Mrs Caliban and other stories Page 17

  They waited in line for two pillows and launched themselves into the ice maze, which was funnier and more exciting than Beverley had imagined, and less tiring than skiing. She sped forward through the glistening runways on her striped cushion and yelled as loudly as the children around her.

  Afterwards they joined Angela’s friends for sandwiches and coffee and then went out on the skating rink. When Beverley said she had to go, they begged her to stay on for tea and supper and dancing. There was a wonderful pool down inside the hotel, too. Beverley said no, she had to get back.

  ‘But tomorrow?’ Angela asked. ‘Come on up tomorrow, or meet us early down at the Adler.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. She was sure Claus would want to be with her. She hurried as the light began to go. She was worried that he might have been waiting for a long time. But she was the first one back. When he came in, he was smiling, and in an even better mood than the day before. The slopes had been splendid, he told her: simply magnificent. Tomorrow he’d go even higher.

  ‘Will you be all right with your friends?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess so.’ She tried not to act hurt. They had a good dinner and a lot to drink, and went to bed as soon as they got back to their room.

  He was up early and kissed her goodbye while she was still in bed. She set her alarm clock and went back to sleep.

  For the next three days their separate daytime routines worked out well. He kept finding bigger and better ski runs up in the mountains, and she could tell him all about the hotel, the ice maze, the skating, the heated pool and the game rooms. She also told him that Angela, although she’d never mentioned it again, had confessed to being a member of some weird religious cult.

  ‘As long as it isn’t political,’ he said.

  ‘Those things never are.’

  ‘Of course they are. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, in this part of the world it wouldn’t matter; only in the East, where they might start handing out Bibles or something.’

  ‘What do they believe in?’

  ‘She didn’t say exactly, but the name is loony enough. I once had a terrible conversation with a couple of Seventh Day Adventists. I think that’s what they were. It lasted three hours and twenty minutes. All this horrible stuff about being the elect. I couldn’t get away. I didn’t want to be rude. Jehovah’s Witnesses, that’s what it was.’

  ‘Ridiculous. We used to get them at the door when I was in Cologne. You just tell them you’re already something – Catholic, Jewish, Muslim – and say you believe in that.’

  ‘But I don’t. I didn’t want to upset them, but I did finally say it didn’t matter to me if I wasn’t saved.’

  ‘But you believe in God.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She had to say it because of the first time he’d asked her, in bed. ‘Do you believe in God?’ he’d whispered; and she had said yes, since she couldn’t say anything else, and since what he was really asking her was: did she love him beyond anything. But later she was furious. It was as if in the throes of intercourse she had been asked, ‘You do believe the sun goes around the earth, don’t you?’ What could you say? Let me think about that one. It was unfair.

  He had been profoundly shocked when she’d told him that in accordance with her father’s humanitarian principles, she had never been baptized. Her father had believed that people should wait until they were old enough to understand the words said over them, and could then choose whether or not they wanted to join a church.

  Claus had said, ‘But that’s terrible. Every civilized human being –’

  That was the point at which she had seen that despite his reputation in the hospitals as a rebel and a firebrand, he would always want to abide by the rules he’d grown up with, and that they included strictures of thought as well as of behaviour. When he reached up to push her hair away from her forehead, she’d pull a face and tell him, ‘That makes such a bad impression,’ or, ‘What will the neighbours say?’ She’d invented a quavery, shaking voice to quote his favourite scolding phrases back at him. But she’d kiss him afterwards.

  ‘All this mystic nonsense that’s supposed to be masquerading as a religion,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you can associate with them. I wouldn’t want to be in the same room with people who are so stupid. Fanatics. Like being in the wards for the insane.’

  ‘You thought they looked all right the other night.’

  ‘Look, maybe. It’s the ideas.’

  ‘Do you think the idea of life after death is less peculiar than their plans to distribute sweetness and light?’

