The Self-Enchanted (7 page)

Christopher grabbed Curt. “I’m not going in there alone,” he said. He dragged him into the living-room and shut the door.

It was never used, that was obvious. It was furnished in the style of twenty years ago, and the air was stuffy. Carson lay in his coffin in the centre of the room. It was a bronze coffin, massive and sullen. One-half of the lid was propped up, and that end of the coffin was surrounded by hothouse flowers. Christopher avoided that part of the room, but when he saw Curt watching him, stepped
forward
and glanced down.

Carson lay on a pillow, his body dressed in a dark suit that looked baggy. His head had been carefully put
together
, but without skill. It was an image all paraffin and powder, with thin, unnatural lips. It was not Carson, and yet it had something of Carson about it
.
The expression had been contorted into one of artificial piety. Lying there, he seemed deflated and unreal, as though he had never existed. Christopher turned away and Curt did not blame him.

“They’ve made him look very saintly,” said
Christopher
.

“They do that to everybody.”

Christopher seemed startled. “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder if they could.”

Half an hour later the undertakers came and screwed down the lid. You could hear them from the kitchen. When the sound had stopped everybody seemed to breathe easier. The coffin was carried down through the yard. It was difficult to manage. The villagers, Curt thought, were enjoying themselves. Then he realized that of course Carson must have arranged for it to be like this, probably years ago. It took eight men to carry the coffin. It was only then Curt remembered where they were going, and Christopher must have done the same, for he started.

It took three-quarters of an hour to get to the clearing in the woods. There was a hostile silence all around them. It seemed to get even on Sally’s nerves, as she plodded along slightly ahead of Curt and Christopher. Sometimes the coffin caught against the branches. Pine needles scraped over it with a hissing sound. Once a bough caught in one of the handles, almost upsetting it, and half forcing the bearers to their knees. The mourners were the worst; old Mrs. Bowditch, the village gossip, a shrivelled hen-faced woman who had a trick of drawing her flat breasts up with a cough and then letting them fall again; and next to her, Mrs. Grimes, of the general store,
immense
in a black silk dress, her hands piously locked in each other like rolls of dough.

At last they reached the clearing. The cold air had the effect of night, and the sun had fallen behind the
mountains
, emphasizing the coldness. The smooth and polished sides of the obelisk were damp and clammy. Everyone stared at Christopher.

There was a short sermon preached by someone brought along by the undertakers, for the valley had no church. In front of the obelisk, to one side, was a freshly-dug hole. At least six inches of pine needles had had to be cleared away. Curt could not figure out why the hole was to one side until he remembered that Carson’s wife was buried there. He wondered what sort of woman she had been.

The coffin was lowered down on its ropes, and then hastily, because it
was late, the dirt was shovelled in with that echo which reminded Curt uncomfortably of other funerals. The diggers made the most of this, for they prolonged the first few shovelfuls, and then heaped the earth back rapidly.

Glancing at the obelisk, Curt saw with a shock that the other half of Carson’s terminal date had been filled in. That, more than anything else, upset him. He
remembered
that jagged fragment of terrace, jutting out into space, where the rock had fallen away.

He heard a sound, and saw that Mrs. Grimes was
sobbing
decorously and properly into a handkerchief. She and Mrs. Bowditch hovered round Sally, until, as he could see, she began to lose her temper.

At last the three of them were alone. Christopher walked across to the obelisk and looked at the date. “Odd,” he said.

“I suppose so,” said Sally. She was tired, but not apparently from the funeral. Somehow the funeral had been an anticlimax. She sat down with a sigh. “Does everybody hate everybody?” she asked.

“I think so,” said Christopher. “It takes a while to find it out, that’s all.”

“And do I hate you?”

“I’ve never been able to make up my mind,” said Christopher. He tapped the obelisk. “Your father, now, had his mind made up. I admired him for that.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

“It was his own pride that killed him,” said
Christopher
. He was slightly limp. “I was bigger than he was, that’s all.”

“That means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a way to be safe.”

“Safe?” she demanded, and began to laugh. She couldn’t stop, and he slapped her.

“Look,” he said. “I could do a lot for you. I could give you money. Enough money to do anything you pleased. Enough to get you away from here. These people will turn on you, now Sam’s dead. I wouldn’t give much for your life here.”

“You wouldn’t give much for anybody’s life. Why help me?” But she listened to him, all the same.

