Heaven Has No Favorites: A Novel (33 page)

The manager indicated the younger mechanic. “He was there when they pulled him out.”

“He was bleeding from the mouth,” the mechanic said.

“From the mouth?”

“Yes, it was like a hemorrhage.”

“That’s impossible. He wasn’t sick!”

Lillian looked at the man. What gruesome confusion was this? A hemorrhage belonged to her, not to Clerfayt. “How could he have a hemorrhage?” she asked.

“His chest was jammed against the steering wheel,” the mechanic said.

Lillian slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “No!”

The manager went to the door. “I’m going to see if I can find the doctor.”

Lillian heard him in violent argument with the nurse. The sound faded, and the hot silence returned, with the two mechanics breathing loudly and the flies buzzing.

The manager came back. He stood still in the doorway. His eyes looked unnaturally white in his tanned face. He moved his lips several times before he spoke. Then he said: “Clerfayt is dead.”

The mechanics stared at him. “Did they operate on him?” the younger one said. “The doctors must have done something wrong.”

“They didn’t operate. He died before they could.”

All three men looked at Lillian. She did not move. “Where is he?” she asked at last.

“They’re preparing him.”

With great effort, she said: “Have you seen him?”

The manager nodded.

“Where is he?”

“It’s better if you don’t see him now,” the man replied. “You can see him tomorrow.”

“Who says that?” Lillian asked in a voice lacking all emotion. “Who says that?” she repeated.

“The doctor. You wouldn’t recognize him. It will be better if you come tomorrow. We can drive you to the hotel.”

Lillian remained where she was. “Why wouldn’t I recognize him?”

The manager did not answer for a while. “His face,” he said at last. “It was bashed in. The steering wheel crushed his chest. The doctor thinks he didn’t know a thing. It happened too fast. He lost consciousness immediately, and didn’t wake up again. Do you think it doesn’t hit us hard, too?” he said in a louder voice. “We knew him longer than you did!”

“Yes,” Lillian replied, “you knew him longer than I did.”

“I don’t mean it that way. I mean, this is how it always is when someone dies—suddenly he’s gone. He no longer speaks. He’s just been here and then he isn’t here any longer. Who can grasp it? I mean, we feel the same way. We stand here and can’t grasp it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Then come with us,” the manager said. “We’ll take you to the hotel. This is enough for today. Tomorrow you can see him.”

“What would I do in the hotel?” Lillian asked.

The man shrugged. “Call a doctor. Tell him to give you a shot. A strong one, so you’ll sleep till tomorrow. Come along now. There’s nothing more you can do here. He’s dead. None of us can do anything any more. When a man’s dead, it’s over; there’s nothing more to be done.” He took a step forward and placed a hand on her arm. “Come! I know what it’s like.
Porca miseria
, this isn’t the first time for me. But damn it, it’s always the first time.”

SHE AWOKE FROM SEETHING SLEEP
. For a moment, she had no connection with the world; then the grief stabbed sharply through her. She sat upright in bed with a jerk, and looked around. How had she come here? Slowly, she remembered—the deadly, late afternoon, the wandering about in the small city, the early evening, the hospital, Clerfayt’s alien, damaged face, the head lying somewhat askew, the hands that someone had folded as if in prayer, the doctor who had come with her. It was all not true, it was not right, it could not be so—it was not Clerfayt who should be stretched out on the hospital bed, but she, she alone, and not he; it was a horrible distortion; someone had put across a dreadful, sinister joke.

She got up and drew the curtains apart. The sun rushed in. The cloudless sky, the palms in the light and the brilliant flower beds in the hotel’s garden made the death of Clerfayt seem even more incomprehensible. Me, Lillian thought, it was supposed to be me, it was destined for me, not for him! In a strange way, she felt that she had been unfaithful; she felt like someone who had been left over, whose time was long past, who was still living only by a mistake, for whom someone else had been killed, and over whom the
vague, gray shadow of murder hovered, as it might over a driver so overtired that he had run over a person he could have avoided.

