Get a Load of This (14 page)

     She lay very still on the bed, vaguely conscious that she ought not to be there; that she ought to be doing something very important, but what it was she couldn't remember.
     She moved her long legs, feeling the smooth linen sliding over her flesh. What had she to do? Something... What was it? She couldn't remember. It was all too much trouble. Everything was too much trouble.
     In the distance the note of a ship's siren sounded, a soft, gentle wail. Her heart missed a beat, but still she didn't move. Now, she remembered. The ship, of course. It sailed at two o'clock. They had said repeatedly that they were not waiting for anyone. Something was going to happen in Havana. They didn't say what it would be. They didn't even admit that it was going to happen, but by a little gesture, by the apprehensive look in their eyes, by the flurry they all were in, one gathered that something was going to happen that couldn't possibly be pleasant.
     The little, pock-marked steward, when he had given her her coat, had emphasized the necessity of being on board by midnight. He was nice, in spite of his pock-marks, and she made a point of assuring him that she would be back before then. She would have been if she hadn't met Lacey.
     She moved restlessly. Lacey. She saw him as he was the previous night. Tall, very clean-looking in his white evening clothes. He was good to look at. Any woman would have thought so. His lean face, his full lips, and the jeering, cynical look he had in his eyes.
     He had joined the boat at Bahama. As soon as he came on board the women began to talk about him. He was that kind of a man.
     She pressed her fingers to her aching head. God! She must have been tight, as tight as she had been crazy—that must have been very, very tight. She wanted to go to sleep again, but she began remembering, and as the memory of the previous night built up in her mind, sleep retreated.
     Oh yes, he had been awfully nice. It was by the sheerest coincidence that he happened to be going ashore as she stepped on the gang-plank. She had planned to see Havana with a Mr. and Mrs. Skinner. They were nice people, elderly, kindly and safe—nice people.
     Lacey had jeered at them. He had shaken his head at her, behind their backs, as they prepared to take her away on a stately little drive along the brightly lit Havana waterfront. Then he had stepped forward. It was all done so smoothly. She couldn't remember what he had said, but it must have been horribly smooth and just right, because the Skinners went away, smiling. They even looked back and waved, leaving her alone with him. Oh yes, she had to admit that it was all very neat and clever. He had taken her into the heart of Havana. He seemed to know all the unexpected places. He didn't take her to the show places, but to all the exciting little cafes and houses, as if he owned the place.
     He talked. She began gathering the top of the sheet unconsciously into a tight, long rope. Yes, he had talked. At first, he said amusing things. He did what very few people could do, he made her laugh. Then later, in the evening, after they had a few drinks, he began to flatter her. It wasn't eye-talk stuff. It was shockingly personal, and it made her go hot, but because of the velvety strength of the drinks he had given her she didn't go away from him as she ought to have done. So it went on until she suddenly realized that she was getting dangerously light-headed. She stopped drinking, but she couldn't stop him talking. He said, in a charming way, the most outrageous things. She felt herself being drawn to him entirely against her will. It was as if something inside her was going out to him, leaving her weak and without resistance.
     She remembered wondering when he would touch her. She knew, beyond any doubt, that he would touch her. Why else did he continue to stare at her with such intentness?
     He seemed in no hurry. That was because he was so confident. Even in small things he was always confident. Small things, as lighting a cigarette, walking through a crowded room, or ordering a meal.
     She remembered thinking that in an hour, or less, he was going to possess her. He would take her as confidently as he took everything. She was going to do absolutely nothing about it. She knew that before he started. Absolutely nothing, because she had no resistance. She felt almost as if she were asleep, dreaming that this was happening to her.
     There—he had touched her. He had reached out and put his hand firmly on hers. She was quite sure that he would reach out his hand in the same way, steadily and confidently, to pat the head of a snarling dog.
     At his touch her blood ran hot in her veins. She remembered thinking, at the time, that such a thing only happened in novels, but she actually felt a sudden surge of warmth go through her.
