Perfect Freedom (71 page)

“There. Now I think it's time for a drink.” She began to gather up her things, handing odds and ends to Lance, retrieving them, replacing them with others.

Finally everything was packed up and she led him to the road, where a casually dressed young Indian was waiting beside a large, aging Buick. Dark, almost naked children materialized around her and she stopped, opened her bag, searched it elaborately with one eye on the watchful children, deliberately creating suspense, and then handed around coins with lingering solicitous attention to each recipient.

The great lady succoring her poor, Lance thought. An instant antagonism toward Mrs. Rawls tightened his muscles.

As he was following her reluctantly into the car, he hesitated, suddenly aware of his costume. Acting on the clerk's words, he had changed into his brief swimming trunks at the hotel and had nothing else with him.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, not quite convincingly, for he was thinking now of escaping from her. “I haven't got anything to wear.”

“Oh, get in, get in. It doesn't matter in the least. I'll give you something. Or you can go naked if you like. In Africa I got so used to seeing people wander around with nothing on that I don't even notice it anymore. Nudism is so healthy, don't you think? Except that most people are sinfully ugly. I once spent a weekend in a nudist colony in Germany but that was very different. Beautiful people. Beautiful. Like gods. All Nazis, I suppose, but they couldn't help that. It gave me a completely new feeling about the human race.”

They drove up a winding road on the side of the Hill while Flip Rawls chatted on about China, India, Capri, with passing references to Noel Coward, Lady Mendl, Somerset Maugham, and a great many others whose names she couldn't remember. It sounded to Lance terribly outmoded and prewar. Suddenly his loneliness became a new and piercing agony. As tears burned behind his eyes, he struggled to whip his attention back to the smooth flow of Flip Rawls's self-congratulatory reminiscences.

In a few minutes they drew up in front of a blue wooden-door set in a mud-colored wall.

“Here we are,” she said complacently. “It's a funny sort of house but I think it's rather exciting. I designed it myself and practically had to build it, too. It cost a perfect fortune but I don't regret a penny. That big architectural magazine—
Architectural Something-or-Other
—you know, it's absolutely tops—they sent people down to take pictures of it. They said it was the finest example of tropical building they'd ever seen.”

On the other side of the blue door, they descended through a series of terraces of orange trees and great cacti and strange tropical plants. At every turn of the path there were vistas of sea with blue hills beyond, framed in fantastic patterns of myrtle and oleander and towering century plants. The air was heavy with the hot scent of flowers and herbs.

“This is the guest house,” Flip Rawls explained as they came upon a low pavilion around a bend in the path. “Use this first room. You'll find plenty to wear—sarongs, fishermen's things from St. Tropez, heaven knows what all. I really must go over these things someday. Some of them are priceless.” She flung open closets and drawers overflowing with brightly colored fabrics. “When you're ready just follow this path down as far as it will take you. I'll have a drink ready for you.”

Alone, Lance was tempted to look through the exotic clothes surrounding him but couldn't dispel his mood, and kicking off his wet trunks, he snatched up the first thing that came to hand, a blue sarong shot with silver threads, and wrapped it awkwardly around himself.

He found his hostess mixing drinks on a long, curving, covered terrace that resembled the promenade deck of an ocean liner, an effect heightened by its being built on the edge of a sheer drop to the sea: all that was visible from its parapet was a limitless expanse of sky and water. It was strewn with low tables and overstuffed bamboo chaises longues.

“Perfect,” she announced, surveying him as she handed him a drink with the winning little tilt of her head. “You picked just the right one. I can see you have an eye for color. You must keep it. Here, I'll show you how to wrap it.”

Before Lance could explain that he had nothing on under it, she had whipped it off and given it a vigorous shake. He had no time to react, however, for her hands were deftly adjusting the fabric around his waist, like a mother dressing her child, and for a moment he felt himself enveloped in a disarming human warmth.

