This time I really would disappear, without a trace. No one at all would know where I was, not even Sam, not even Arthur. This time I would be free completely; no shreds of the past would cling to me, no clutching fingers. I could do anything I wanted, I could be a hostess in a bar, I could return to Toronto and give body rubs, maybe that was what I should have done. Or I could merge into Italy, marry a vegetable man: we'd live in a little stone cottage, I'd have babies and fatten up, we'd eat steamy food and cover our bodies with oil, we'd laugh at death and live in the present, I'd wear my hair in a bun and grow a moustache, I'd have a bibbed apron, green, with flowers on it. Everything would be ordinary, I'd go to church on Sundays, we'd drink rough red wine, I'd become an aunt, a grandmother, everyone would respect me.
Somehow this was not convincing. Why did every one of my fantasies turn into a trap? In this one I saw myself climbing out a window, in my bibbed apron and bun, oblivious to the cries of the children and grandchildren behind me. I might as well face it, I thought, I was an artist, an escape artist. I'd sometimes talked about love and commitment, but the real romance of my life was that between Houdini and his ropes and locked trunk; entering the embrace of bondage, slithering out again. What else had I ever done?
This thought did not depress me. In fact, although I was frightened, I was feeling curiously light-hearted. Danger, I realized, did this to me.
I washed my hair, humming, as if I were getting ready for a big evening. A lot of the brown came out, but I no longer cared.
I padded out onto the balcony on my wet bare feet to dry my hair. There was a breeze; far below in the valley I could hear gunshots, it must've been someone shooting at a bird. They'd shoot anything that moved here, almost, they ate the songbirds in pies. All that music devoured by mouths. Eyes and ears were also hungry, but not so obviously. From now on, I thought, I would dance for no one but myself. May I have this waltz? I whispered.
I raised myself onto my bare toes and twirled around, tentatively at first. The air filled with spangles. I lifted my arms and swayed them in time to the gentle music, I remembered the music, I remembered every step and gesture. It was a long way down to the ground from here; I was a little dizzy. I closed my eyes. Wings grew from my shoulders, an arm slid around my waist....
Shit. I'd danced right through the broken glass, in my bare feet too. Some butterfly. I limped into the main room, trailing bloody footprints and looking for a towel. I washed my feet in the bathtub; the soles looked as if they'd been minced. The real red shoes, the feet punished for dancing. You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man. But you were afraid to dance, because you had this unnatural fear that if you danced they'd cut your feet off so you wouldn't be able to dance. Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance.
But I chose the love, I wanted the good man; why wasn't that the right choice? I was never a dancing girl anyway. A bear in an arena only appears to dance, really it's on its hind legs trying to avoid the arrows. And now I didn't have any Band-Aids. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, tears running helplessly from my eyes, blood running helplessly from the tiny cuts in my feet.
I went into the other room and lay down on the bed, feet raised on the pillow so the blood would run the other way. How could I escape now, on my cut feet?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
After a couple of hours I got up. My feet weren't as bad as I'd thought, I could still walk. I practiced limping, back and forth across the room. At every step I took, small pains shot through my feet. The Little Mermaid rides again, I thought, the big mermaid rides again.
I would have to walk up to town, hobbling through the gauntlet of old women, who would make horns with their hands, tell the children to throw stones, wish me bad luck. What did they see, the eyes behind those stone-wall windows? A female monster, larger than life, larger than most life around here anyway, striding down the hill, her hair standing on end with electrical force, volts of malevolent energy shooting from her fingers, her green eyes behind her dark tourist's glasses, her dark mafia glasses, lit up and glowing like a cat's. Look out, old black-stockinged sausage women, or I'll zap you, in spite of your evil-eye signs and muttered prayers to the saints. Did they think I flew around at night like a moth, drinking blood from their big toes? If I got a black dress and long black stockings, then would they like me?
Maybe my mother didn't name me after Joan Crawford after all, I thought; she just told me that to cover up. She named me after Joan of Arc, didn't she know what happened to women like that? They were accused of witchcraft, they were roped to the stake, they gave a lovely light; a star is a blob of burning gas. But I was a coward, I'd rather not win and not burn, I'd rather sit in the grandstand eating my bag of popcorn and watch along with everyone else. When you started hearing voices you were in trouble, especially if you believed them. The English cheered as Joan went up like a volcano, a rocket, like a plum pudding. They sprinkled the ashes on the river; only her heart remained.
I walked up the hill, past the black-dressed old women on the steps, ignoring their hostile eyes, and along the street that led to the post office. The policemen or soldiers were in their places; the massive woman behind the counter was there, too.
She knew who I was by now, I didn't have to ask. She handed me another of Sam's brown envelopes. It felt like more newspaper clippings, so I tore it open.
