The Wrong Venus (2 page)

“I can feel it,” he said.

“You can feel it? I can tell what time it stopped.”

They flew upright again. This time Colby managed to execute a turn step before they were plastered against the door once more, so his back was against it.

She pulled her face out of his shoulder and turned it up to look at him. “If you have a free hand, would you see if you can pull my skirt down?”

Colby reached down and tugged, but it was caught between them. “I’m sorry. Maybe on the next step across. . . .”

“Well, I suppose at least we could introduce ourselves. I’m Martine Randall.”

“How do you do? My name’s Lawrence Colby.”

“I’m sorry about the lipstick on your chest.”

“That’s all right—” The plane topped out and yawed again. They took a step off the door and then back against it. “Is your skirt all right now?” he asked.

“I think so. I don’t feel tweed any more.”

“Is it Mrs. Randall, or Miss Randall?”

“I’m divorced.”

“So am I.”

The plane was on an even keel for a few seconds. She removed one arm from around his neck and shoved her hand down between them. When it emerged she was holding the watch movement. She glanced at it. “Ten till eleven,” she said. “I’ll probably look like a stamped timecard the rest of my life.”

One of the watches began to buzz in the vest, which was lying on the floor under the washbasin. Colby glanced at his own watch and felt the chill along his nerves again. They were due in London in twenty-five minutes, and so far they’d stopped two of them.

But maybe they were out of the turbulence. The plane continued to bore straight ahead. They untangled themselves and he grabbed up the vest. In a moment they had evolved a system. She pushed them out of the pockets, Colby bit off the plastic bag, dropped the latter in the towel disposal, dipped the watch movement in the crème de menthe, handed it back to her, and she returned it to the vest. They worked swiftly and in silence. He counted . . . ten . . . thirty . . . forty-five . . . sixty. . . .

Twenty minutes to London.

The plane slammed into another wall of turbulence. It shot forward and to the right, and they were against the door again. “Damn!” Colby said.

“And just when we were doing so beautifully—”

The knob rattled, and on the other side of the door a feminine voice called out, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you to return to your seats—” There was a horrified gasp, and then the voice went on, “You can’t be in there
together!”

“Why not?” Colby asked. “It doesn’t say so.”

“Of course not, but everybody knows—”

That was just what they needed, he thought—a refresher course in
la différence
while the plane continued to zero in on London at four hundred miles an hour. Why the hell did she have to be passing the John at that particular moment?

The knob rattled again. “Open the door immediately, or I shall have to call the First Officer!”

The plane steadied for a moment. “I’ll get rid of her,” Martine whispered in his ear. Snatching up the vest, she shoved it in his hand and motioned for him to drop it behind the chemical toilet. As he straightened and turned, facing her and the door again, she winked,’ opened her mouth wide, and put her hand on her stomach with a grimace of pain. Then she reached around in back and unlatched the door, which flew open. It was the short, red-haired stewardess, the one who looked Scottish, bristling with Presbyterian outrage. Colby opened his mouth and groaned. It was happening a little fast for him, but that seemed to be what she’d meant.

The stewardess gasped again, staring at his naked chest, or as much of it as was visible past Martine Randall.

“Wider,” Martine ordered, peering intently into the back of his mouth. Colby repeated the groan, with his hand pressed to his lower abdomen. He hoped this was where the pain was supposed to be. She tilted his head a little, as though for better light. “Strange . . . very strange. . . .”

“Really!”

“. . . certainly no evidence of Barker’s syndrome,” Martine went on. Then, as though aware of the stewardess for the first time, she snapped, “Yes, yes, what is it? Must you stand there yammering?”

“This gentleman cannot be in here with his clothes off!”

Martine turned with a withering glance. “Do you expect him to take them off out in the cabin? Don’t just stand there, bring me an electric torch and a spoon.”

“What—? What for?”

Martine sighed. “My dear girl, I asked for a torch and a spoon on the assumption that you do not have a laryngoscope aboard your aircraft. In the event that I have underestimated its facilities, please accept my apologies, and bring the laryngoscope instead. And quickly—”

The stewardess began to look uncertain. “You’re a physician?”

“Bravo, that’s a good girl. . . . Smartly, now—”

“But what’s wrong with him? He looks all right.”

“My dear, I’m sure the airline wouldn’t want to add the burden of medical diagnosis to your other—”

The plane lurched. The stewardess shot inward and the door slammed shut behind her. Colby was against the outer wall, now with two girls suspended from his neck. Somewhere under him, in the vest hidden behind the toilet, a watch buzzed its rattlesnake warning, and the stewardess spoke with Britannic firmness into his throat. “Really, I must insist that you return to your seats.” There would always be an England, Colby thought. Not to mention Switzerland.