     He went on talking, holding her hand lightly in his. Meeting his eyes, she saw that he had finished playing with her. He was serious now. She saw an eagerness that had pushed the jeering look into the background.
     He rose to his feet abruptly, and took her through the back of the restaurant, through a doorway screened by a bead curtain. Together they went down a dim corridor that smelt faintly of sandalwood.
     She followed him, her knees feeling weak, into a little room which was beautifully furnished, lit by rose-coloured lanterns. She was quite unable to say anything.
     As she lay there in bed she could see those lanterns very clearly. She shut her eyes and she could see them even more clearly. She could feel him drawing her down on the divan, his hands taking the weight from her breasts. His hands there made her suddenly want him with an urgency that terrified her.
     She had said, a little wildly, “Be kind to me—be kind to me,” and she remembered trying to find his mouth with hers.
     She did not know how he undressed her. She was conscious of her clothes leaving her smoothly as he did everything. Then he suddenly lost all his smoothness, and treated her shamefully.
     She lay staring at the rose-pink lanterns, feeling a sick loathing of herself. Her desires had gone away from her the moment he took her. It was all so sudden, so brutal, so unexpected—so filthily selfish. So she lay looking at the rose-pink lanterns until he stood away from her.
     He had said, a little impatiently, “It's getting late, we had better go back to the boat.”
     She had said nothing. She couldn't even cry.
     “Don't you hear?” he said. “It is nearly twelve.”
     Without looking at him, she said: “Does it matter? Does anything ever matter to you? Go away. Go back to the boat. I've nothing else to give you. Why don't you go away?”
     He said impatiently, “For God's sake stop talking and get dressed.”
     She shut her eyes and said nothing, so he left her. He walked out of the room with his confident tread and left her there.
     When he had gone she got up and dressed. She remembered that she couldn't look herself in the face as she stood before the mirror. She remembered thinking that she had behaved like a bitch, and she was ashamed.
     She went back to the restaurant. The waiter who had served them looked at her curiously when she sat down at the table they had previously occupied. She didn't care what he thought. She didn't care about anything. She just felt a cold fury with herself for being such a bitch. She didn't even think of Lacey any more. All she could think was that because this was Havana, because of the great yellow moon, and because of the blue-black water, studded with thousands of lights from the waterfront, she had behaved like a bitch with a horribly smooth ship's Romeo. She deserved to be treated as a whore. She hadn't even the satisfaction of knowing that she had been as efficient as a whore—she hadn't. She had just wanted to be very sick and to cry, but she had done absolutely nothing.
     She had ordered a lot of drink from the waiter. She had to get tight. She could do that. There was nothing else she could do. She couldn't sit in the restaurant, knowing the ship was sailing with all her clothes, leaving her in Havana, where something was going to happen, without getting good and tight. So she got good and tight, and she might have been still sitting there if the waiter hadn't very tactfully put her in a taxi and told the driver to take her to a hotel. She would go back one day and thank the waiter. It was the first act of kindness she had received in Havana.
     At the hotel they didn't seem to notice how very tight she was. The manager seemed to have something on his mind. He wasn't even sorry when he heard that she had lost the boat. He just raised his hands, saying, “That is a very grave misfortune for you, senorita,” and gave instructions for her to be taken to a room on the third floor overlooking the waterfront.
     She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her thick wavy hair. She must do something now. She couldn't stay in bed nursing her cold hatred.
     Reaching out, she rang the bell at her side violently.

     
     It was hot. Too hot to stay in bed Quentin thought, pushing the sheet from him and sliding on to the coconut matting.
     The sunlight came through the slots in the shutter and burnt his feet. He scratched his head, yawning, then reached under the bed for his heelless slippers. He sat there, staring at the wall, feeling lousy. It must have been the rum he'd belted the previous night. That guy Morecombre certainly could shift liquor. He might have known what kind of a party he was sitting down to. These press photographers spent most of their time on the booze. He pressed fingers tenderly to his head and then wandered over to the chest of drawers and found a bottle of Scotch. He put a little ice water in a glass and three fingers of Scotch to colour it, then he went back and sat on his bed.