“There. That makes all the difference,” she said, standing back from him and giving no sign that she had been aware of his nakedness. “You don't want it all bunchy in the middle.”

They had several drinks and a meal of exotic dishes accompanied by appropriate French wines.

“How long are you staying in Puerto Veragua, Mr. Vanderholden?” she asked over coffee.

“Oh, just a day or two. I've—”

“Why so quick? You should stay. I'll tell you what. You take the guest house for as long as you want it. I have some charming boys coming next week but I can just as well put them here. I have lots of room. That way, you'll have it all to yourself. I feel you're depressed and nervous. Have you suffered some unhappiness recently? I can tell those things. India, you know. I lived there several years. Uncanny. What was I saying?”

Lance's heavy lids had dropped slightly, and the corner of his wide mouth twitched.

“You were talking about my staying here,” he said quietly. “It's very kind—”

“Nonsense. It would give me pleasure. Of course, you might prefer to rent but there simply isn't anything here. You can't stay in that awful hotel. It's no place for a person who's been through a bad time.”

“No, really. I haven't planned—”

“Well, there's literally nothing else here,” she said with odd vehemence. “Anyway, they demand outrageous rents. Your name and being an American and all. You might not mind but it's the natives I'm thinking about. So bad for them. I've really discouraged any sort of real-estate development here. If there were houses for rent, it would turn into just another resort.”

Her insistence intrigued him. Perversely, it occurred to him that it might make sense to take a house for a week or two, just to be completely on his own for a bit. The sun and the swim this morning had steadied his nerves, but he had no intention of being Flip Rawls's houseguest and did his best to make this politely clear to her.

“Well, if you should change your mind—somehow I think you
should
—just bring your things out whenever you like,” she said in parting.

When her chauffeur had deposited him back in the village, he put on some clothes and wandered around looking for something to send her. He gave all his attention to the quest, eager to find something that would please her.

As he wandered, he came across a real-estate agent's office and acting on the impulse Flip Rawls had inspired, he went in. Houses? Why, Puerto Veragua was famous for the number and desirability of its houses. Beautiful houses, all practically being given away. The agent spoke in Spanish and scrappy English, helped along by the few words of Spanish Lance was able to contribute. Before he could think of the words to excuse himself, he was being bundled into a car and driven back along the road he had just traveled, past Flip Rawls's blue door, and half a mile farther to a house not unlike hers on a miniature scale—two rooms and a kitchen built along a partly covered terrace with the same immense view of the sea. Its water supply was a well and there was no electricity. Lance was ready to admit that perhaps Flip Rawls had been right.

Didn't he think it was beautiful? At least, that's what he understood the agent to ask him and he agreed that it was
muy bueno
. They drove back, the agent wreathed in smiles. When Lance was thanking him and taking his leave, it appeared that there had been a misunderstanding. Much Spanish, obviously angry, while Lance looked on helplessly. At last, he gathered that the agent considered the house rented. He protested. The agent insisted. Lance had apparently said something that closed the deal. Incapable of creating bad feeling where money was concerned, he gave in and asked the price. It was ludicrously low and included a servant. Lance paid the month's rent demanded of him. He didn't care how he spent the little money he had left, so long as he kept enough to get home. What the hell. He would stay for a week. Maybe Andy would come down for the weekend and they could go back together.

He wrote that evening to his friend in the capital:

Dearest Andy Bear—I made it, whatever “it” is. I've just been conned into taking a house for a month, which is about 25 days longer than I wanted. Don't worry. It doesn't cost anything. I don't like beds you haven't slept in, so please come and get my new one warm for me. It's about 110 in the shade here so you don't have to take that literally. If you have to go back to NY suddenly like you said, just leave my bags with the hotel or, if you think it's safer, send them down here. Try to get down. I won't go on saying thank you but I'll never stop saying I love you.

Sir Lancelot

(I happen to be writing on a round table.)