  He talked for a long while about the ineradicable false romanticism of Americans. He said he thought it had something to do with not having lived through a wartime occupation recently, or even a war that had been fought over their territory.

  She agreed with him, though she felt that since they were talking about her country, she should have been the one to criticize it. He didn’t like it all that much when she had things to say against Germany; he’d tell her that her opinion was interesting but, as he’d go on to explain, somehow misinformed, if not just plain wrong: she hadn’t been looking at something in the right way.

  They had once had a terrible quarrel – which had gone on all night – about Germany’s part in the Second World War. She had become genuinely hysterical, while he’d remained unconcerned. And after that she thought that although she couldn’t live without him, she might not be able to stand being married to him. She wasn’t really absolutely sure if she could stand being married to anyone: to end up like other married women who were full of recriminations, unfulfilled, nagging; and who spent their time cleaning and scrubbing and having children – all of which she’d come to eventually, of course, though at the moment the idea of such a future, such a fate, repelled her. Marriage was going to be the price of being allowed to stay with Claus.

  ‘That hotel used to be a sanatorium,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I feel a lot better since I’ve been swimming in the pool.’

  ‘Not that kind. For tuberculosis. A lot of famous people died there. Then they all moved to Switzerland.’

  ‘After they died?’

  ‘The famous people started going to Switzerland instead. And after that, people stopped getting TB so much.’

  ‘The rich people stopped,’ she said. ‘They’re giving a big party up there on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Let’s stay down here. I don’t want to be with a lot of other people.’

  She didn’t want to, either. She’d had enough of the crowds in the daytime – on the skating rink, in the ice maze, along the observation porches. She had also, temporarily, had enough of Angela’s friend, Tom, who had taken her over on her second day at the ski lodge and insisted on sticking with her every minute, as if they had been a high school couple. She hadn’t asked him about the religious movement, or about much else. He had kissed her in the hotel corridors between the tea-rooms and the swimming pool, and she had allowed it and kissed back even while she asked herself what she was doing in that group and why she should be letting him near her. She didn’t want to have to explain about Claus. Maybe she wouldn’t have to, anyway. She and Tom clung to each other against the hotel wallpaper and embraced. He knew how to kiss, all right, but in other ways seemed oddly incompetent. He was utterly lacking in the purposeful manipulations she was accustomed to from Claus. He seemed to be getting excited about her, but to be unwilling to follow through. She even wondered if he’d ever had a girl.

  She also wondered why she should need this additional proof that she was desired. She knew that already. All the boys in Angela’s circle approved of her. And she knew why: it was because she had been another man’s woman – that was all there was to it. She was prettier than she used to be, and she was a real woman, because of Claus. But Claus had had other affairs before her. She herself had never had anyone else. It put her at a disadvantage with him.

  They stayed in their hotel for New Year’s Eve. On
ly four other couples were in the dining-room. At midnight the lights were turned out and she kissed Claus in the dark. A local band was brought in, a crowd gathered, and people began to dance. Herr Lucas danced with an old woman who might have been his mother or perhaps his wife. Beverley and Claus swayed slowly over the polished but uneven floor. She was slightly drunk and sleepy and was happy thinking about how much she loved him, how wonderful he was, even the smell of his skin, which drove her crazy; and how everything had to turn out all right in spite of his horrible mother and all the things he didn’t want to talk about because he was lazy and it was easier not to think about them if he didn’t have to.

  Next day, Angela said suddenly, ‘Are you in love with this guy?’

  Beverley was just biting into a sandwich. She nodded.

  ‘Have you really thought about what it would be like to get married to a foreigner?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Would he fit in?’

  ‘Oh, we’d live here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In Europe. Well, that’s where he works.’

  ‘But – gee, I couldn’t stand that. I mean, it’s nice but it’s so different. You know.’

  ‘That’s why I like it.’

  ‘But it isn’t democratic.’

  ‘Is America?’

