once to Christopher’s room and found him gone. Going to the
window she looked down. There was no one in the street. Perhaps he had gone to breakfast. She dressed and went downstairs, but he was not there. She forced herself to eat breakfast, knowing that she needed food. She told herself that he had only gone out on some errand, early, so as not to disturb her. She knew it was not the truth.

She asked at the desk if there was any message for her, but there was not. She went up the stairs and into their rooms. He was sitting in an armchair.

“Christopher, you were gone all night,” she said.

“Was I?” He seemed curiously subdued.

“I was worried sick. You could at least have left a message.”

“I’m sorry.” He seemed relaxed and much better. He came over to her and took her in his arms. He began to play with her hair, his fingers tentative and wistful. “Let me undress you,” he said. “I never have. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

She let him do it, looking at him anxiously. She was surprised. His flesh felt well again. She felt a great
tenderness
for him and let him do what he wished.

“I hope it takes,” she said.

When it was over, he lay there, propped up on one elbow, stroking her stomach. His face was sad, but young and wistful and cheated.

“If I had a son,” he said, “I’d want him to live in the house. I want him to have the best of everything. He wouldn’t be like me.”

“I hope he’ll look like you.”

“Do you? I’m not much to look at.”

“You’re handsome.”

He sat up, reaching for a cigarette beside the bed. She
lay there, drowsy and at peace, wondering what had
happened
inside her, and what it would be like to be
pregnant
. She prayed that she would be.

“It’ll be nice having your child,” she said.

He did not answer, but stroked her hair with those oddly withdrawn, tentative fingers, a touch she had not felt before. She wondered what had so subdued him.

“You mustn’t be lonely,” he said.

“Christopher.”

He puffed on his cigarette. “I think this gold deal will go through,” he said. “You’ll be safe, either way. But I want him to have money. And….” He hesitated and swallowed. “Give him something to believe in. It’s horrible to believe in nothing.”

For a long time they were alone in the awful anonymity of the hotel. It was a long time since she had felt at peace. With him, just for these few hours, she was, and it made tears come to her eyes. At last she fell asleep. When she woke up into the shadowy light he was not beside her, and the bed was cold. She threw on a robe and went across the
salon
to his room. He was sitting up in bed, smoking. He was startled, and she saw that he was worried, though he smiled at her.

“I was restless, so I came in here,” he said. “I think it’s time to wind things up. These Chinese are so damned slow. I want to go back to the valley. It will be almost winter there now, won’t it?” He smiled again. “Would you mind going there in the winter?”

“You’ll need care.”

“We’re going back,” he said shortly, and moved to get up. “I’m going to get dressed and go buy you something beautiful. I want to.” He paused. “I want to get out of
here. I don’t like it. I want to go home. We’ll fly as soon as I get things straightened out. I’d like to get there before winter starts. And I want to see the spring.” He shivered. “I hate this place. I hate every inch of it.” He glanced at her evasively. “Go get dressed and I’ll meet you
downstairs
.”

*

After breakfast he went into the town. She watched him walk down the driveway and out through the gates, a very trim American in an expensive business suit, and it occurred to her that he was none of the things he
pretended
to be. She turned back to the hotel.

She was in her room when the house phone rang.
Christopher
had been gone for some time, and she was afraid to answer it. It continued to ring, a little tinkle of bad news that filled the whole room. She picked it up.

The voice at the other end of the phone boomed into her ear. The man must be standing too close to the
mouthpiece
. It was a Monsignor Parr and he wanted to see her. She frowned, puzzled, and told him to come up. But he preferred that she go downstairs, so she agreed.

She saw him at once. He was a large man with a red face. He was sitting under a potted palm, and she
wondered
what he could want. He turned out to be American, and about fifty. She was somewhat reassured.

“Is it about Christopher?” she asked.

Monsignor Parr looked at her and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Yes,” he said. “You remember the night of the storm?” She nodded. “I found him in the church. He was in a pretty bad state.”

“Yes,” she blinked, wondering what was coming next.

“I had a long talk with him. He was violent and
semi-delirious
.
I take it he’s dangerously ill.” Monsignor Parr paused. “He’s very disturbed. How long have you been married to him?”

“For a year.”

“It appears his mother wished him to enter the
priesthood
.”

“I believe so.”

Monsignor Parr looked embarrassed. “People get
disturbed
,” he said. “In many ways, if you understand. He needs a great deal of help that I can’t give him.” He glanced at her rapidly. “I’m afraid he wants to kill
himself
. You have to prevent that.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I know he’s upset, but …”

“It’s not exactly that. He told me a great many things. Call it what you wish, but he’s afraid of God. Oh, not in the Catholic sense. That would be to put the matter too simply. He’s afraid of anyone stronger than himself, and it doesn’t matter what you call God. I can agree to that. But he mustn’t die damned. Take him home. Take him anywhere where it will be easier for him. If it can be easier for him anywhere.”

Sally realized suddenly that he was old and had only come to help, and didn’t know how. “I’ve been here for thirty years,” he said. “Take him home.” He looked around him diffidently, and then left, and she had the feeling that he had not said what he had come to say. Perhaps he had not known what it was that he had come for.

She was dressing for dinner, still thinking of him, when she heard Christopher enter his room. He did not come in to see her, and she knew that therefore he must be very tired. She waited for a few minutes, gazing into her
mirror without seeing anything, and then went in to him.

He was sitting in a chair, the expression on his face absent-minded and troubled. He looked up at her.