“I hate to see you at the mercy of these people.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Money’s money,” said Christopher. He shrugged and moved away. It began to rain, softly, but not gently, an oblique rain that seemed to divide the world up into
partitions
. Each one of them walked in a separate
compartment
of the rain, on pine needles so dry not even the rain could soften them.

Glancing back, Curt saw the obelisk through curtains of water, and felt frightened, thinking of that numeral filled in with the year and the date, complete. And what did it mean? It meant nothing. That was the most frightening thing of all.

Sally shoved her hands into the pockets of her
now-damp
dress. “I saw you working on Dad,” she said. “I’ve seen him working on other people. He ate them away. He liked to eat them up. I think he hated Mother. She never gave in, you see. You like people to give in, don’t you?”

“And don’t you?” asked Christopher.

“I don’t want to hate people.”

“You won’t be able to help yourself.”

This made her angry. “Go away,” she said. “You think you’re so big, but you’re not, you’re not anything at all. You’re small and mean and frightened, and at least he wasn’t like that.”

He stopped. Then he turned on his heel and walked into the woods, off the path, blindly, blundering towards the road. Sally turned to Curt. “Please leave,” she said. But she was listening to Christopher in the woods.

“I can at least see you home.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “I know my way home.” And furiously, with her back very straight, she left him standing where he was, in the thin, separating rain. So that, he knew, was the end of him. Soon
Christopher
would pick a fight with him, and then it would not be any of his affair at all. He was just as pleased, and yet he knew that in some way he was responsible for all of this, just because he was there.

H
e was so sure of his departure that he had even packed his bags. They stood in a row at the foot of his bed and every morning when he woke up he saw them there. Yet he did not think that Christopher would ever let him get away completely. Christopher could not afford to let anybody get away from him completely. He was too insecure for that.

But a month passed and they did not have their quarrel. Perhaps it was because Christopher seemed ashamed of himself. But that was the reason why they must have their falling out, so it did not seem to be the explanation.

It started simply. The house was virtually finished now, and they had taken a tour of the empty rooms. The work structures were being torn down. He could hear the splintering of wood, the steel scream of nails being
withdrawn
. All around the house the scenery loomed wet with the recent rains. In the empty living-room Christopher said: “I’m going to call it The Hawk’s Nest.”

Curt thought the name vulgar, but didn’t say so. All he wanted was permission to have the house photographed for an architectural magazine. Christopher refused.

“You’ll get your profit,” said Christopher. “I’ll get you work in Reno.”

“What makes you think I want to work for you?”

“Who else could you work for?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“I could use the photographs,” said Curt.

“I’m through with you,” said Christopher. “I don’t want anything else to do with you.” He turned on his heel and went into the living-room, and stood there, smiling out at the landscape. Curt left the house and Christopher alone in it, for what he was sure was the last time. He felt that he had been taken in, but he didn’t know how, which somehow only made matters that much the worse.

After he had gone it began to snow, the first real winter snow of November. It fell softly, majestically, noiselessly, except for that almost inaudible whirring which is the special sound of snow. Nor did it melt when it hit the ground. The outer world disappeared and the valley
became
abstract. It became a world of infinite distances, as the familiar landmarks disappeared. It was a time when even the birds were silent, and of people there was no trace. Winter had begun.

The house accepted the snow gratefully. It fell around the building like a silken shroud. So Christopher was alone, and the house was full of shadows which frightened him. It was a strange house, arranged so that from either end of it one could see what was going on in the rest of it
.
It was the house of a frightened man.

He moved nervously to and fro, frowning, biting his nails, and waiting. At last he heard another sound, the small cautious sounds of reality, tiptoeing but inevitable. Startled he turned his back on the windows and faced the door.

Sally stood in the doorway, bundled up in goloshes which flapped round her ankles, a trench coat too big for her, and a cellophane hood thrown over her head. She paused, shaking out her umbrella. And when she removed the hood, her face was unnaturally red with the cold.

“I thought I’d come,” she said. “And I can’t leave now. The storm’s too bad.”

“No. Of course not.”

“What are you doing up here?” she asked. He did not answer but put her umbrella by the fireplace, where it let fall a pool of black water. She watched him do so. “Curt’s gone,” she said. “You sent him away, didn’t you?”

“He wanted to be sent.”

“I don’t know why I came really,” she told him. She seemed to want to keep a good distance between them.

“Perhaps the snow disturbed you.”

She was startled. “What an unexpected thing to say. I suppose it did.” She looked at the windows. “It falls differently up here. Down there it shuts you in.”