  ‘Of course. America is a democracy. Where did you go to school, Beverley?’

  ‘For a couple of years, to the same place you did. And then, I was at one of those liberal progressive numbers where you couldn’t get in if you weren’t the right kind. They used to take a certain per cent of stereotype misfits and minorities to cover themselves, but it was pretty exclusive. I’m glad of it, too. I got a good education. Weren’t your other schools like that? Or did you sit next to the children of roadsweepers and ditchdiggers?’

  ‘Oh, school. I didn’t mean that. I meant the country, and the government.’

  ‘Tell me about the Fountain of Light.’

  Angela said, ‘It’s a lifelong dedication to an ideal, Beverley. It’s a force of good in the world.’

  ‘Is it open to everybody?’

  Angela began to talk about the ‘Movement’, as she called it. Beverley kept a straight face, but only just. From what she could gather, the Fountain of Light wasn’t exactly like the Klan, but they were pretty near it. Their favourite word for people who disagreed with them was ‘degenerate’.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Beverley asked.

  ‘Psychologically evil and immoral.’

  ‘I thought it had something to do with not living up to your ancestors.’

  ‘No, honey – it’s people that can’t live up to an ideal.’

  ‘Why can’t they?’

  ‘Because they’re too degenerate.’

  ‘I see,’ Beverley said. ‘That explains it.’

  She asked Tom on their way to the swimming pool, ‘Do you think I’m degenerate?’

  He said, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Aren’t you one of the Fountains of Light?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘So, do you think I’m degenerate?’

  He looked very serious and said, ‘Let’s put it like this: I think you’ve fallen into evil ways.’

  Beverley burst out laughing. She had to steady herself against the wall.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ he said. ‘It’s a tragedy.’

  ‘What’s a tragedy?’

  ‘You and that guy you’re with. What do you think you’re doing?’

  She took a deep breath and thought of telling him precisely.

  ‘You must know it’s wrong,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Well, you aren’t married to him, are you?’

  ‘No, and I’m not married to you, either.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Oh? Why do you hold me tight and keep kissing me – do you love me? Are you planning to marry me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She was so shocked that she couldn’t answer. He took her by the elbow and drew her down the hallway. He put his arm around her and began to talk about the commitment to love and the commitment to God. She felt battered. She couldn’t even argue back.

  They reached the doors to the changing-rooms. She said, ‘Even if I were free –’

  ‘You are free,’ he told her.

  ‘No, I’m bound to him. And I love him.’

  ‘You don’t love him. If you’d loved him, you wouldn’t have let me kiss you.’

  ‘I guess that was just because I’m so degenerate,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll talk about it some more tomorrow.’

  After their swim, he went to join Mimi and Darell on the ski slopes. She lay down on a mattress in the sun room and fell asleep for a few minutes. She had decided not to return to the Miramar the next day.

  *

  When she woke up, she heard two women talking. They were sitting right nearby on the next two mattresses and were speaking English. She opened her eyes, but she was facing the other way. She was looking at a lot of extremely old men and women in bathing suits. In the past two days the hotel had filled up with some very ancient tourists. It seemed strange that they should come just for New Year’s Eve; probably it was for the healthy air more than the celebrations.

  ‘I’ve told them: we’ve really got to improve the security,’ one of the women said. ‘Anybody can come up here now. Look at what happened last week.’

  Something about the voice disturbed Beverley. She had the feeling she’d heard it before, but she couldn’t remember where.

  She turned her head and found herself looking up into a face she recognized. She said, ‘Oh. Mrs Torrence,’ and sat up.

  The woman’s head moved sharply. She was in her early eighties and she looked actually younger than Beverley seemed to recall, but it was the same woman: a friend of her grandmother, years ago, back in St Louis. Beverley remembered her from vacations there.

  ‘Who?’ Mrs Torrence said.

