Dinner Along the Amazon (27 page)

Daisy draws the curtains and sits in a chair that is cornered, shadowed: slightly removed from the scene.

Caleb has been watching her back with interest, but now she’s turned around he looks away.

Are you shy? she asks.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Afraid? she asks.

At last, he shakes his head—his answer dies: I just…I guess I haven’t much to say.

Well, tell me about yourself.

Nothing to tell.

Don’t be ridiculous.

No. Really. Nothing. Nothing.

What about your father? Tell me about your father. Is he living?

Sort of.

(Laughter.) There! You see. A fascinating answer. Tell about him.

There’s nothing to say.

Like father, like son?

Caleb smiles at this (at least): you see—my father doesn’t know…we have nothing in common. Nothing. He doesn’t…understand.

What? Understand? What?

What…I do.

Oh.

He’s just a very ordinary man.

And your mother? Tell me—(smiling) does she understand?

She’s dead.

Unh-hunh. And when was that?

I think I was fourteen. Sometime. Then. Around then.

What happened?

An accident. An airplane that crashed.

Like ours just did? said Daisy, smiling.

I beg your pardon?

Nothing: just—I guess—an intellectual joke. I never know what they mean myself. But—sometimes—someone laughs—and then I think I understand. But—you didn’t laugh: which means that neither of us, sitting here, will ever know exactly what I meant. Go on.

She’d been away. And she was coming home to us. From Rome.

You’re Catholic?

Mother was. I guess I am. But—no. My mother was. I’m not. I’m nothing.

Nothing.

Yes. It was Marian year. My mother’s name was Mary. And—among all the others—she went to be blessed by the Pope…

Arnold. Arnold has been blessed by many Popes. By three, in fact.

He said so. Yes, he told me that.

How could he help it? Daisy smiled. Go on. Your mother. Mary.

The Pope refused to bless her when she murmured she was separated from my father. And then…she begged it of him, saying she would reconcile: be reconciled. And he—it being the Marian year—gave in, I guess—

And so she kissed his ring. I can see it. Genuflected; let him bless her; got on the plane. And was killed. I see it. Yes. I see it all. (A pause:) What happened? To the plane, I mean.

It struck an Alp. And there were no survivors.

None?

Not any. No. And they still don’t know what caused the plane to crash. No storms; no calls for help; no indications either plane or pilot was in trouble; no malfunctions. Nothing. And there were 242 persons on board. Persons. People.

Persons will do. I think of myself as a person from time to time, she smiles. And then…?

At the graveside we stood with a lot of strangers. No one knew who anyone was—or had been. What they buried—what there was was just a lot of boxes: just a lot of half-filled boxes, all without names. And we stood together. And we stood together—all the mourners—strangers—knowing we would never know who stood by whom; who lay with whom; or what was buried. I think…

Yes?

I think that was very hard for my father. Very hard. Because he hadn’t seen her—even alive—my mother—such a long, long time. (Caleb taps his finger against the edge of his plate. His fingernails are very hard.) And then we went away. Except—I do remember one more thing.

What’s that? Daisy is squinting at him—darkened, in her corner.

I was standing—standing there, thinking I stood beside my father, but—in fact—we were separated, somehow. And—some other person took my hand. And held it. All through the service. Very hard, I remember: holding me very hard. And then, when the service was over—letting go. And I looked up and realized it hadn’t been my father.

Who, then?

I don’t know. A man. Some other man.

A pause: a hold, while Daisy blinks. And then she says: how long ago was this?

Eleven years. Or ten.

Daisy takes up another cigarette. Caleb rises, crossing, already flashing his light and lights her darkness with it—almost meanly, so it seems to Daisy.

And you remember her? Your mother? Mary?

No. (The light goes out. He crosses back to the empty plates.)

Well—anyway—the Pope died, too. (A beat.) She got him in the end. (Another beat.) Or someone did…

Then: laughter. Daisy rises from the corner.

Laughter
, someone once said to Daisy,
is braver than silence
. She thinks of that, now, but—looking at Caleb—knows she mustn’t say it. That would be another intellectual joke that—if he didn’t laugh—she might lose faith in. And she needed it: no, not the joke—the faith. She gets herself another drink and looks across the room. You don’t understand me, do you? Sad. How sad, she says. And to think I once had a face—like yours—as beautiful as yours: every nuance lovely, innocent and lovely. (A pause.) And sinister. (She turns away, dropping ice cubes into her glass.) Then, one day, in the mirror, the loveliness—the innocence—is gone. And only the sinister remains (she faces him): as I’m sure you can see.