“It shuts you in everywhere,” he said warily. In the study the phone began to ring. It stopped, and, uneasy, he turned to look at her.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.

“In a way. It doesn’t matter.”

She thought he sounded tired, as though he had with effort prepared himself for something, and was now
impatient
for it to happen. It was as though she could not see him too clearly. All day she had been aware of him. And now she was here. Yet she did not know what to do or say.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, staring at her. He looked a little mad, and his eyes seemed to look up from a narrow place.

“That’s not what I expected to hear.”

He shrugged. “It’s not what I expected to say.”

She thought that over, wondering why they were drawn to each other, and yet could never touch. “It was Curt who suggested I come,” she said. “I passed him on the road. I suppose I should like him, but I don’t.”

“But you’re glad I sent him away, aren’t you?” asked Christopher. Disappointed, and unwilling to answer, she turned aside.

“It looks barren without furniture,” she said.

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

As she turned away, the phone rang more insistently. It rang several times, an almost alarming ring out of the silence of the next room. Christopher suddenly looked alert.

“Stay here,” he told her, so roughly that she stopped where she was, her hand on her umbrella. He went into the library closing the doors behind him, and the phone stopped ringing. She waited, hearing his exasperated voice. She heard him stop talking, but he did not come out of the room. Perturbed, she pulled in her coat. Then the doors to the study opened, and he stood in darkness, for the room beyond was not lit. She had a feeling that he had turned out the lights deliberately, so that she should not see him too clearly.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

He would not tell her. He drove her home, furiously through the snow, the car slipping on the road. His hands shook on the wheel, and he cursed under his breath, as
curtain after curtain of snow appeared before the car and turned acid in the yellow glare of the headlights. When they reached the Carson place he almost pushed her from the car, slamming the door behind her, and starting off again into the snow. She stood where he had pushed her, afraid to go back to her own shrouded prison of a farm. Putting her hands in the pockets of her raincoat, she turned and trudged through the snow, puzzled and
somehow
shaken by she knew not what. She had not been in the house half an hour when she heard his plane, flying crazy in the snow.

*

He was flying down to see to Antoinette, but it had not occurred to him that others would also be there. The drive was clogged with automobiles, for now she was dying the whole family had closed in. And Dr. Harben and the priest were there, too.

Because the priest had precedence, Dr. Harben waited in the garden. He did not like it there. He had learned that Antoinette believed, though she never said so, that she had death trapped in her garden, and was afraid that it might get into the house. Sometimes he thought maybe she was right.

The garden seemed unusually restless, the great leaved plants, with their jagged edges, the spidery flowers
turning
and twisting. He found himself staring at an
Hawaiian
plant like a scaly phallus, livid pink and red, and oozing with white ichor, over which huge ants scurried busily, and which was eaten by the bore-holes of worms. He turned away revolted. The whole garden was like that, lush, decayed, and rank with vegetable rut. It was a garden like a sexual parody. He pushed his way through the foul
shrubs, and found himself, to his shock, standing on the edge of a place cleared like a fire break, with across it the restored window of the room in which Antoinette had tried not to die.

Though there was no light in the room, he saw he was watching a puppet show. He could not turn away. Even at this distance he could watch Father MacCrone, with his heavy syrup that embalmed the soul. The priest seemed very tall, like a ghost, and his movements were sinuous and expert, like those of a hypnotist. A little table had been set up beside the chaise-longue. On it were two
silver
candlesticks and a dish, and standing between the candles a heavy crucifix. On the floor was a box with a red velvet lining, a box the size of a doctor’s bag, from which the vessels had been taken.

Father MacCrone bent over the old woman, made a swift movement, and backed away. Dr. Harben now saw Antoinette. On her face was a look of scorn, malice and contempt, mixed with fear. Lately she had been having trouble with her eyes, a hardening of the eyeballs that made her insolent stare all the more unnerving. On her forehead glistened a drop of yellowish oil.

Then the priest left. Dr. Harben rushed round to the front door, and they collided there, the one going out, the other coming in, to no purpose. Dr. Harben let himself into Antoinette’s room, which smelled horrible. He was very aware of himself, a tidy, affable, very nervous dark-haired Jew. She screwed herself round to look at him, the show of strength being important to her.

“So
now you’re here with
your
black bag,” she said. “No doctor likes to see a priest come before him. It’s a matter of precedence.”

“How’s that heart of yours?” he said, busying himself in his bag.