     The drink was swell, and he dawdled over it while he considered what he had to do that day. There wasn't much he could do, he decided, except just sit around and wait. Well, he was used to that. He could do that fine.
     He reached out with his foot and kicked the shutter open. From where he sat he could see the harbour and a little of the bay. By leaning forward he could see the old
Morro Castle.
He drew a deep breath. The place was pretty good, he decided. Very, very nice to look at. He got up and wandered to the open window. Below him the hotel grounds stretched away to the waterfront—flowers, trees, palms, everything that grew so richly in the tropical heat spread out before him. He hunched his muscles and yawned. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all. The Foreign Correspondent of the
New York Post
staying in the dump that millionaires condescend to be seen in. He finished the Scotch. All the same, he wouldn't mind betting there was no one in the hotel except Morecombre and himself and the General. He grinned a little sourly. From where he stood he could see the waterfront, which looked ominously deserted. The hotel grounds were deserted too. “The word's got round all right,” he thought; “rats leaving the sinking ship.”
     He wandered over and rang the bell, then went on into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood watching the water hiss down, still holding the empty glass in his hand. He eyed it thoughtfully, decided he wouldn't have any more, put the glass down and slid out of his pyjamas.
     The shower was fine. The water pricked and tingled on his skin. Raising his head, he began to sing, very low and rather mournfully.
     When he came back to the bedroom he found Anita standing looking out of the window.
     Anita was the maid in charge of the third floor. She was very dark, small, very well built. Her breasts rode high, firm... audacious breasts. They looked like they were proud of themselves, and Quentin himself thought they were pretty good.
     “Hello,” he said, wrapping a towel round his waist, “don't you ever knock?”
     She smiled at him. She had a nice smile, glistening white teeth and sparkling eyes. “The water,” she said, lifting her hands, “it makes so much noise. You did not hear me knock, so I come in.”
     “One of these days,” Quentin said, pulling on a silk dressing-gown and sliding the towel off, “you're going to get an unpleasant shock when you walk in like that.”
     She shook her head. “This morning I had it—it was not so bad.”
     Quentin looked at her severely. “You're not such a nice little girl as you look. You know too much.”
     “It was Mr. Morecombre,” she said, her eyes opening. “He is a beautiful man—yes?”
     “Suppose you get me some breakfast, and stop chattering,” Quentin said. “Get me a lotta food, I'm hungry.”
     She made a little face. “There is nothing,” she said. “Coffee... yes, but the food ... it is all gone.”
     Quentin paused, his shaving-brush suspended halfway to his face. “I don't get it, baby,” he said. “This is a hotel, ain't it? This is
the
hotel, ain't it?”
     She smiled again. That smile certainly had a load of come-hither hanging to it. “But the strike,” she explained, “it is the strike. No food for four days. All out of the icebox. Now the ice-box is empty.”
     Quentin resumed his shaving. “So I'm going to pay a small fortune to stay in this joint and starve—is that it?”
     “But, senor, everyone has gone away. There is only you and Senor Morecombre left.”
     “And the General,” Quentin reminded her. “Don't forget the General.”
     Anita pulled a face. “I don't forget him,” she said, “he is a bad man. He has everything; he has food. He knew what was going to happen.”
     “Maybe he'll consider sharing his breakfast with me,” Quentin said. “Suppose you run along and ask him. Tell him George Quentin of the
New York Post
would like to breakfast with him. See what happens.”
     She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I do not ask favours from such a man; he is bad. Soon someone will kill him, you see.
     Quentin put down his shaving-brush. “Then get me some coffee. Now beat it, baby; you're in the way. I want to dress.” He put his hand under her elbow and took her to the door. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Senor is a very fine man, yes?” she said. She offered him her lips, but Quentin shook his head. “Go on, dust,” he said a little irritably, and drove her out with a smack on her behind.
