The Self-Enchanted (24 page)

O
nly the stars saw him, for it was two o’clock and the house slept. Only the stars watched him greedily, content to wait. The valley was silent, except for the voracious rustle of the trees, a narrow trough of shadows and of softly glittering snow. Only the mountains, rearing up from the valley floor, could bear him witness in the blue moonlight, the mountains, and the intangible, startling stars pullulating in the heavens.

On the cliff the house was swathed in shadows, except on the west side, where the moon entered the rooms in wide blue strips of evil light, creeping across the floor towards the bed. He stirred, woke, looked at his watch, and then at the mountains. He rose stealthily, and
putting
on his robe, stood for a moment in the shadows of the room, looking down at his wife. Then he turned and disappeared.

The night echoed the soft click of the latch and the trees bounced back the explosion of the car as it started. It slid out into the snow, and like a black hearse, moved painfully into the woods. Like a creature controlled from a distance, moving according to laws not its
own, the car emerged on the valley road, past the charred ruins of the Carson place, and past the lake, its waters dusty. Then
the narrowing cliffs received the car into a shadow deep as death, until it
emerged into the strained moonlight. Grant Lake stretched long and silvery into the distance, and on its shore, in the stunted grove of trees, the white snow on the roof of a shed caught the starlight. There was no one there. There was only the restless movement of the wind.

The car stopped and he got out, stumbling across the snow. The air caught the sharp loosening of a rusty
padlock
, like the crack of a gun, and the rattle of a chain. Then, much later, the doors creaked open and there slid out on to the lake the small monoplane. It entered the water with an abrupt splash that was swallowed by the surrounding cliffs. The plane seemed to hesitate,
skimming
irregularly across the lake, to the staccato splutter of long-cold motors. Then, at last, the cliffs looming dark and narrow above it, it moved more smoothly and left the water in a wobbling, wounded lunge. It rose into the night air, caught by the moon, as a moth’s flight is caught by an electric torch. Without lights, the plane moved lost against the stars, circling, rising higher. Something seemed to watch it, as it was drawn into the mountains. Its shadow seemed to lead it on.

For a moment it seemed to soar, strong and assured, above the endless blue plateau. Then it faltered, dipping, catching desperately at the air, and with a different
movement
, banked beneath the staring stars, and picking up speed, flew to the north-west. Hopelessly entangled in the whistling of the wind, it
did not falter now, but, faster and faster, its motor the only sound on the lonely air, it drove straight for the glittering white surface of the higher cliffs.

In the silence of the night there was an abrupt whirring flurry of snow, as a dislodged bank rose and shimmered in the night air. The mountains echoed the splintering crash and twist of metal; and then, as the snow fell, the plane, broken and blasted, fell also, with a screaming crash, down into the snowdrift at the foot of the cliff. A fresh cloud of snow rose torpidly and then sank dissolving down to the ground, powdering the wreck of the twisted plane.

The world was silent once more, the shocked silence that comes after sound; and the moon, striking against the cliff, showed a small scar of scraped stone. A cloud passed across the vacant eye of the moon, and when it had passed, the moon itself was in an altered position, sinking in the west.

And in those vast distances nothing stirred but the sweeping shrieking wind that drove across the plain to the foot of the cliff, stirring in the shadows the tattered, broken wings of the plane, which fluttered like insect wings in a cold flame nothing could ever reach. In the valley far below the world was cold and still.

W
hen Sally woke up it was four-thirty. She jumped out of bed, tying on her robe, and switching on the lights as she went, searched the house. He was nowhere to be found. She went to the garage. The doors were open on to the vacant snow, and she could see the thick tracks where the car had floundered.

She stared at them mutely. Then she opened the door of the other car and felt for the ignition key. It was there. She could not start the engine at first, but finally
managed
to get it going. While the engine warmed up, filling the garage with choking smoke, she looked at her watch again. The sky had lightened. It was five. She followed the tracks down the hill. She reached the main road and saw with despair where the tracks were leading. She stepped on the gas, hoping that she was not too late. When she saw that they led through the gorge, she gave up hope. She followed them into the copse of trees and saw the black limousine, bleak and awful in the snow, its door hanging open. The shed was empty. The plane was gone. The doors stood open on the non-committal lake.

Her robe dragged in the snow. She did not notice it She knew where he had gone, and she felt her heart stop
as she looked up at the awful height of the merciless granite. She knew now what argument he had held with the mountains as he sat on the terrace. But there was still a hope that he might not be dead.

She saw the Tatums’ sign leap up before her, as she drove back, and swerving the car, forced it up through drifts to the house. The house was in darkness. Leaving the motor running she jumped out of the car and ran up the steps. She pounded on the door. There was no answer. Again she pounded, and at last heard footsteps and curses as someone lumbered across the hall,

“Open up,” she shouted. “It’s Sally Barocco. Let me in.”