He moved in the following morning. The place was deserted but there were signs of somebody's having been there since the day before—fresh mosquito netting over the big beds in the two rooms, some cheap garden furniture scattered about the terrace. He dropped his bag in one of the rooms and went out to the edge of the terrace.

Silence. Silence and heat and the sun turning the sea into a blinding sheet of light. He squinted and lifted his hand and slowly began to twist his long fingers through his thick blond hair. Far off to the left he could see a big clump of foliage and a bit of tiled roof that he supposed must be Flip Rawls's place. He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the terrace wall and ran his hands over his muscular arms and torso, wiping away the sweat. He looked down at himself and slowly, with infinite care, plucked one stray hair from his smooth chest. It was so still that he fancied he could hear the hair give way. He lifted it between thumb and forefinger, scrutinized it to see if it had come out whole, and blew it away. He absently rubbed his chest where the hair had been and the corner of his mouth twitched. Loneliness grew in him, threatening to break his controls. This is the way it's going to be from now on, he told himself. Where in hell was the servant the agent had promised? he wondered impatiently, seizing on any pretext to take his mind off himself.

He looked down across rocky, precipitous ground to the sea. He couldn't even get down to take a swim. Down maybe, but it would be hell getting up again. Well, that was something to do to pass the time. He could hack out some steps down to the sea. A private beach. His mother would approve. The Vanderholdens liked to feel they owned things that were generally considered part of the public domain, like the sea or a city park. He turned abruptly and went back to a bedroom to unpack his bag. The effort of hanging up his light summer clothes brought sweat streaming from him and he took off his trousers. Even in jockey shorts, he felt heavily dressed. He had begun to gather up his shirts when he heard a light step behind him. He turned, crouching on the floor over his bag. A girl was standing in the door.

The sun was bright behind her, so he couldn't see her face clearly but he saw that she was wearing a white blouse and a long full skirt that fell almost to the ground.

They remained motionless a moment, staring at each other like two startled young animals. Then Lance sprang up, snatching his dressing gown off the floor and pulling it around him.

“What is it?” he demanded, surprise making his voice harsh.

The girl took a timid step back into the light. He saw that she had a flat face, like the faces he had seen in Balinese drawings, round with great, wide-apart, almond eyes and a soft mouth whose lower lip was almost the same size and shape as the upper. Her black hair was drawn straight back and wound in plaits on the back of her head. She was not tall and her body, though not heavy, looked capable of hard work. She stood with her hands at her sides gazing at him steadily with wide eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked more mildly.
“Yo no hablo español.”

She spoke rapidly in Spanish and, seeing his look of blank incomprehension, beckoned him out onto the terrace and indicated a basket of provisions. She picked it up and led him into the kitchen where she set it down and spoke again. All her movements were slow and without sharp definition, as if she were saving her strength.

“Usted …”
Lance pointed at her and performed a complicated pantomime that included sweeping the floor, bending over the stove, and washing dishes. When he was finished he had created a meal, complete with messy pots.

She watched him with the simple wonder of a child and finally she laughed with a restraint that matched her movements. Her body didn't sway or contract. She uttered a series of high fluty sounds and then nodded, smiling at him, and said,
“Si.”
She looked awfully young to be a servant.

He wanted to say something friendly in welcome but he could think of no words, so he made a frustrated gesture and smiled.

“I can see it's going to be very stimulating, from a conversational point of view,” he said. “I'll go finish unpacking.” She received this information with unblinking attention and remained standing beside her basket of provisions until he had gone. He returned to his suitcase feeling a little less lost.

His unpacking completed, he returned to the terrace wrapped in Flip Rawls's sarong. He sat on the parapet, his knees up, clasped in his arms, his chin resting on them, watching the kitchen door like some odd, passionate, brooding god. Whenever a pot clattered or fat hissed over the fire, a reluctant smile played across his lips at the thought of the child performing her grownup chores. Eventually she emerged bearing a steaming dish. Lance sprang up and stood over her as she set it down on the table where a place had been set for one.