The Self-Enchanted (17 page)

T
hey landed at Hong Kong on a Monday. Sally looked across the narrowing stretch of water, and saw rushing at her the snores of another
continent
, and of another world, beautiful, misty, and crowded, a world in which both she and Christopher would be strangers. Even Christopher seemed to look down with a singular thoughtfulness. She watched the sampans in the harbour. As the boat came to dock all the beauty vanished and she found herself staring at tiers of shattered tenements, full of the squalor of bad smells, and at an endless crowd of swarming hands and faces.

“It frightens me,” she said, feeling for the first time the full weight of Asia. “They look at you so, and yet it’s as though you didn’t exist.”

*

It was afternoon before they cleared through the
customs
, and were skimming across the Canton river, so wide that she did not realize that it was the mouth of a river at all. Christopher hung on the rail, watching the water lessen between them and the farther shore. In the late afternoon light the blue and purple ridges softened into graduated silhouettes, like those of a Chinese painting.

“Only
a little while now,” said Christopher, his face turned towards the shore. He seemed to have got back his energy. Looking at him, she could not believe that he was ill. The air was fresh, but capricious. It made her feel better and tousled his hair. She knew he was enjoying himself. He looked at her with a quick smile. But he was preoccupied. He was watching the approach of the city through the diffused air. It was late. The city was mauve and ochre and somehow touching, a clutter of tenements and baroque churches among the miniature mountains of its green hills. It seemed a faraway, romantic place, oddly affectionate and very near. But she was scared.

It was evening when they landed. Once more they had to pass through the officials. They were held up for a long time. And then, at last, they were in Macao.

He sat in the car as they drove down the Praia Grande, a long street beside the water and magnificent in the twilight. Far out to sea she could see the smudged shapes of junks whose tall sails moved languidly against the horizon.

“Are you still frightened?” he asked.

“No,” she said, but she was. She was afraid of the awful flat-faced crowds, for this was not an East she had ever imagined, all poetry and pagodas. It was an East as squalid and deformed as Naples.

The ride was a short one, and they soon drew up before the hotel. It was the Bella Vista, and she looked eagerly about the lobby. She would have been happy even to see Mrs. Carter, but she saw no face she recognized.

They went upstairs and were shown to their suite. It was luxurious but not comfortable. She could sense Macao throbbing around them in the hostile night, and she felt as though the floor was slipping from under her.

But the hotel was attractive. They had dinner together on the terrace, which projected out over the water. There was a Filipino dance band, and the waiters were
obsequiously
efficient. She looked out across the harbour in the dim starlight, at the mysterious boats gliding along the waters, while the band played a song a year old, and felt better. Christopher was in a good mood. “I think we’ll enjoy it here,” he said.

She was not so sure, but she said “yes”. She noticed that he did not touch his wineglass, and that throughout the meal he drank only water. She said nothing, but she noticed it. And it obscurely bothered her.

When they went to bed, she found herself listening for a repetition of that night scene on the boat. She was powerless to help. She turned over on her stomach, while outside she could hear the band still playing its inane music and the noise of people in the streets. Far off there was the sound of shouting.

*

During the next few weeks Christopher was busy. He vanished into the town every day and for long hours she was alone. She stood on the balcony of her room, which did not face the harbour, but the street, and watched the life of Macao swarm up and down below her.

One day when she was coming down the staircase she saw a familiar figure below her, at the desk in the lobby, talking to the clerk. It was Mrs. Carter. Sally hesitated and drew back. When she went downstairs later Mrs. Carter had gone. She asked at the desk if any message had been left for her, but none had. She did not mention it to Christopher, who seemed tired when he came back that evening.

“Couldn’t you take a day off?” she asked. “We could see the town, and I’ve been so lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you like we’ll go to-morrow. I’ll make the time. We’ll see everything.”