The plane shot upward. Martine peeled off and sat down on the toilet seat. Colby and his new partner came over against the door, and then upright again. The door flew open. It was the Frenchwoman from the seat behind them. She took in Colby’s naked shoulders and the stewardess clasped in his arms. Her eyes rolled to heaven.
“Alors . . . les anglais!”

The Sikh appeared in the passageway behind her. Oh, no, Colby thought, not two more! “
Ne restez pas—”
he began, when the plane staggered to port and the door scooped them in. It was like a valve, he thought, or the entrance to a lobster pot. His face was full of beard now like a burst carton of shredded wheat, and upward through this foliage came cries of,
“Lâchez-moi! Lâchez-moi!”
and another fateful buzzing from the vest. He closed his eyes. There was no longer any hope.

The plane lurched, but there was no danger now of being thrown from side to side; they were too tightly wedged.

“Lâchez-moi! Ouvrez la porte, espèce de chameau—!

“Ouvrez-la vous-même,”
Colby said.
“Vous êtes plus près.”

The Sikh had somehow taken a phrase book from the breast pocket of his jacket and was holding it over his head.
“Pouvez-vous me dire,”
he asked,
“où se trouve le cabinet de toilette?”

“Just follow the crowds,” Colby said into the beard. “You can’t miss it.”

“Oh, you are English.”

“American. . . . Can anybody reach the doorknob?”

“Au secours! Au secours!”

“Really, you must return to your seats—”

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz—!

“I can feel it,” the Sikh replied. “It is in the middle of my back. ... It is urgent that I find the W.C.”

“Well, hang on, for Christ’s sake. . . . Try to reach the knob—”

“I cannot—”

“You cannot reach the knob, or you cannot hang on?”

“To the rescue!” It was the Frenchwoman; she must have a phrase book of her own. “I am menaced by English ravishers.”

“He certainly is not English,” the stewardess disclaimed, speaking into the other side of his throat. “He’s an American.”

“Comment?”

“Il n’est pas anglais—”

It would be a great place for Berlitz to open a branch, Colby thought, if they could squeeze in. He could feel Martine behind him, pulling herself up along his right arm. “Can’t anybody reach the door?” he pleaded.

She was erect behind him now, leaning on his shoulder. “I’m going to try,” she said.

“Quoi encore?”
demanded the Frenchwoman, hearing this new voice.
“Y a-t-il une autre femme? D’où vient-elle?”

“She was sitting on the toilet,” the stewardess explained. “Excuse me—I mean,
elle était assise—”

“Alors . . . les anglais!”

“It’s all right,” Martine reassured the stewardess. “Don’t back down an inch. I’m American, too.”

Even in all this madness, Colby was conscious of surprise. He’d thought she was English. He felt her lips against his ear, and she whispered, “Don’t put it back on. I’ve got another idea.”

“So have I,” he said. “Ditch it.” Losing all that money was better than going to prison.

“No. . . . But bring it out under your jacket.”

“If I ever get the jacket on again.”

“I think I can make it to the door, across the top.” Her voice came from above him now, and he realized that she had stepped up on the toilet. “If the two of you will hold me.”

“It is of the utmost urgency—“ the Sikh began.

“Hang on! Hang on!” Colby said. “The cavalry’s coming.” He gestured upward and behind him. “Pass her across, and she’ll reach down behind you and turn the knob.”

Her weight was on his shoulder. He caught her under the arms and pushed up and outward until she was lying in a more or less horizontal plane across the top of the compartment above them.

“Almost there—” she gasped.

“J’ai l’mpression qu’il y a encore une autre femme, au plafond,”
the Frenchwoman remarked in a tone that denoted only mild wonder. The English were losing their ability to surprise her.

“On the ceiling?” the stewardess asked, somewhere under the beard. “Really, she must return to her seat.”

“I’ve got the knob,” Martine said. At the same moment, the door swung open and she was face to face with the First Officer, at a distance of some four inches. She smiled. “Oh, hello. . . .”

The latter paled, apparently having never opened a door on anything quite like it. Then, during that brief rupture of the thought process when the rational mind refuses to ingest the manifestly impossible, automatic good manners rushed in to fill the breach. “I am sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Martine said. “I was just coming out.”

This time the plane yawed to starboard. They all came out.