There was another curse and she heard the bolt slip back and the door opened cautiously. She plunged inside, brushing past him, and stood in the dark, smelly living-room. Tatum switched on the light. He was dressed in dirty woollen underwear tucked into red socks. He stared at her stupidly and angrily.

“Mr. Barocco’s up on the mountain,” she said. “You’ve got to get up a search party. He may still be alive.”

Tatum stared at her. “What’s he doing up there? I thought he was sick.”

“He took his plane. Only a while ago.”

“It ain’t likely he’s alive. How do you know he’s up there?” Tatum sounded suspicious and his breath was bad.

“He’s up at Lake Mary,” Sally shouted, exasperated. “I know he is.”

“There’re a helluva lot of Lake Marys.”

“Where he was last time.”

Tatum stamped his feet. “Nobody’s going out in this
weather,” he said. “He probably flew off somewhere. He’s always flying off somewhere. If he’s up there, he’s dead, and he’ll keep.”

Sally stared at him. He had a thick beard and his face was sallow. She realized that he had been drinking and was only half-awake. His eyes were shifty. She heard a noise behind her and saw young Tatum standing in the doorway in flannel pyjamas.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Mrs. Barocco says her husband’s up the mountain.”

Young Tatum looked at her but said nothing.

“You’ve got to get up a party,” she repeated dully.

“It ain’t exactly that simple,” said old Tatum.

“I’ll give you whatever you ask. Only get up there.”

“It’s ain’t a question of money,” said Tatum
uncomfortably
.

“Then what is it
a question of?”

Tatum looked at his son, who still said nothing. “It’ll take time.”

“What’s the crazy fool doing up there?” asked young Tatum suddenly.

“Mrs. Barocco says he’s lost,” said Tatum shortly. He looked round him angrily, and then, as though
half-ashamed
, moved into the kitchen. She sank into a chair, and heard him ringing for the operator. It was six. Through the window she could see the night lightening, even in the depths of the valley, and hoped that it was not too late.

Eventually they gave her a drink. It was nine o’clock before the party set off, carrying flares and a stretcher. She went outside, huddled in a coat somebody had thrown over her, and watched them go painfully up the trail.
Somebody else told her to go home. She went out to the car and got inside. She could still see the men toiling up the trail. At this rate they wouldn’t be up there until late afternoon, and she did not want to think of what they might find. Blinking her eyes,
she started the car and managed to get back to the house.

She found the servants waiting, for the grapevine had spread the news. She did not feel equal to facing them.

“The doctor’s here,” said Mrs. Oland. “They landed at Mono and drove in.” She sniffed. “They’re in the living-room.”

Mrs. Oland had not told her that Curt was with them. As soon as she saw him, she burst into tears. The doctor looked at her anxiously. The two men seemed to swim before her, and she sat down on the sofa.

“I’m going to give you a sedative,” the doctor said, and she shook her head.

“Can’t you understand?” she demanded. She sat there like ice. There was nothing to do but for the three of them to wait.

The day passed slowly. She tried to go for a walk, but couldn’t. The mountains loomed over her. She tried to rest, but it was impossible. She could feel Christopher everywhere and as long as there was any hope at all, she could not sleep.

Curt got her to eat something, she did not know what. She ordered a fire lit in the living-room and sat there, as the darkness settled down on the valley, pouring into the room. There was still no word. Then, at midnight, they saw the lights. Small, pitiable, they bobbed down the face of the cliff, more and more of them, juggling fitfully up and down. In the distance they heard shouting.

She got up and ran out on to the terrace, and there suddenly stopped. The boy had left the two chairs there. They stood side by side, empty, facing the mountains. It was as though she and Christopher were still sitting in them. Despite herself, seeing the two chairs, she began to scream, though no sound would come out of her throat but a dull, gagging rattle. She saw the doctor move swiftly towards her, but she shook him off, aware of the twinkling lights moving down the mountain. There was one light far ahead of the others. Fascinated she watched it bob down the hill. She could not take her eyes off it. From behind her she heard the phone ring, but Curt was there before her. It stopped, and she stood futilely, her arms limp at her sides, waiting. Then she heard Curt speaking. She heard his voice drop, and knew what had happened, but it could not be true. He came out of the library.

“They found the wreckage up at the foot of Lake Mary,” he said.

“And?”

He shook his head. It seemed to her that he would never stop shaking it
.
And she could feel her own head shaking too. The scream came out, and she could see the two men moving towards her, and knew that they must not reach her. “Christopher,” she screamed up from a dwindling vault of darkness. But it was too late. The two men closed in on her, bearing her down, and she could feel herself falling.

W
hen he told her, she could not believe it.

She lay with her eyes closed for a long time. Then, forcing herself to get up,
knowing
what she had to do, she dressed carefully in the dress she liked best, the first one Christopher had bought for her in Reno, over a year ago. Then she realized that she was ready and that she had to do this. She let herself out of the bedroom and crossed the hall. The house seemed very still
and empty now, but she knew that she would not mind that any more. She went into the living-room and found Curt waiting for her. She found it difficult to speak.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Down in the valley.” Curt watched her closely.