“Here’s my something beautiful,” he said, and handed her the box in his lap. She opened it. Inside was a bracelet of silver, from which dangled a thin disk of spinach jade. He told her to put it on. She slipped it on her wrist. It was cold against her skin and large. She fastened the catch and examined it.

“I wanted to give you something I chose myself,” he said. He looked up at her, and seeing, as though from an immense distance, some furtive terror lurking in his eyes, she remembered Monsignor Parr. “Let’s go down to dinner and show it off,” he asked. “I’m afraid I can’t show off for myself any more.”

All through dinner she could feel some tension mounting. He insisted upon dancing, and he should not have done so. He was too tired. She could see what an effort it was for him. Finally she hurried him across the lobby and up the stairs. She went into the bedroom and rummaged in the drawers until she found the bottle. Then she brought it back to him, with a glass of water. He glared at it, but he took it. She saw pain flash across his face. Brushing past her, he went into the bedroom and lay down on his bed. After a moment she followed him, her dress sweeping the floor.

“Shut the damn window, will you?” he asked.

From below came the sounds of the dance band. She went over and closed the window, which met with a sharp click. She stared through the glass.

“Christopher,” she said. “Monsignor Parr was here.”

“He had no right to do that.” He tried to get off the bed, but it was too difficult.

“He only wanted to help. He told me where you went that night.”

“No doubt he was disturbed over the fate of my soul.” Christopher sounded bitter.

“He was trying to be kind, I think.”

“I don’t want his help. I hate the whole damn
parsimonious
, blood-sucking crew of them. If he comes here again, I’ll throw him out.” He sank back against the pillows. “Damn him.”

She waited until he sank into unconsciousness, and then she went to her own room. He had no right to destroy himself, but if he wanted to, she did not know how she could stop him.

*

It was a bad siege he had. He was under morphine for two days, and he refused to have a nurse. He would not speak to her in those periods between bouts of pain when he was sufficiently conscious to know she was there. But she knew that he realized that this was what it would be like from now on. She could not bear to see him lying there under that sound-proof dome of pain, with those uncertain eyes that saw and yet did not seem to see. Sometimes he was delirious. From what he said then she knew that Monsignor Parr had been right.

There was also trouble with the management. They were tactful, but they ran a hotel, and they were therefore afraid of illness, should it prove mortal.

Then there was that sudden change. It was almost as though nothing was wrong with him. He insisted upon going downstairs to breakfast, and she knew better than
to disagree. He tried not to show how weak he was. They met on the terrace. The weather was overcast and windy. A tricky gust blew up and down the harbour, bringing with it the decaying harbour smells and the strong odour of iodine.

“I want a cup of coffee,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have it.”

He tapped his cup with his fingers, and lifting the heavy pot before her, she poured him a cup.

“I like the terrace,” he said. “I wonder how many people would come here if it weren’t for the terrace.”

“It is nice,” she agreed. She could feel how rigidly he held himself together. Something in his movements
betrayed
a great effort that he should not have made, and nowadays his eyes had that eternal attitude of watching and listening for some attack. She could understand it, but it was painful to watch.

“Damn,” he said.

“What?”

He nodded behind her, and she half-turned, looking
towards
the door of the hotel. Standing in the doorway were Mrs. Carter and George Baird. She had never seen Baird looking more dapper, and he seemed extremely pleased with himself. They started across the terrace.

“Sally, dear,” called Mrs. Carter. “I haven’t seen you in so long.” Christopher did not get up.

Baird stood there smiling mechanically. “May we sit down?” he asked, and sat.

“My dear,” cooed Mrs. Carter, “I don’t know how you stand this place. I’m so glad we’re leaving.”

“Are you leaving?” asked Christopher guardedly.

“Yes, and you’d never guess where we’re going. To
Japan. Colonel Blair has arranged it all.” She turned to Christopher. “You quite upset the Colonel out at that old cemetery,” she said.

Baird sat quietly, watching both Christopher and Sally. Sally wondered how she had ever liked the man. Mrs. Carter seemed nervous.

“George thought we should come and say good-bye and see how you were getting on. We can only stay a minute.” She looked round the terrace, and then glanced brightly at Christopher. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

Baird played indifferently with a knife on the table. “There was quite a do after you left the cemetery,” he said. “It’s a pity you missed the excitement.”

“What excitement?”

“Some Chinese raided that funeral. Of course somebody must have tipped them off. They wouldn’t have dared to raid it otherwise. I guess that’s what the guy who organized it figured, anyhow.”

“It was terribly exciting,” said Mrs. Carter nervously. “It was a regular fight. They dumped out the coffin and it was filled with gold bars.”

“Whoever arranged it did a bang-up job, with hired mourners and everything,” Baird yawned. “Somebody’s always spoiling somebody’s fun. It’s such an old trick, too, you’d have thought it would’ve worked.” He put down the knife he was fiddling with. “Some poor devil must have lost a helluva lot of money.”

“They weren’t even police,” said Mrs. Carter. “Just some gang.”

Christopher stared at Baird. “Is that all?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Baird was smiling.

“Then get out.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Get out and take that bitch with you,” said
Christopher
.

“Gladly,” said Baird. He stood up, his hands resting on the table. “By the way,” he said, “you had me thrown out of one of your places in Reno once. I just thought you’d like to know. It makes it
nicer.” He took Mrs. Carter’s arm and led her back towards the hotel
doorway
.