There was another rap on the door. "Really, you must hurry."

The plane banked. They were already commencing their approach. Colby fastened the collar and one other button of his shirt, knotted the tie, and yanked the sweater on over his head. He put on the tweed jacket, and reached down behind the chemical toilet for the vest. He could hear the ticking itself now; all the remaining two hundred and forty were brimming with poisonous vitality and chewing their way into oncoming generations of time like an army of steel-mandibled termites. Great! Just great. Send for our Little Gem Watch-Smuggler’s Kit, and get into this big-paying field at once. Be the first in your neighborhood with prison pallor.

The plane turned again, and continued to lose altitude in their inexorable approach to the runways at London Airport and Her Majesty’s Customs officers. He had an impression of being poured down through some great funnel into a jug labeled Wormwood Scrubs, with no way to turn aside, or go back, or even to stop or slow down. He shoved the vest up inside the jacket, clamped it with an arm, and buttoned the jacket. As far as he could tell, it didn’t show.

He hurried out. Just as he started up the aisle, the plane went into another steep bank, and he had to cling to the back of a seat, conscious of all the furious activity against his ribs. With only ten minutes more, they’d have had it made.

The man in the seat glanced up. “I say, you don’t happen to have the time?” He gave an apologetic little smile. “My watch appears to have stopped.”

Colby stared down at him wordlessly, held out his watch so the man could see it, and lunged forward to his seat. His topcoat was lying in it. He grabbed it up, sat down, and fastened his belt. The plane was already dropping toward the end of the runway.

He leaned toward Martine, and whispered, “I’d better leave ‘em. Ditch ‘em under a seat—”

“Don’t be silly. I said I’d get you through Customs, didn’t I?” She was smiling, her eyes bright with excitement. “We’ll muffle them, to start with. Roll the vest in your topcoat, and then in this.” He noticed then that she had a fur coat across her lap. Apparently the stewardess had just returned it to her.

The plane touched down, bounced once, and began to decelerate. There was nobody in the aisle yet, and across from them the Sikh was looking out the window. Colby pulled the vest out, rolled it in the gabardine topcoat, and then in the fur, which he noted was natural mink. He wondered why she was doing it.

“Good,” she said. “Now, here’s the drill. Do you have a bag aboard the plane?”

“Yes.”

“No contraband in it?” Mirth welled up in the eyes again like bubbles in champagne. “No atom-bomb assemblies, dirty pictures, hashish . . . ?”

“No,” he replied.

“All right. Give me the check. I’ll claim it, along with mine, and you won’t have to get close to the Customs counter at all. You just carry the coats for us. Is there any chance they know you and may be watching for you?”

“No,” he said. “This is the first time.”

“Good. . . . The only two places that’ll be a little tricky will be going through passport control and past the guard at the exit from Customs.” She grinned, and held out a hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks a million. . . . But why are you doing it?”

The excitement showed in her eyes again. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

The plane came to rest. The engines died, and with them the rushing sound of the ventilating system. In the sudden silence, Colby held the bundled coats up across his chest, inclined his head, and listened. The ticking was well muffled, and sounded faint and far away. Their eyes met, and he was on the point of winking when one of the alarms went off with a buzz that would have been audible for ten feet. Sweat broke out on his face. Passengers were already pouring out into the aisle and going past them. There was no possibility of unwrapping the bundle now and disposing of the watches without being seen.

“Relax,” Martine said out of the corner of her mouth. “We can always create a diversion.”

He stepped out into the aisle, feeling the sides of the funnel close in around him again. Just in front of them was the Frenchwoman, laden with a fur coat and an armful of packages. As they passed the washroom, she tapped on the door, and said,
“Dépêche-toi, mon chéri.”

The boy emerged, the one who’d been reading the
Tintin
book. He was plucking at shreds of paper towel that appeared to be stuck to his fingers.

“England is a crazy country,” he said in French. “The water’s sticky, and smells like peppermint.”

“Quoi encore?”
The Frenchwoman snatched at his hand and sniffed.
“Alors . . . les anglais!”

Colby sighed. He’d forgotten to drain the crème de menthe from the basin, but it didn’t matter anyway. He’d either make it through the gauntlet ahead or he wouldn’t. They came down the ramp and started toward the entrance to the terminal building. There was still silence from inside the coats. The woman handed the boy one of the things she’d been carrying; Martine and Colby saw and recognized it at the same instant. It was a transistor radio. They looked at each other.