The telephone rang. She started and lifted it. The representative of a funeral home in Nice recommended his firm for a coffin, a plot, and a dignified burial at fair prices. In case the body was to be sent home, zinc coffins were available.

She hung up. She did not know what she ought to do. Where was Clerfayt’s home? Where he had been born? Somewhere in Alsace-Lorraine? She did not know where. The telephone shrilled again. This time it was the hospital. What was to be done with the body? It had to be disposed of, by afternoon at the latest. A coffin must be ordered.

Lillian looked at the clock. It was noon. She dressed. With ringing and bustle, the demands of death were assailing her. I ought to have black clothes, she thought. A firm that delivered wreaths telephoned. Another wanted to know what Clerfayt’s religion had been, in order to reserve time for the church ceremony. Or had the deceased been a freethinker?

Lillian could still feel the effects of the strong sedative she had taken. Nothing seemed quiet real. She went downstairs to ask the desk clerk for advice. A man in a dark-blue suit rose as soon as he saw her. She turned away; she could not endure the professional expression of condolence.

“Order a coffin,” she said to the clerk. “Do whatever is necessary.”

The clerk explained to her that the authorities had to be informed. Did she wish an autopsy? Sometimes it was necessary to determine the cause of death. What for? Because of later claims. The automobile firm could attempt to make the sponsors of the race bear the responsibility. Then there was also the insurance to consider; moreover, there were other possible complications. It was best to be prepared for everything.

It seemed simple to die—but not to be dead. Did she want Clerfayt buried at the cemetery here? “In the suicides’ cemetery?” Lillian asked. “No.”

The clerk smiled forbearingly. The suicides’ cemetery was a legend, like so much else at Monte Carlo. There was a proper, beautiful cemetery here, where the citizens of Monaco were buried. Did she have Clerfayt’s identification papers?

“Papers? Does he still need papers?”

The clerk was once more the soul of understanding. Of course papers were necessary. They would have to be obtained. He would also get in touch with the police.

“The police?”

In any accident, the police had to be notified at once. That had undoubtedly already been done by the firm and the race committee; but the police must also release the body. Everything was only a matter of form, of course, but it had to be done. He would attend to it all.

Lillian nodded. She suddenly wanted to get out of the hotel. She was afraid she would faint. It occurred to her that she had eaten nothing since yesterday noon, but she could not bear the thought of entering the hotel restaurant. Quickly, she left the lobby and went to the Café de Paris. She ordered coffee, and sat for a long time without drinking it. Automobiles rolled past and stopped in front of the casino; the usual sight-seeing buses came, and hordes of tourists gathered around the drivers, whom they then obediently followed into their petty-bourgeois dream of Babylon. Lillian started in alarm when a man sat down at her table. She finished her coffee and got up. She did not know what she wanted to do. She tried to tell herself that if there had been no accident, she would be alone now anyway, in Paris or on her way to Switzerland. It did not help; the hole in the ground beside her was there; it led into a bottomless
abyss and could not be reasoned away. Clerfayt was dead; that was different from his not being with her.

She found a bench from which she could look at the ocean. She had the feeling that there were many urgent things she had to do; but she could not decide on any of them. Clerfayt, she thought again and again—Clerfayt, not me! What does that mean? Everything was insane. She was the one to die, not he. What ghastly irony was this?

She returned to the hotel and went to her room without speaking to anyone. At the door, she stopped. Dead air puffed into her face; everything in the room seemed to have died along with it.

She remembered that the desk clerk had asked for Clerfayt’s papers. She did not know where they were, and had a horror of going to Clerfayt’s room. She knew, from the sanatorium, that it was often harder to see the things the deceased had left behind than the body itself.

She saw that the key was in the lock and assumed that the maid was cleaning. That was better than being alone in the room. It encouraged her enough so that she opened the door.

An angular woman in a gray tailored suit looked up from the desk. “What do you want?”

Lillian thought she had come into the wrong room. Then she saw Clerfayt’s coat on a hook. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I think I might rather ask you that,” the woman replied. “I am Clerfayt’s sister. What do you want here? Who are you?”

