Garden of Eden (26 page)

"I
wish he'd killed Juma," David had said.

"I
think that's carrying it a little far," his father said. "Juma's your
friend you know."

"Not
anymore.

"No
need to tell him so."

"He
knows it," David had said.

"I
think you misjudge him," his father said and they had left it there.

Then
when they were finally back safely with the tusks after all the things that had
happened and the tusks were propped against the wall of the stick and mud house
leaning there with their points touching, the tusks so tall and thick that no
one could believe them even when they touched them and no one, not even his
father, could reach to the top of the bend where they curved in for the points
to meet, there when Juma and his father and he were heroes and Kibo was a
hero's dog, and the men who had carried the tusks were heroes, already slightly
drunk heroes and to be drunker, his father had said, "Do you want to make
peace Davey?"

"All
right," he said because he knew this was the start of the never telling
that he had decided on.

"I'm
so glad," his father said. "It's so much simpler and better."
Then they sat on old men's stools under the shade of the great fig tree with
the tusks against the wall of the hut and drank native beer from gourd cups
that were brought by a young girl and her younger brother, no longer a detested
nuisance but the servant of heroes, sitting in the dust by the heroic dog of a
hero who held an old cockerel newly promoted to the standing of the heroes'
favorite rooster. They sat there and drank beer while the big drum started and
the Ngoma began to build.

He
came out of the working room and he was happy and empty and proud and Marita
was waiting for him on the terrace sitting in the sun of the bright early fall
morning that he had not known existed. It was a perfect morning, still and
cool. The sea below was a flat calm and across the bay was the white curve of
Cannes with the dark mountains behind it.

"I
love you very much," he said to the dark girl as she stood up. He put his
arms around her and kissed her and she said, "You finished it."

"Sure,"
he said. "Why not?"

"I
love you and I'm so proud," she said. They walked out and looked at the
sea with their arms around each other.

"How
are you girl?"

"I'm
very well and very happy," Marita said. "Did you mean it about loving
me or was it just the morning?"

"It
was the morning," David said and kissed her again.

"Can
I read the story?"

"It's
too lovely a day."

"Can't
I read it so I can feel like you do and not just happy because you're happy
like I was your dog?"

He
gave her the key and when she brought the notebooks and read the story at the
bar David read it sitting beside her. He knew it was ill mannered and stupid.
He had never done this before with anyone and it was against everything he
believed about writing but he did not think of that except at the moment when
he put his arm around the girl and looked at the writing on the lined paper. He
could not help wanting to read it with her and he could not help sharing what
he had never shared and what he had believed could not and should not be
shared.

When
she finished reading Marita put her arms around David and kissed him so hard
that she drew blood from his lip. He looked at her and tasted his blood
absentmindedly and smiled.

"I'm
sorry David," she said. "Please forgive me. I'm so very happy and
prouder than you are.

"Is
it all right?" he said. "Can you smell the shamba smell and the clean
smell of hut inside and feel the smoothness of the old men chairs? It's really
clean in the hut and the earth floor is swept."

"Of
course it is. You had it in the other story. I can see the angle of the head of
Kibo the heroic dog too. You were such a lovely hero. Did the blood make a
stain in your pocket?"

"Yes.
It softened when I sweated."

"Let's
go to town and celebrate the day," Marita said. "There's a lot of
things that we can do today."

David
stopped at the bar and poured Haig Pinch and then cold Perrier into a glass and
brought it with him to the room where he drank half of it and took a cold
shower. Then he pulled on slacks and a shirt and put on alpargatas to go into
town. He felt the story was good and felt even better about Marita. Neither had
been diminished by the sharpening of perception he had now, and clarity had
come with no sadness.

Catherine
was doing whatever she was doing and would do whatever she would do. He looked
out and felt the old happy carelessness. It was a day for flying actually. He
wished there was a field where he could rent a plane and take Marita up and
show her what you could do with a day like this. She might like it. But there
isn't any field here. So forget that. It would be fun though. So would skiing.
That's only two months away if you want it. Christ, it was good to finish today
and have her there. Marita there with no damned jealousy of the work and have
her know what you were reaching for and how far you went. She really knows and
it's not faked. I do love her and you make a note of it, whiskey, and you
witness it for me, Perrier old boy old Perrier, I have been faithful to you, Perrier,
in my fucking fashion. It feels very good when you feel so good. It's a stupid
feeling but it fits on this day so put it on. "Come on girl," he said
to Marita at the door of her room. "What's holding you up besides your
beautiful legs?" "I'm ready, David," she said. She had on a
tight sweater and slacks and her face was shining. She brushed her dark hair
and looked at him. "It's wonderful when you're so gay. "It's such a
good day," he said. "And we're so lucky." "Do you think
so?" she said as they walked to the car. "Do you think we're really
lucky?" "Yes," he said. "I think it changed this morning or
maybe in the night."