Colby turned to the boy with a beaming smile.
“Connais-tu les Beatles?”
He did a couple of bodily contortions he hoped approximated the writhings of Beatle fans, and snapped out a lively, “Yeah . . . yeah!”

“Attention! C’est le fou!”
the Frenchwoman warned, apparently on the point of clutching her son to her and running for police protection, but the seed had been planted. The boy had already switched on the radio and was turning the dial. The first station was a BBC program.

“... of course, this is merely one of the many ecological factors to be considered in any study of the distribution patterns of the bearded titmouse. . . .”

Sensing that this might not take him by the throat, Colby was on the point of springing forward to help him find something else when the boy turned the dial again and the radio erupted with guitar and voice.

“Ah!” Colby sighed with ecstasy and turned to Martine. “The Beatles!”

The boy looked at him with contempt. “Johnny Hallyday.”

“J’aime Johnny Hallyday,”
Colby said.

They were inside the terminal now, in the long line stretching up to the passport counter, Martine first, then Colby, the boy with his blaring radio, and his mother. More passengers entered the line behind them. They moved slowly ahead.

One of the watches chimed inside the coats—
ding . . . ding . . . ding—
but the sound was lost and all but inaudible under that from the radio. Colby turned and smiled at the boy, and beat time to the music with his hand.

Come on, Johnny, he prayed, keep laying it in there, kid.

Only ten now between them and the desk. Eight. The song cut off, and there was a short announcement in French. Colby held his breath. Music blared again. He sighed. Five more to go . . . four . . . two. . . .

Martine was tendering her passport to the man in the window. Colby had his out and ready. The music stopped, and a voice was speaking French. Colby, his nerves pulled tight, and only half listening to it, was vaguely aware it was a report on food prices at Les Halles.

Whack! Martine’s passport was stamped and handed back to her. Colby passed his in. He was squarely in front of the officer now.

“. . . entrecôte vingt-deux francs le kilo. . . .”

One of the watches began to chime—
ding . . . ding. . . .

“Zut!”
the boy said, and clicked off the radio.
Ding!
In the sudden and horrifying silence, it sounded like Big Ben.

“No—wait!” Colby whirled, plucked the radio from him, and snapped on the switch. The officer looked up curiously from his routine glance at the passport photograph. The radio came on, blaring. “This could be it!” Colby snapped.

“. . . haricots verts un franc dix le kilo, aubergine deux francs vingt le kilo . . .”

He listened, eyes narrowed, tense, modern man living in the shadow of the Bomb. “Everything could depend on this—!”

“On the price of eggplant?” the officer asked.

So they had to get one that spoke French. “I’m in the produce business,” he said.

“Odd. . . . Your passport says you’re a writer.”

“That’s right. I cover the European produce markets for the
Wall Street Journal.”

“Oh.” The officer shrugged and reached for his stamp. Always joking, these chaps. The watch stopped chiming. Colby sighed.

“Rendez la moi!”
The boy grabbed the radio, turned it off, and kicked him in the shin.
“Salaud!”

Whack! The officer stamped Colby’s passport and was handing it back.

One of the alarms cut loose.
Bzzzzzzzz!

“Darling!” Martine shrieked. “The Westrays! Over there!” She clutched his arm and waved toward the crowds beyond the barrier.

“Where?” Colby whirled, waved a frantic greeting, and roared, “Bill! You old sidewinder, you old polecat—!”

“Marge! . , . Yoo-hoo, Marge, darling—!”

He had the passport now, and they were hurrying on, still shouting.

“Alors . . . les anglais!”

“Américains, madame,”
the officer said.

In Customs, Colby stood well back on rubbery legs while she claimed the bags, told the officer there was nothing in them to declare, and that she'd brought in no gifts. She called a porter and turned them over to him.

“There remained only the guard at the door. She grinned at Colby. “Let’s go.”

They started out. When they were ten feet short of the doorway, too late to turn back without looking suspicious, one of the watches began to chime and another went off with a strident buzz, but she was between him and the guard, shouting:

“I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU BOUGHT THE STUPID HEARING AID IN THE FIRST PLACE IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO WEAR IT. DON’T BE SUCH AN IDIOT! LOTS OF YOUNG MEN ARE DEAF! YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE THROWN THE THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS DOWN A WELL FOR ALL THE GOOD IT DOES YOU!”

They were past.

His right eardrum might be permanently paralyzed, but they’d made it. He went on out of earshot of the guard and collapsed against a wall. With trembling fingers he lighted a cigarette, and when he looked around she was laughing. He began to laugh too.