Lillian remained silent. Clerfayt had once told her he had a sister somewhere whom he hated and who hated him. He had not heard from her for many years, he had said. This must be she. She did not bear the slightest resemblance to Clerfayt.

“I did not know you were here,” Lillian said. “Since you are, I have nothing more to do here.”

“That is quite true,” the woman replied frostily. “I was told that my brother had someone living here with him. Are you the person?”

“That is not any of your affair,” Lillian said, turning away.

She went out and back to her room. She began to pack, but soon stopped. I cannot go away as long as he is still here, she thought. I must stay until he’s put into the ground.

She went to the hospital once more. The reception nurse explained that she could not see Clerfayt again; an autopsy was being performed at the request of a member of the family. Afterward, the body was to be sealed into a zinc coffin and sent back home.

In front of the hospital, Lillian met the manager. “We’re leaving this evening,” he said. “Have you seen the old nag with the big teeth? The sister? She’s having him cut up. She wants to file suit against the firm and the sponsors of the race for compensation on account of negligence. She’s been to the police already. You know our director. She went to see him, too. He’s a guy who can stand up to anybody; but I’m telling you, he was looking pretty green after a half hour with that woman. She’s demanding a lifetime pension. Claims that Clerfayt was her sole support. We’re all leaving. You’d better leave, too. It’s all over.”

“Yes,” Lillian replied. “It’s all over.”

She walked aimlessly about the streets; she sat at tables and had something to drink; and in the evening she returned to the hotel. She was now very tired. The doctor had left a sedative for her. She did not need to take it; she fell asleep at once. The telephone woke her. Clerfayt’s sister was calling. She said she urgently had to talk to her; would Lillian come over to her room.

“If you have anything to say to me, do it now,” Lillian said.

“It can’t be done over the telephone.”

“Then we’ll meet in the lobby at noon.”

“That’s too late.”

“Not for me,” Lillian said, and hung up.

She looked at the clock. It was shortly before nine. She had slept for fifteen hours and was still tired. She went into the bathroom and was close to falling asleep in the bath when someone pounded violently on the door of the room. She came out of the tub and put on her wrapper. Before she could open the door, Clerfayt’s sister came charging in.

“Is your name Miss Dunkerque?” the woman asked. She was still in her gray tailored suit.

“We can talk at twelve o’clock, in the lobby,” Lillian replied. “Not now, and not here.”

“It comes to the same thing. Now that I’m here I—”

“You have forced your way in,” Lillian interrupted. “Shall I call the management to help me?”

“I cannot wait here until twelve. My train is leaving before that. Do you want my brother’s remains to sit in the blinding sun on the platform until it suits your ladyship to talk with me?”

Lillian looked at the narrow black cross the woman wore on a chain around her neck. This female will stop at nothing to get her way, she thought.

“I have here,” the sister went on, “a copy of a legal paper that I found among my brother’s documents. No doubt you have the original. It has to do with the assignment to you of a house on the Riviera.”

“To me?”

“You do not know about it?”

Lillian looked at the paper in the rawboned hand, on which there were two wedding rings. A widow, then—no wonder.

“Show me the paper,” Lillian said.

The sister hesitated. “Haven’t you seen it?”

Lillian did not answer. She heard the water still running in the tub, and went to turn it off. “Was that what you so urgently wanted to talk to me about?” she asked when she returned.

“I wanted to make it clear that the family would not recognize this transfer. We will contest it.”

“Contest it, then. And now please, let me alone.”

The woman stood her ground. “It would be simpler, and save you embarrassing questions, if you make a statement to the effect that you relinquish this bequest, which my brother certainly did not make except under some pressure.”

Lillian stared at her. “Haven’t you already drawn up such a statement?”

“I have. You have only to sign it. Here! I’m glad to see you have some understanding.”

Lillian took the paper and tore it to bits. “Get out now. I’ve had enough of you.”

The woman did not lose her composure. She scrutinized Lillian sharply. “You said you knew nothing about this legacy?”

Lillian went to the door and opened it. “That is for you to find out.”

“I certainly will. Justice is on our side. There happens to be a crucial difference between proper blood relations and some little adventuress who—”