Mrs Caliban and other stories Page 15

  The gang had guns. The man now left alone to hold Flora from behind was jabbing something into her backbone. She knew it was a gun because she saw two of the others pull out pistols. They went for James. The voice behind her yelled, ‘Stop, or we kill the woman.’ Flora kept still, in case her struggling caused the weapon to go off by mistake. But Michael had his own gun in his hand and was crouched down in the road. He shot the two who were heading towards James, the third, who was waving a pistol in the air, and there was a fourth explosion landing someplace where Flora couldn’t see. The arm around her gripped so tightly that she was suffocating. The voice, sounding deranged, screamed into her ear, ‘You drop the gun, or I kill her!’ She knew he meant it. He’d do anything. He might even kill her without knowing what he was doing.

  Michael didn’t hesitate. She saw him turn towards them and the look on his face was nothing: it was like being confronted by a machine. He fired right at her. She should have known.

  She didn’t fall straight away. The man who had held her lay dead on the ground while she swayed above him. She knew she’d been shot, but not where. It felt as if she’d been hit by a truck. And suddenly she saw that there was blood everywhere – maybe hers, maybe other people’s.

  She should have known that a man formed by the conventions of the world into which she had married would already have his loyalties arranged in order of importance, and that the men and male heirs to the line would always take precedence over the outsiders who had fitted themselves into their lives. James was central; she was only decoration. As long as one man in the street was left with a gun, that was a danger to James. In Michael’s eyes she had passed during less than three minutes from object to obstacle. He’d shot her to pieces, and, using her as a target, killed the gunman behind her.

  James had his arms around her. He was calling out for an ambulance. There were plenty of other people on the street now. And she thought: My God, how embarrassing: I’ve wet my pants. But what she said was, ‘I’m bleeding,’ and passed out.

  *

  She woke up looking at a wall, at window-blinds, at the ceiling. Everything hurt.

  It was still daylight, so perhaps she hadn’t been there very long. Or maybe it was the next day. It felt like a long time. She was trussed like a swaddled baby and she was hooked up to a lot of tubes – she could see that, too. And she was terrified that parts of her body had been shattered beyond repair: that they would be crippled so badly that they’d never move again, that perhaps the doctors had amputated limbs. The fear was even worse than the pain.

  Someone got up from behind all the machinery on her other side and left the room.

  James came from around the back of her bed and sat in a chair next to her. He looked tired. And sad, too. That was unusual; she’d hardly ever seen him looking sad. He reached over and put his hand on her bare right arm, which lay outside the covers. She realized that she must be naked underneath; only bandages, no nightgown.

  ‘You’re going to be all right‚’ he told her.

  She believed him. She said, ‘Hurts a lot.’ He smiled grimly. She asked, ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You haven’t shaved.’

  He kept squeezing her arm lightly and looking into her face. She thought she was about to go back to sleep again, but he caught her attention by saying her name.

  ‘Would you do something for me?’

  She said, ‘Of course. You’re always so good to me.’

  He put his head down on the bed for a while and sighed. He really did love her, she thought, but she’d never believed it before.

  ‘If you could talk to Michael‚’ he said. ‘Just a couple of seconds. He feels so broken up about how it happened. If you could just let him know you understand.’

  ‘I understand‚’ she said.

  ‘I mean, tell him you forgive him. He hasn’t said much, but he hasn’t been able to eat or sleep, either. Or shave. Can I tell him to come in?’

  She suddenly sensed that everything was draining away from her, never to return. She tried to hold on, but it was no use.

  ‘Flora?’

  The horror passed. She felt better. The fear had left, along with all the rest. She knew that she was going to die.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Tell him to come in.’

  James went away. She heard his footsteps. And Michael’s; heard James saying, ‘Just a couple of seconds. She’s very tired‚’ and saw him moving away out of the room as Michael sat down in the chair. She turned her head to look at him.

  He was smiling. Even with her head to the side, she could see his expression exactly: a nasty little smile. His drunken uncle had been chauffeur and pander to the old man and his cousins; and, of course, Michael would have taken over the same office for the sons. She should have known. It was that kind of family: even the employees were inheritable.

  Everything was obvious now, and especially the fact that Michael’s unshakable politeness and deference had been an indication of his distaste for her. He’d give up pretending, now that he knew she was dying. It was more than distaste. It must be a real hatred, because he couldn’t help it any longer. He wanted to show her, even with James just outside the door.

  ‘I want you to understand,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No need‚’ she answered.

  ‘You got to understand, it’s for him. Far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a shit. You’ve just got to tell him you forgive me. Then it’ll be OK.’

  Everything would be all right. It was simple, if you had that much money. When they reported the attack, James would see to it that everyone thought she’d been shot by the kidnappers, not by Michael. Who would question it? Two respectable witnesses; and dead men who were known criminals. The hospital would get a new wing, the police force a large donation. It would be easy. It would have been easy even if they’d deliberately set out to murder her and hired the men to do it.