I’m a loser. Loser of things, I mean. I mean: lose things. Lose them. Always. Nearly always. I am nearly always…things. Some people find things. Find them. Finders. In the street. In taxi-cabs. In other places of inconsequence. The difference isn’t losers-winners: it is losers…finders. Caleb? Where was it you found Arnold—he found you? Where are these places one may be a finder: find…? What is it one must do? Or be? To find things for oneself?

(All of this—of the above—from
I’m a loser
down to
for oneself
she wants to, means to say aloud: but can’t. Instead—aloud—she says what follows:)

I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad. And, when Arnold returns, I shall be very glad. (A pause.) I have a friend—a close friend, very close—whose name I do remember, by the way, but which I won’t divulge, because…Because. At any rate, this friend whose name I won’t divulge, is married: down the Mountain—and her husband has a penchant for—(she watches Caleb now, to see what he will do—to see if he will cringe, or curl) are you wondering what I’m going to say? Thinking—is she going to say this husband of her friend has a penchant for horses? Goats? For Germans? Men in raincoats? For the Dutch in wooden shoes? What are you wondering, I wonder? Well. To kill suspense—I’ll tell you: tell you what the penchant was (or is)…This husband of my friend has simple, very simple tastes. He likes to be beaten (watching) half to death.

Caleb doesn’t stir an inch. His hands just dangle down between his knees. His mouth is closed. But, across his brow, the drifts of hair begin to catch—are held by beads of sweat.

Beaten. Half to death. Imagine. Think where he had to go in order just to find someone—someone he could trust to beat him only half to death. Someone who wouldn’t kill him. Think. Imagine. Where he had to go. And what he had to do. The care with which he had to…choose. And think what his wife went through, until he was returned: came back, returned, as from the grave—a happy man, but…beaten half to death.

Daisy takes a drink and almost chokes. On laughter:

hah! When I told this story to another friend—a certain Mrs Bresson—when I told this story to her, she said a very witty thing, I thought.
Which half
? she said. Oh—(laughter under ice cubes) which half? I think it’s just a scream.

Caleb, in his chair, begins to stir: begins to lift his hands—to try to find some other place to put them, one by one—one here, one there, one here, one there—but all they do is sag again—fall back between his knees and dangle, where they were, as helpless now as then, before he tried to get away and hide.

You’re tired, says Daisy: tired. Oh do forgive me: this is unforgiveable. Look at the time. It’s nearly midnight, now—and you have had a long, long flight—and I just go on talking, while you must be nearly…

OH! I nearly said it. Nearly said: half dead…! Half dead.
Why—you must be half dead
!

Caleb doesn’t budge. Not even the corner of a lip is moved.

Attempting to sober—to escape her laughter—Daisy says: you’re tired, forgive me. That’s all I meant to say. Okay?

Okay.

Now: to go on—to get on with this story I was telling you. The wife of this man (the wife being my friend)—you must attempt to feel her panic: think of how she worried, what she went through when he went away, was gone. Such long periods of time, sometimes, he’d go away—you must imagine how she felt, how ill she was: became. Because she knew that, needing what he needed, he must find and frequent the darkest places—places in the dark: and dangerous. And always, she knew, he must be so careful to select the most delicately poised and…balanced of perverts (She waits a moment, thinking about this herself—and then she goes on:) and then he must exit with this man…this boy…this man…and find with him some room, somewhere and brave out that dark with him

be brave

brave out that dark, together with a stranger, having whatever it was he needed so carefully applied—having it applied, so neatly and so carefully—with instruments and implements I dare not mention; think of…

and survive it all

intact.

The silence that follows this surveys the house from end to end.

Well.

My friend knew one day it must follow that her husband would not come back: return, or be returned; that he could not be always returned to her intact—alive. That is—she knew that he must die—be killed—by a stranger. By some strange man—or boy—whose name would not be known: whose face would not be known to her. And this she COULD NOT BEAR—(the silence fled the house) because not knowing who she was herself, she could not bear another stranger in her life—who could—who would deprive her life of

what?