*

It was a long time since she had spent a whole day with him. Once the thought would have terrified her. Now she looked forward to it eagerly. She was afraid that
something
would go wrong and that they would not be able to go. But nothing did. They started out after ten, and drove to the Chinese wall, which was supposed to help control the smuggling, but didn’t.

“Have you been through it?” she asked.

“That’s not my end of it.”

She looked at the solid wall and its gate. “I’d like to see China,” she told him.

They passed the old English playing field and the race track. They went to the Grotto of Camoens, as dispiriting as any provincial copy of the Grotto at Lourdes, but
somehow
fresher and more innocent. The Portuguese never go outdoors. The Chinese life was alien to them and eddied around them. Almost they might not have been there at all. They drove through the narrow, crooked streets, with their toppling buildings held up by old beams, and past the gutted ruins of the cathedral. He had the driver stop at one of the shops and together they went inside. It bewildered her, but she was fascinated.

“Christopher,” she said at last, “he has the most wonderful silks.”

But Christopher was not there. Probably he had stepped out for a minute. She looked at the silks, bolts and bolts
of them, iridescent and plain, rippling, gleaming, caressing to the touch, and the Chinaman brought out more and more. She had never seen material so lovely. She wanted all of them. She looked around again for
Christopher
, and the Chinaman nodded towards the door, beaming at her. She went outside and saw Christopher standing in the midst of a group of Chinese children who were jumping up and down, laughing and shouting at him, while he held huge sheets of the oversized Portuguese money in his hand.

“Christopher, whatever are you doing?”

He jumped, taken unawares, and handed the children the money. All of them ran away except one boy with a solemn face and hair splaying out in all directions from the centre of his head, who clung to Christopher, saying nothing, while Christopher played with his hair.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” he said.

“They just wanted your money.”

“This one didn’t. I think he likes me.”

“He’s scared,” said Sally.

Christopher squatted down on his heels and looked at the child, who stared back at him solemnly. “Are you scared?” he asked. “Are you really? There’s nothing to be frightened of.” The little boy smiled up at him, and Christopher turned to Sally. “They’re like flowers,” he said. “I’d like to take this one home. He’s a regular prince.”

He stooped to the boy again, feeling his cheek with his hand, and the boy drew away restively. Christopher laughed and felt in his pocket. “Here,” he said. “Now run home.” He gave the boy a soft smack on the behind. The boy took the money dubiously, and stood with his
feet apart, looking at Christopher. Then, giggling, he took off down the street as fast as he could run.

Christopher looked after him, and then got up, brushed off his knees, and looked at Sally apologetically. She wondered suddenly if they could have a child. She would have detested the idea once, but now she did not know. They stood there, looking at one another in silence, and she had seldom seen his eyes
so soft before. She wanted to comfort him.

“What did you want?” he asked.

“Oh,” she stammered, trying to remember, and reluctant to do so. “The Chinaman. He has some silks.”

Christopher put his hands in his pockets. “Okay,” he said. “Suppose we go in and have a look at them.”

*

She found that she could not forget the image of Christopher with those Chinese children. They had been such beautiful children, like pale and harmless blossoms. She could not forget how he had looked at them.

She had never thought much about children. Now, for the first time, she felt a yearning for them, for she knew now that she wanted a child by him, a son who would be like him. But more than that, she wanted to give him what he wanted. If she had a child, she could face the future again. And so, through the child, could
Christopher
.

She lay in silence, hearing him thrash and toss in the next room, like an animal trying to escape. She got up, barefoot, and tiptoed across to his room. He was sitting up in bed, his body tense. He looked at her without seeing her. She saw his pupils were contracted. She wondered
what he had been waiting for, sitting there vigilantly in his bed.

“Christopher,” she said. “You’ve got to see a doctor. You’re killing yourself. You’re killing me.”

He did not seem to notice. She stood in the doorway, shivering, seeing everything in the room: the way the blanket was folded, the way the sheet was turned back, the exact shape of the gilt leg of a chair. Christopher made an effort to pull himself together.

“I’m all right,” he said sullenly. “I took some medicine.”