     When he was half dressed, Bill Morecombre came in. He was a tall, loosely built guy, a soft hat worn carelessly at the back of his head, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He draped himself up against the door-post and waved a languid hand. “Hyah, pal,” he said, “anythin' happenin'?”
     Quentin shook his head. “Not a thing except there's no breakfast.”
     Morecombre shrugged. “I expected that, didn't you? Hell, the strike's been on a week now. This joint's going to be plenty tough before it gets better. I brought some stuff along with me. When you're ready come on over. I guess the manager will be up too. I got plenty.”
     “You guys certainly look after yourselves,” Quentin said, fixing his tie. “Sure I'll be over.”
     Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.
     “I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby's wearing a pair of very hot pants.”
     “You're right, but what else has she got to do? I'm sorry for that judy.”
     Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you're always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”
     They crossed the corridor into Morecombre's room. “Do you seriously think anything's going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”
     Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don't know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who've been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it's a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”
     Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”
     A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.
     The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I've come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.
     “Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”
     The manager came into the room very quickly, a smile lighting his face. “That is generous,” he said. “American gentlemen are always very generous.”
     Quentin looked up. He was busy opening a tin. “You know why we are here, don't you?” he asked abruptly.
     The manager looked confused. “You come to see our beautiful city... yes?” he said, fidgeting with his small white hands.
     “We are here to report and obtain photographs of a coming revolution,” Quentin said impressively. “How long do you think we'll have to wait before it begins?”
     The manager looked helplessly at the tin in Quentin's hands. “I could not say,” he said. “I know nothing about a revolution.”
     Quentin glanced across at Morecombre and shrugged. “They're all alike,” he said a little bitterly. “I guess we've just got to be patient and wait.”
     Another knock sounded on the door and Anita came in with a tray. She, too, regarded the tins with interest.
     “Coffee, senor,” she said.
     Morecombre took the tray from her. “Come on in and join us,” he said. “This is no time to stand on ceremony.”
     The manager scowled at her, but she sat down close to Morecombre, taking no notice of him.
     Suddenly the manager clapped his hands to his head. “I forget,” he said, “the senorita who came last night. What has become of her?”
     Anita frowned. “I gave her coffee,” she said. “She wishes to sleep again.”
     “Who's that?” Quentin asked. “What senorita?”
     “Beautiful American lady lost the boat last night. She come to this hotel. I am very worried, but I give her a room. I only just remember.”
     “You let her stay here?” Morecombre exclaimed angrily. “What the hell did you do that for?”
     The manager looked distressed. “I was not thinking. I was very worried.” He broke off and looked pathetic again.
     “I guess you were tight,” Quentin said angrily, getting to his feet. He turned to Anita. “Go and wake her at once. Tell her she had better pack and clear out of this joint. Explain that trouble is likely to happen here.”
     The manager started up. “No, no!” he said. “Nothing is going to happen to my beautiful hotel. You must not say such things.”
     Quentin looked at him grimly. “That's what you say. If a revolution does start, this is one of the first places they're coming to. You don't think they'll let General Fuentes get away after what he's done to them, do you?”
     The manager looked as if he were going to faint. “You must not say such things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “It is very dangerous to talk like that.”
     Quentin jerked his head at Anita. “Go and tell her,” he said, “this is no place for American women.”
     Anita scowled at him. “It is all right for me... yes?” she said. “It doesn't matter about me ... no?”
     Quentin climbed out of his chair. “Go and tell her,” he said. “Never mind about yourself. You'll be all right.”
     She went out, closing the door sharply behind her. Quentin glanced at Morecombre, who was setting the table. “Rather complicated if we've got to look after some American girl, huh?” he said. “If things do start happening, I want to be free to move from here quickly.”
     Morecombre grinned. “No woman has ever complicated my life,” he said. “If she's a looker, you don't have to worry. I'll look after her.”