  ‘If it was me,’ Michael said, leaning forward, ‘I’d be counting the minutes till you go down the tubes. “Oh James dear, look at that, oh isn’t that perfectly sweet? Can I have the car window open, if it’s all right with Michael: can I have it closed, if Michael doesn’t mind?” Pain in the ass is what you are. I mean, I seen plenty: one to a hundred I used to mark them, and you rate down around ten, sweetheart. A real lemon. “Am I doing this right, am I doing that?” I told him, “Jimbo, this one’s a dud.” And he just said, “No, Kelvin, this time I’m choosing for myself.” He wouldn’t listen.’

  James could do it right next time, she thought. He’d marry again, perhaps quite soon, and be just as content. He’d probably go to New Caledonia after all, maybe with another woman, or just with Michael. Someone else would bring up her children, no doubt doing it very well. They’d have the photographs of her, so everyone could remember how pretty she’d been; she had always taken a good picture. The family would be able to choose the new wife, as they’d chosen for Edward. She’d been crazy about Edward; that was how everything had started. It was enough to make you laugh. But she had to stop thinking about it. She had to ascend. All the events in the house and all the holiday travelling would still go on, only she wouldn’t be able to have any part in them. She had to rise above.

  ‘I forgive,’ she said. It was becoming difficult for her to speak.

  ‘I’ll get him‚’ Michael told her. He stood up.

  ‘Wait.’ She started to breathe quickly.

  He leaned across the bed to look at her face. He said, ‘I’ll get somebody.’

  ‘Michael,’ she said clearly, ‘I loved you.’

  He stepped back. The smile vanished. He looked revolted, infuriated.

  ‘I loved you,’ she repeated. ‘With all my heart.’ Her lips curved together, her eyes closed, her head moved to the side. She was gone.

  Michael began to scream.

  The sound brought James running into the room, and two nurses after him.

  Michael caught Flora up in his arms. He
shouted into her closed face. He tried to slam her against the wall. James pulled him back. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Bitch,’ Michael yelled at Flora. ‘Take it back. Take it back, you lousy bitch.’

  ‘Calm down‚’ James said. ‘She forgives you.’ He got his arm around both of them and tugged. Michael let go, dropping Flora’s body. She fell face downward. The nurses stooped to pick her up from the floor.

  James and Michael stood grappled together, their faces wet with tears and sweat. Michael stared at the wall in front of him.

  ‘It’s all right‚’ James told him. ‘She understands. Don’t worry. After people die, they understand everything.’

  On Ice

  Beverley moved to Munich during the late summer. She found a room with a German family, enrolled as an auditor at the university and got to know her way around the town. In the evenings she went out with her German boyfriend, Claus.

  They had met the year before, on the boat coming over; they’d all – her parents, too – been travelling on a charter deal that had worked out cheaper than most air fares at the time. Claus had been going out with an older girl in the big crowd she’d been with, but he’d given her his address. And so when the family was back in America, she’d looked him up.

  In the spring he’d asked her to marry him. She’d said yes. From the moment of meeting him she hadn’t considered anything else: that he could leave her, or that one of them might die, or that he might have been the kind of man to seduce girls and leave them flat or to carry on two affairs at the same time. She hadn’t really considered much at all. She’d simply thought she’d stop living if she couldn’t be with him.

  He was ten years older, already a settled man: a doctor. Because of his work she didn’t see as much of him as she’d have liked to; sometimes he couldn’t tell when he’d be on duty. He’d show up late. In fact, he was hardly ever on time for anything. She accepted the fact that it was the job that was to blame. Since she loved him, she didn’t question it. Once he turned up two days later than he’d said he would.

  Now they were together nearly all the time. They had separate addresses and they ate their meals out, but she was pretty sure that in another two months or so they’d announce their engagement officially and maybe get married in the spring, or at the beginning of the summer. She wanted to go to college, but that too would work out somehow.

  He had taken his holiday so that they could spend Christmas and New Year’s together. He’d booked the rooms and everything. She bought a parka and a pair of ski pants and was looking forward to the trip. She’d never been on skis.

  The night before he was to pick her up, she packed her suitcase, turned out the lights in her room and took a last look across the street at the steep roofs and studio apartments opposite. A thin layer of snow lay in patterns over every ridge and line. The light was off in the glass-roofed atelier where a dark-haired young man – probably a painter or sculptor – lived on his own. She used to see him from time to time when she passed by the window, or stood there to open the inner panes and put her milk and butter next to the outer ones to keep cold. One day he had waved frantically at her. And, instinctively, she had ducked away out of sight. Afterwards she’d been furious with herself, and wanted to see him again so she could wave back, as she should have done in the first place. But he was never there. It upset her that she might have hurt his feelings – that she’d been so prim and suspicious. That was the way she was, unluckily, because that was the way her family liked people to be, especially women. That was the way she was with everyone but Claus.