“Christopher, I can hear you at night.” He did not answer, but only stared at her from an immense drugged distance. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked.

“It’s just the medicine. Please leave me alone.”

“You won’t let me call a doctor?”

“No,” he shouted, but the shout seemed to come from under water. There was nothing else for her to do, so she went back to her own room.

When she woke up he was standing over her bed and it was morning. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said. He seemed uneasy and harassed, as though he had just so long to get somewhere. “It isn’t anything serious, really. I’ve been taking a prescription. I got it in San Francisco.” He sat down on the bed and put his arms around her, but he was shaking. Then he drew back and she sat up. His handkerchief was loose in his breast pocket and she pulled it out to rearrange it. As she did so, something fell on the bed and she could feel him stiffen. She picked it
up. It was a child’s St
.
Christopher medal on a chain, very small and worn.

“Where on earth did that come from?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I found it in a suitcase. I’d forgotten I had it.”

She knew he was lying, but she did not want to ask him about it right now.

“I thought we’d take the day off,” he said. “Would you like that?” He looked at her wistfully. “We could go to the Central Hotel and watch the English gamble.” He hesitated. “You shouldn’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m all right.”

She realized that he did not want to be looked at, and that he was, in some way, ashamed of having come in to her. When he had gone out she got dressed and they went down to breakfast.

The terrace was agreeable, and if she had not been so painfully aware that Christopher was making a special effort, she would have been charmed. All before them, in the broad light of day, stretched the bay of Macao, dotted with pleasure boats and sampans. A slow tramp steamer went towards the open sea, surrounded by junks, and in the distance rose the mountains, one behind the other, suffused through the friendly air into a thousand different shades of blue and green and grey. From their table she could see the soft undulating hills. She had a feeling that if she and Christopher could both get to them everything would be all right.

They did not go to the Central Hotel until about
four-thirty
in the afternoon, and by then she was sure that they had seen every dive in Macao. The crowds still bothered her. They were so large and Macao was so small. When they got inside the gaming room Christopher drew back.

“Your friend Mrs. Carter seems to be exercising her profession,” he said. “She’s at the three-dice table.”

Just then Mrs. Carter looked up. “Darling,” she said. She scooped up her chips and came across to meet them. “How wonderful to see you. I called at the hotel, but you weren’t there. I left a message. Didn’t you get it?”

“No,” said Sally.

Mrs. Carter looked at her mendaciously. “Clerks are so inefficient,” she said. “Oh, this couldn’t be better. I knew I’d bump into you eventually: Macao is so small. Are you amused? I hope not.”

“What?” asked Sally, slightly bewildered.

“I said I hope not. Because you see I want you to come on the picnic. I’ve met the most charming people. A colonel and Mrs. Blair, from Marion, Arkansas, but charming. And we’re all going on a picnic, and I would so like you to come.”

Christopher stood restively beside Sally.

“Do say you will,” said Mrs. Carter, smiling brightly at Christopher. “We’re going to the Chinese cemetery. It’s outside the wall, you know. Colonel Blair got us a pass, and we’re all going for a funeral. I’m told the Chinese eat at funerals anyway, so it won’t be
sacrilegious
, will it? I think a picnic in China would be thrilling. It seems such a shame to be so close, and yet not see China.”

“Couldn’t we?” begged Sally, looking at Christopher.

He was looking at Mrs. Carter without favour. “Yes,” he said. “If you want, we could probably manage it. And you could always go, even if I couldn’t.”

“There, you see,” said Mrs. Carter. “We’ll call for you to-morrow at about twelve.” With a sidelong glance at Christopher she made ready to go. “I’m just mad about gambling,” she said. “I’d no idea it was such fun.”

“I’m sure you hadn’t,” agreed Christopher. He seemed abstracted.

*

He and Sally went back to the hotel. After dinner he shut himself up in his room, and she could hear him on the phone. She went downstairs alone and listened to the orchestra. After a while he joined her, somewhat to her surprise.