“It’s still beating,” she snapped bitterly. “Even
Angelica
wants to see me dead, I guess.”

“Now then,” said Dr. Harben. He pushed her dress aside, and very much aware of her, listened to the slow, uncertain heart.

“Do you really think this hocus-pocus accomplishes anything?” she asked.

“I’ve sent for a nurse.”

“I’m not going to die yet,” she said, but apart from that she did not complain. “All those people out there,” she told him. “They’re not my children. They’re their father’s children. When I die, they’ll collapse, and serve them right. But I’m not ready to die yet.” She sat
forward
. “You’ve got to keep me alive a while longer, you and that nurse of yours. There must be some way you can do it. You have to do it.”

“You’re not going to die yet,” he said.

She glared beyond him, out at the garden. “Yes, I’m going to die,” she said. “But not before I’ve seen
Christopher
. You’ve got to keep me alive for that. You’ll help me. If you don’t, I’ll live anyway.” She clenched her hands but there was not much strength in them. “Does that nurse know her business?”

“She works for me all the time.” Not knowing what else to say he glanced down at his ineffectual bag. There was a knock on the door and Angelica came in.

“Is he here?” demanded Antoinette.

“Yes.”

“Good. Good,” she said, and told Dr. Harben he had better go. On the way out he passed Christopher, but did
not get a good look at him. It occurred to him that he would be wise to wait. By any normal standard Antoinette was three days dead, and yet there she sat, refusing to be stopped.

In her room Christopher was thinking much the same thing.

“Yes, I’m alive,” said Antoinette. “Come here.” Her voice was a strangled voice that was all she had left now. “Or are you afraid to?”

Reluctantly he came forward and stood in front of her, with his back to the window, so that she was in his shadow. She was literally falling away from life, except for those twisted hands and the bright, determined eyes.

“One day you’ll be like this,” she said. “And will want to hang on, even though you are trapped and weak, just as I do. But you had to see me die, didn’t you?”

Still he said nothing, but made a movement, as though to turn and leave.

“You’re going to take me up to your house,” she said. “You don’t dare deny me that now.” He just turned around and left the room, and she laughed at him a little. “I’ll pull you down with me,” she said. “And that’s the way to do it.” The door slammed behind him, but she did not mind. She sat waiting, vigilant for the small advances of death.

That was the end of it for the time being.

But that night, when Dr. Harben was coming back to the house for the late visit he thought he should make, he had a feeling that something was wrong. Even so he was not prepared for the shock when, turning a bend in the road, he saw the sky above the garden lit up with bright light. Every searchlight in the garden was going full
blast. Always this had been a house of darkness and shadow, and now the lights seemed to explode as though under water. Hastily he pulled up before the terrace and rushed up the steps. He found the nurse, Miss Tydings, just inside the hall.

“My God,” she said. She was a heavy-set woman of forty, and usually phlegmatic. “I couldn’t think where you were. I’ve been trying to get you.”

“I was at the Fosters!” He stripped off his coat, still hearing a confused babble of voices somewhere in the house. “What’s happened?”

“She’s mad. She’s gone completely mad. She’s locked me out of her room, or that woman of hers has. And look at them.” She gestured towards one of the living-rooms, where the relatives were crowded together. “They know something’s up. I’ve done everything I could. I’ve beaten on the door. But she’s locked up there with that woman, Angelica, and a telephone. She called for a telephone at about five. I thought she was unconscious, and then she demanded the telephone. And bolted herself in. It’s a heavy door, and she’s a demon.”

“You should have smashed the window.” They stood staring at each other and heard a car drive up and stop and the babble of more voices. Striding to the door Dr. Harben flung it open. “What the devil,” he said.

Standing outside was a large dark brown ambulance. The two attendants were coming up the steps. Dr.
Harben
rushed down the corridor to the door of Antoinette’s room.

“It’s Dr. Harben,” he shouted. “What the hell is that ambulance doing here?” He beat on the door. “Open this at once.”

There was a flurry of voices, and then the bolt of the door shot back, Angelica stood there, opening the door only a crack. Seeing Dr. Harben she flung it wide and brushed by him out into the hall.

Antoinette stood facing them, leaning on a cane. She was fully clothed. She swayed slightly and sat down. Behind her the garden blazed with light. Her dress was loose and black on her narrow body. She had bracelets on her arms, and her hair had been arranged with swatches into a neat coiffure. She leaned back and closed her eyes
.