  He arrived early, for once. His skis were strapped to the top of the car; she’d have to hire a pair when they got to the village. The weather was good for driving and Claus was in a lighthearted mood. They kissed as the car went up and down the hills, around the corners. They couldn’t wait till Christmas to give each other their presents, so they stopped and opened them in the car. They’d each chosen the same thing – a scarf. But he so clearly preferred the one he’d bought for her, even telling her he didn’t think much of the other’s colour scheme, that she said, ‘Well, they’re both the same size. We can switch.’ She took off the one he’d given her and handed it to him. It was a gesture of anger. She didn’t imagine he’d want to take her up on the offer.

  ‘I suppose we might as well,’ he said. He held up his scarf and smiled at it. Beverley too liked her own choice better, but she would never have said so. She would never have been so brutal to someone she was fond of. On the other hand, she realized that he didn’t often dare to be honest with anyone. It was like her reaction to the painter living across from her: not being able to wave back.

  They drove right over the top of the big mountain passes and pulled up near a lookout station where three tourist buses were parked. Some of the sightseers were out exploring the gravelly surface of the glacier formations left over from the Ice Age, some were gathered around the hut that sold soft drinks and sandwiches. Claus and Beverley got out and walked to the grey mass of gritty material on the far side of the road. The air seemed to be colder when they reached it, the sun to go in. It wasn’t at all the way a glacier out of the past should look. It was curved like the back of a turtle; dull, dirty and – as Beverley said – reminiscent of ordinary concrete. She was disappointed. She liked old things to have an air of splendour and romance.

  Claus, in contrast, was mildly interested. Facts appealed to him. He didn’t care so much about looks, although he was always telling her that something she’d be wearing wasn’t straight, and he’d often put out a hand to neaten her hair. He was shocked that she could get along with a safety pin instead of taking the trouble to sew back a button that had come off. She could go for weeks without mending something torn.

  He couldn’t understand such habits and behaviour. The slovenliness of it all horrified him. But she knew that her carelessness was one of the things about her that most attracted him. Secretly he would have liked to be more bohemian, to live in the artists’ quarter, never to have to say yes–sir–no–sir to the top surgeons who came around on inspection in the mornings wearing white gloves, who shook hands with everyone from top to bottom of the building and then, according to popular belief, peeled off the gloves, flinging them away for the assistant to pick up and take to the laundry or, perhaps, destroy. She was sure he had dreams of tearing all his buttons off and going to work covered in safety pins. He hated his own respectability while prizing the public and cultural disciplines that forced people into repression. He was civilized and he was frustrated. Beverley cured the frustration while he was curing other people’s illnesses.

  On the other side of the pass they followed the route of the mountain stream – a swift, icy green torrent that raced along beside them. ‘This is more like it,’ she said.

  The village they were in was down in the valley. Up on the peaks were several larger, more fashionable and more expensive winter resorts, including the famous Hotel Miramar, whose rooms were said to be like art galleries for the art nouveau period.

  Their hotel was small and overcrowded. Their room was actually not in the main building at all but in what was obviously a private house let out to accommodate tourists and make the owners some money during the season. There were many places in the world where a family could live for the rest of the year on what the house brought in during a few weeks of skiing, or sailing, or whatever was the main attraction of the region. A lot of the Cape was like that, back home.

  The hotel dining-room was in the main building and had space enough for twenty tables, some seating four people. Theirs was just for two. The food was good – a combination of German and Italian cooking, and there was a lot to eat. The crisp, clear air and the exercise made Beverley hungry all day long.

  Claus took her out on a slope where they could be alone and taught her how to ski downhill. It was much easier than being on the T-bar lifts, but even so, she spent most of her time picking herself up. He hadn’t taught her h
ow to turn a corner. When she began to go so fast that she was about to crash, she’d fall down deliberately, to save herself, and then get up and start over again. She wished that she had short skis like the ones they gave children to practise on. All the children she saw could ski better than she could.

  They spent Christmas Eve in the hotel. The proprietor, a wolfish-looking man with suave manners, smiled aimiably at them. He leaned over their chairs to talk to them about the weather and the state of the snow. His name was Lucas, but when speaking of him between themselves, they referred to him as Lupus, because of the way he looked.

  There were three other couples in the dining-room. Christmas was a time for the family. Those who had chosen to leave their relatives went out to the bars and dance-floors in search of crowds to replace them. Beverley started to drink more and more, to think about her parents opening their presents. She also wondered how much Claus loved her and whether she was always going to be able to get along with him, not to mention his family. She’d met his mother once and couldn’t stand her. But that didn’t matter; she loved him. She’d never love anyone else. Tears came into her eyes.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘About our Christmas scarves. It isn’t right.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like mine.’