“I want to see him. I want you to drive me down.”

“He’s … he’s pretty badly battered up.”

“I want to, Curt,” she said quietly.

He looked at her with his odd, scared, rabbity eyes. “Very well,” he said. He took her arm and led her out of the house. Silently she got into the car. Her eyes
memorized
every detail of the branches, the woods, and the clear smell of the morning air was poignant to her. They turned up a side road, bumping beneath the trees, and the
car stalled. They got out and walked. She let him lead her. Through the trees she could see a clearing, with a shed in the centre of it. It was an old tar-papered shed, with a small window in one side of it. There was a man standing outside it, wrapped up in heavy, nondescript clothes. She did not know him. His car, an old jalopy without any top, was parked beside the shed. She was aware of Curt breathing heavily beside her.

“I don’t think you’d better go in,” he said.

She walked ahead of him and round to the door of the shed. The snow was trampled down with footprints. She reached for the latch.

“Stay outside, please, Curt,” she said, and looked into his drawn face, only half seeing him. Quickly she lifted the unclasped lock, which held the latch together, and let it fall to the length of its chain. Bracing herself, she pulled open the door and stepped inside the shed.

The shed was moist and dark. The sawdust on its floor was cold even through the soles of her shoes. She stood in darkness, it taking her a moment to adjust to the light.

There was a heap of yellow planks on the ground. They had put him there. His body was covered with black rubberized tarpaulin. The window was above his head and shone down on the tarpaulin. Stripping it back, she forced herself to look down.

His head was undamaged. She felt tempted to lift the sheet, to see even what was left of his body, but she did not dare. She did not want to see what had happened to him.

He was wearing a robe. She could see the torn collar of it. His eyes, thank God, were closed. She could not have borne to see those eyes again. His neck rose brown from
the collar of the robe, which was dirty with snow. In death his face was stone, but the dim light from the window gave it a shimmering, uncanny glow. His heavy eyelids and full mouth might almost have been carved. and there was something enigmatic in his expression. His mouth seemed to have some elusive sensual promise, some mysterious fullness which she had noticed on his lips only when, once or twice, she had seen him sodden with sleep. His thick hair curled over his forehead, and she could see the raised pattern of the artery that ran across his temple.

She stood there for a long time looking at him, realizing that it was over, and that this was the last time she would ever see him. She could not fight against the fact that he would never speak to her again. She felt her desire for him grow stronger than it had ever been, and bending down, she kissed him on the lips.

“You won,” she whispered. And, arranging his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and feeling it dead in her fingers, she turned and left him for ever, unable to turn the tarp back across his face.

She bumped into the man outside and he handed her something done up in a bandanna. She took it
automatically
.

“We found this in his pocket,” he said.

She stuffed the bandanna into her coat and got Curt to take her back to the house. As they started, she saw once more the window to the shed. All the way back to the house, she kept her eyes in front of her, remembering. She could feel how warm his flesh had been, and every gesture of his body. She could hear his voice.

When they got back she went to her own room and lay
down on the bed. She did not cry. What she wanted, more than anything else, was to touch that face with her hands, but instead they pressed only the pillow. She sank her face into it, knowing that she must help him. She must pull through these few months more.

She got up, and feeling in her coat for a handkerchief, pulled out the bandanna. Something fell to the floor and glittered in the sunlight. She stooped to pick it up and saw what it was. It was the St. Christopher’s medal on a chain, and she realized that he must have palmed it. Thoughtfully she put it back in her pocket and went into the living-room to see Curt.

He asked her to come back to Reno with him.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You can’t stay here alone all winter.”

“I have the servants.”

“You’ll go mad.”

She smiled slowly. “No I won’t,” she said sadly. “You see, Christopher won.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pregnant,” she told him. She could feel her jaw wobbling. “I’m going to have his son.”

“Did he know that?”

She shook her head.

“But you can’t live here alone. You’ll need a doctor.”

Again she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ll have him here, in Christopher’s house. That’s where he
belongs
. You see, nothing can ever hurt him here.”

“At least come until the worst of the winter is over.”

“No,” she said. Getting up, she went out on to the terrace, facing the mountains in their majesty and strength. She looked beyond the pass, to the higher peaks
themselves. The sun shone and the whole landscape seemed suddenly to vibrate and to live.

“Oh, Christopher,” she whispered. “Christopher.” She looked up, into the sun, and now at last she could cry, for now, she knew, there was hope, for her and for him. And she could feel him all around her; close to him once more, she knew that she was strong, and could already feel life stir within her, born free and full of joy.

And as for Curt, at last she thought she understood, and loved him for it. He was the stranger in the house of Admetus. He was the ordinary angel. He would always be her friend.

*

Bishop;
Bentinck
Island;
Rome