     The manager wrung his hands. “This is a terrible thing that you do, senor,” he said, “turning my guests from my hotel.”
     Quentin poured out some coffee. “Don't talk a lotta bull,” he said. “You know as well as I do that all your guests have gone. If anything happens to this girl, I'm going to report the matter to the consul.”
     The manager looked at him sulkily, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Nothing will happen,” he said; “I assure you that nothing will happen.”
     Just then Anita came back. Her black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “The senorita says she stays,” she said. “She has no place else to go, so she stays.”
     Quentin groaned. “As if I haven't got enough to worry about,” he said. “You gotta go and see her,” he went on, turning to the manager, “tell her that there is likely to be a disturbance in the town and she had better go.”
     The manager shook his head. “I cannot say such a thing. It is not true.”
     Quentin got to his feet. “Then I'll see her,” he said. “I'm not taking the responsibility of her being here if things get hot. She can take a car out of town and the sooner she's out the better.” He went to the door. “What room is she in?”
     Anita's eyes opened. “But, senor, she is in bed. You cannot go to her.”
     Morecombre got to his feet hurriedly. “Just a minute, pal,” he said. “This sounds like a job for a man of the world. Just step on one side and let me handle it.”
     Quentin eyed him coldly. “Sit down and shut up! What room is she in?”
     Anita told him, looking furiously at Morecombre, and Quentin went out, crossed the corridor and knocked sharply on the door indicated. He heard someone say something inaudible, so he turned the handle and went in.
     Standing by the open windows, looking on to the hotel grounds, was a tall girl, dressed in a white silk evening wrap. She turned sharply as Quentin entered. “What do you want?” she asked.
     Quentin regarded her with interest. He was more interested in her expression than her actual beauty. He was curious about the hurt, sullen look in her eyes and the little frown that increased as their eyes met.
     “I'm sorry to come barging in like this,” he said, standing just inside the room, holding the door handle, “but I thought you ought to be told that this hotel is not the place for any unattached girl. There is going to be a bad disturbance—”
     She interrupted him. “I don't know who you are,” she said, “but the maid has already told me that I ought to go. This is a hotel, and I intend to stay. Anyway, for the time being.” She turned back to the window, dismissing him.
     Quentin felt a strong desire to reach out and turn her over his knee. He came further into the room and shut the door. “Maybe I had better introduce myself. I'm Quentin of the
New York Post.”
     He saw her suddenly stiffen, but she didn't turn from the window.
     He went on: “I'm down here because my paper expects trouble. All Americans, except the residents, have cleared out. The residents have gone over to the consul's house under guard. I guess you're about the only white woman foot-loose around this town. If you'll pack, I'll take you over to the consul myself.”
     For a moment she hesitated, then she turned and faced him. “I don't understand what you're talking about,” she said sharply. “What trouble? What can happen here?”
     Quentin grinned sourly. “Plenty,” he said. “Maybe you don't know anything about Cuban politics?” He came and joined her at the window. “A grand-looking joint, ain't it?” he said, looking across the flaming flower-beds, the green lawns and across the bay. “Sure, it looks all right, but underneath it is a mass of seething misery. The graft that goes on here would make Chicago look like a virgin's tea-party. The President in power right now is one of the meanest guys alive. All the punks who work under him run their own little graft on the side. This has been going on some time, and I guess the natives are getting tired of it. The trouble came to a head last week over transport dues. The guy who handles that has put a tax on every truck, pushing up the freight rate. Everyone knows that it will go into his own pocket, so they've got wise to him. They've come out on strike. These higher-up guys are crafty, and they guessed what would happen, so they've laid in a good stock of food and are sitting pretty. The rest of Havana is going without. No boats bring stuff in, no trains, no lorries, no nothing. Food is running short. It won't be long now before the natives get mad. When those guys get mad, they're likely to cause a heap of trouble. Now that's why you ought to get out or at least go over to the consul's place.”