CATHERINE'S
CAR was in the driveway of the hotel when they drove up. It was parked on the
right side of the gravelled approach. David stopped the Isotta behind it and he
and Marita got out and walked down the drive past the small, low empty blue car
and onto the flagstones of the walk without speaking.

They
passed David's room with the locked door and the open windows and Marita
stopped outside of her door and said, "Good bye."

"What
are you doing this afternoon?" he asked.

"I
don't know," she said. "I'll be here."

He
walked on down to the patio of the hotel and went in the main door. Catherine
was sitting at the bar reading the Paris Herald with a glass and half a bottle
of wine beside her on the bar. She looked up at him.

"What
brought you back?" she asked.

"We
had lunch in town and came on up," David said.

"How
is your whore?"

"I
haven't one yet."

"I
mean the one you write the stories for."

"Oh.
The stories.

"Yes.
The stories. The dreary dismal little stories about your adolescence with your
bogus drunken father."

"He
wasn't so bogus really."

"Didn't
he defraud his wife and all his friends?"

"No.
Just himself really."

"You
certainly make him despicable in these last sketches or vignettes or pointless
anecdotes you write about him."

"You
mean the stories."

"You
call them stories," Catherine said.

"Yes,"
David said and poured a glass of the lovely cold wine on the bright clear day
in the pleasant, sunny room in the clean, comfortable hotel and, sipping it,
felt it fail to lift up his dead cold heart.

"Would
you like me to go and get Heiress?" Catherine said. "It wouldn't do
to have her think that we'd had a misunderstanding about whose day it is or
that we'd taken up solitary drinking together."

"You
don't need to get her."

"I'd
like to. She took care of you today and I didn't. Really, David, I'm not a
bitch yet. I just act and talk like one."

While
David waited for Catherine to come back he drank another glass of the champagne
and read the Paris edition of The New York Herald she had left on the bar.
Drinking the wine by himself it did not taste the same and he found a cork in
the kitchen to stop up the bottle before he put it back in the ice chest. But
the bottle did not feel heavy enough and lifting it against the light that came
in the west window he saw how little wine was left and he poured it out and
drank it off and put the bottle down on the tiled floor. Even when he drank it
off quickly it did nothing for him.

Thank
Cod he was breaking through on the stories now. What had made the last book
good was the people who were in it and the accuracy of the detail which made it
believable. He had, really, only to remember accurately and the form came by
what he would choose to leave out. Then, of course, he could close it like the
diaphragm of a camera and intensify it so it could be concentrated to the point
where the heat shone bright and the smoke began to rise. He knew that he was
getting this now.

What
Catherine had said about the stories when she was trying to hurt him had started
him thinking about his father and all the things he had tried to do whatever he
could about. Now, he told himself, you must try to grow up again and face what
you have to face without being irritable or hurt that someone did not
understand and appreciate what you wrote. She understands it less and less. But
you've worked well and nothing can touch you as long as you can work. Try to
help her now and forget about yourself. Tomorrow you have the story to go over
and to make perfect.

But
David did not want to think about the story. He cared about the writing more
than about anything else, and he cared about many things, but he knew that when
he was doing it he must not worry about it nor finger it nor handle it any more
than he would open up the door of the darkroom to see how a negative was
developing. Leave it alone, he told himself. You are a bloody fool but you know
that much.

His
thoughts turned to the two girls and he wondered if he should go find them and
see what they wanted to do or if they wanted to go off and swim. After all, it
was Marita's and his day and she might be waiting. Maybe something could still
be salvaged out of the day for all of them. They might be cooking something up.
He ought to go by and ask what they wanted to do. Then do it, he told himself.
Don't stand here and think about it. Go on and find them.

The
door to Marita's room was shut and he knocked on it.

They
had been talking and when he knocked the talking stopped.

"Who
is it?" Marita asked.

He
heard Catherine laugh and she said, "Come in whoever you are.

He
heard Marita say something to her and Catherine said, "Come in,
David."

He
opened the door. They were lying in the big bed together side by side; the
sheet pulled up under their chins.

"Please
come in, David," Catherine said. "We've been waiting for you."

David
looked at them, the serious dark girl and the fair laugh ing one. Marita looked
at him trying to tell him something. Catherine was laughing.