  ‘Beverley. My grandmother was –’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Mrs Torrence said. She smiled. She introduced Beverley to the other woman, a Mrs Dace, who had hair that was dyed red, although she appeared to be the same age as her companion. She smiled pleasantly at Beverley and asked if she was staying at the hotel.

  ‘No. I’m down in one of the villages. This is out of my price range, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then you’re all alone up here today?’ Mrs Torrence said.

  ‘I was with some friends till just a little while ago. We’ll be meeting for tea as usual, and then I’ll go on back down.’

  ‘Oh, do join us for tea. We can show you the parts of the hotel you’d never see.’ She turned to Mrs Dace and said, ‘You remember giving little Alma the tour? This’ll be just the same. Such fun to have some young faces around.’

  Beverley didn’t want to be impolite. She accepted the invitation. In fact, she was rather looking forward to seeing some of the private suites; they might be ones that retained the original nineteenth-century decor or, even better, have been remodelled in the more famous art nouveau designs. The two women would be treating her to the tea; that made a difference, too. And, in addition, she’d be able to avoid Tom.

  ‘We can leave a message for your friends, if you like,’ Mrs Torrence said.

  Beverley wrote a note to say she’d run into someone from home. Mrs Dace levered herself off the mattress and took the folded paper away; she promised to find an envelope for it and leave it at the reception desk. Mrs Torrence began to tell a series of stories about St Louis in the old days when she and Beverley’s grandmother were girls. Beverley was delighted. She’d been very fond of her grandmother.

  After they’d changed, they took an elevator up to one of the higher floors. Mrs Dace asked to be called Minnie and Mrs Torrence said her name was Martha and she’d be angry now if Beverley used anything but her first name from that moment on. She took a gold key out of her alligator bag and fitted it into a door at the end o
f the hallway. Beverley would never have known that the door led anywhere – it looked from the front like another ordinary linen closet or a place where the hotel maids would keep brooms and mops and maybe some extra sheets. The key, on the other hand, could have been real gold: it was in the form of a winged nymph naked from the waist up; her legs became the part of the key that went into the lock.

  ‘Here we are,’ Martha said.

  They stood in a hallway parallel to the one they had left. The ceiling was higher, the mouldings more elaborate, the carpets more opulent. Ahead of her Beverley saw gilding, parquetry, Venetian mirrors and fresh flowers that blossomed from vases set in scalloped niches along the walls. She looked hard at everything, hoarding details to present to Claus later on, when he was back from the skiing and they’d be lying with their arms around each other; she’d tell him stories as if she were a traveller who had returned from foreign journeys; first she’d been able to bring back part of the world that belonged to Angela, and now it would be the places inhabited by the very rich and – so it appeared – the old.

  Martha gave a commanding sign with her right arm, leading onward. They entered an adjacent corridor and came to a bank of windows that looked out on a view of ice-covered crags and fir trees going down into a chasm; arched and fluted snowfields hung in roofed masses above them.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Beverley said. She thought Claus would love it too.

  ‘You can only see it from this side,’ Minnie told her. ‘It’s reserved for us.’

  ‘Shh.’ Martha put up a warning finger. ‘Beverley will think we’re bragging.’

  Minnie lifted her hand to her face. She muttered, ‘Oh. Of course.’

  Martha led the way into her rooms and then out again, into Minnie’s. Beverley was staggered by the apricot satin bedspreads, the green marble sunken baths, the black and silver chairs. They told her the names of the designers and walked her farther along the hallways to a tea-room that looked like the main salon of an ocean liner. Minnie and Martha waved to a few groups at other tables; the men made motions of bobbing to their feet as they bowed forward. All the people were old. There were about fifty of them in the huge room. Beverley wondered if it was like an old people’s outing: if Minnie and Martha were members of some sort of exclusive club for five-star holidays. She also had for a moment a sudden sense of isolation and strangeness. If she could have thought of an excuse, she’d have asked to go back. She was almost ready to make something up, to say, ‘Oh, I just remembered …’