Its name.

Silence. Caleb, at last, knows where to look. He looks directly at Daisy. At her face; her hand that is frozen to its empty glass; her other hand that reaches up to touch her hair.

Then, Daisy speaks and says: she wanted, at least, to be able to gaze on the stranger’s face and say,
I know. I understand. I know
. She wanted to…forgive him. Fold up her own identity inside of forgiveness. Do you…do you understand?

I think so. Yes.

Anyway, at last unable to tolerate her anguish any longer, my friend decided she must say to her husband—(and did—I mean, she said it)
at whatever the cost to me and whatever the cost to you, for God’s sake go and find someone and bring him here
. (Daisy pauses and then, in the other woman’s voice, her friend’s, goes on:)
Bring him. Bring him here. To live with us. To be with us
.

TO BE WITH US.

And so—he began to go away less often less and less and less; until, one day—a young man appeared at the door. And has been there ever since: in the curious phrase of my friend—they have been there all together, ever since. And

(now she turns and looks at Caleb. Tears. Without mascara. Tears. Just tears and she smiles at him—putting out her hand)

and so—that is why I am so glad you’re here. At last. So—very glad you’re here.

And when Arnold returns—I shall…No: there is no
gladder
, is there. Nothing better than very glad. So that will do, whenever he comes. If he does.

Before you go to bed: before I show you where it is—will be—where you’ll sleep, would you get a chair and water all the plants? You can see how small I am. You can see that, without Mrs Rosequist, Arnold or his valet, all the plants would die. Would perish. So high up. They should never have been hung—been hanged—so far above us. On the other hand, if they weren’t, we’d all be banging and bashing our heads—why, even me, who am so small. So, if you wouldn’t mind; before I show you where it is you’ll sleep—be sleeping from now on…You do believe me, don’t you? That I’m glad—relieved—you’re here? You do believe that, don’t you?

Yes, ma’am.

Good. Done and over. Finished. The parcel is safely delivered: the package has been accepted, cod. The flowers will be watered. What is there left to say?

The Book of Pins

A Friday 2:15 p.m.

The old hotel still smelled the same and it gave off the same gold light. In the lobby, the dark oak panels shone with the same deep glow of oil-of-lemon wax and the smoky mirrors reflected still the same old women in the same brocaded chairs. Nothing changed. The people were changed, perhaps, but never their image—never the basic reflection of what was there.

When Annie Bogan came out of the Bar and Grill, she noted that the woman behind the magazine counter must just have come on duty. She was putting away her handbag, eating a humbug; jangling her bracelets, staring around the lobby, fixing her lips. Annie continued to watch the woman’s assemblage from over by the elevator doors. Fifty-five, perhaps, or more; with a thin, French mouth and jaw-breaker eyes, way in behind her glasses, the lenses of which were encased in tortoise-shell and lacquered beads. Her hair was faintly mauve, with a rinse; and her pale blue smock had a pointed crest that read: L
’ÉTOILE
.

Annie thought of her, then, as Star—as Mademoiselle Star, who shone in the lobby of the old hotel. The lobby was her place. Her fame was
to be there
.

Good. That pins another one.

The elevator came. Two men got off and, thank God, no-one else got on. Turning to face the front and reaching for the button, Annie saw, with some panic, a pair of feet in flapping galoshes, charging through the revolving doors and over the carpet towards her. Quickly, she fumbled for her floor and pressed eighteen instead of twenty-two. But, still—that didn’t matter. The main thing was the doors had closed and Annie had achieved her goal. She was going upstairs alone.

2:20 p. m.

She rarely stayed in hotels, but, whenever she did, it was always at the pinnacle: the top. Twenty-two floors, or ninety, or ten—it didn’t matter how high or low—she always had to be the farthest away the hotel could offer. When it couldn’t offer the top, she went somewhere else. She might even go to another city. But, over the years (she was now approaching forty-two) the old hotels of her choice had come to enjoy her patronage and, mostly, they gave her what she wanted. Fame, in its way, had these advantages: rooms you liked; private tables in the Bar and Grill; a man to open doors and get you through unseen; a certain separation from the race the totally unknown could not afford. Who else but the famed could refuse the company of strangers—the touch of hands?