There were more clippings; but on top of them was a letter, on crisp law-office stationery:
Dear Miss Delacourt:
My client, Mr. Sam Spinsky, has requested me to send you the enclosed. He feels there might be something you could do to help him in his present predicament. He has instructed me not to reveal your whereabouts until further notice.
The signature a scrawl; and underneath the letter,
POETESS FEARED SLAIN
IN TERRORIST PURGE!
Forgetting decorum, I sat down on the bench, right beside a policeman. This was terrible. Sam and Marlene had been arrested for murder, they'd been accused of murdering me, they were actually in jail. For a fleeting moment I thought how pleased Marlene would be; but then, she'd be quite cheesed off that I was the cause and not some strike or demonstration. Still, jail was jail. They hadn't told yet, that much was clear.
It was that family on the beach, the one having the picnic. They'd watched me thrashing around in the water, they'd seen me go under. They'd read the account in the paper, the interview with Marlene in which she said they'd thrown me a life preserver. But there was no life preserver, and when the police checked with the boat-rental place they admitted there hadn't even been one on the boat. They found my dress, though, in the bow; that made them suspicious. The family's name was Morgan. Mr. Morgan said he heard a scream (he couldn't have, it was too far away, it was too windy) and looked up in time to see Sam and Marlene leaning over the side of the boat, just after pushing me in. There was a picture of Mr. Morgan, as well as the picture of me, the smiling one taken on the day of my death. Mr. Morgan looked serious and responsible; he was having the time of his life, he was important at last, he was acting out his own fantasy.
Poor Sam. By now he'd had his pockets emptied and his shoelaces taken away, he'd had louse-killer put on him and a finger stuck up his anus. He'd been grilled by two detectives, one acting kind and offering him cigarettes and coffee, the other bullying him, and all because of my stupidity, my cowardice. I should have stayed where I was and faced reality. Poor gentle Sam, with his violent theories; he wouldn't hurt a fly.
I was referred to as a "key figure" in a mysterious dynamite plot. Marlene's father, apparently, had come forward with information about some missing dynamite, and Marlene had broken down and admitted to taking it. But she couldn't produce it. I'd been in charge of it, she told them; and she told them about the secondhand car too, but they hadn't been able to locate it. The police were assuming that what they referred to as Sam's "cell" had liquidated me because I k
new too much and was becoming traitorous. Arthur had been taken in for questioning, but later released. It was obvious he was both innocent and ignorant.
I'd have to go back and rescue them. I couldn't go back. Maybe I could send the police a token part of me, just to let them know I was still alive. A finger, an autograph, a tooth?
I got up off the bench, stuffing the clippings into my purse. I went outside and headed toward the hill. Then I saw Mr. Vitroni. He was sitting at an outdoor cafe table. There was another man with him. I couldn't see him clearly, his back was toward me, but surely this was the man. Come back a day too soon.
Mr. Vitroni had seen me, he was looking straight at me. I hurried across the square, I was almost running. I made myself slow down. I looked behind only once, and Mr. Vitroni was getting up, shaking hands with the man....
I turned the corner and began to run in earnest. I must be calm, I must be collected, I must collect myself. My cut feet screamed as they hit the stones.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I finally reached the balcony. The sun was sinking, the balcony was bright with sunlit glass, broken and sharp like fire. In the plate-glass window my reflection ran beside me, the face dark, the hair standing out around my head, a red nimbus.
I unlocked the door and went in. There was no one inside, not yet, I still had time.... I hadn't seen him clearly. Perhaps I could elude him. I'd wait until he was walking along the balcony; then I'd slip into the bathroom and bolt the door. While he was trying to get in, I could climb up on the toilet and squeeze through the tiny window.
I went into the bathroom to look at the window. It was too small, I'd get stuck. I didn't want to be either arrested or interviewed halfway out a window. It was too undignified.
Perhaps I could hide among the artichokes. Perhaps I could run down the hill, perhaps I could disappear and never be found. But if I ran I would simply be caught, sooner or later. Instead I was going to defend myself. I refused to go back. I went into the kitchen and got the empty Cinzano bottle out of the garbage can, grasping it by the neck.
I crouched behind the door, out of sight of the window, and waited. Time passed; nothing happened. Perhaps I'd been wrong, perhaps that hadn't been the right man. Or maybe there was no man at all, Mr. Vitroni had made him up in order to frighten me. I began to be restless. It struck me that I'd spent too much of my life crouching behind closed doors, listening to the voices on the other side.
The door itself was ordinary enough. Through the glass pane at the top I could see a small piece of the outside world: blue sky, some grayish-pink clouds.
It was noon when she entered the maze. She was determined to penetrate its secret at last. It had been a hazard for too long. Several times she had requested Redmond to have it torn down, but he would not listen. It had been in his family for generations, he said. It did not seem to matter to him that so many had been lost in it.
She made several turnings without incident. It was necessary to remember the way she had come, and she attempted to do this, memorizing small details, the shape of a bush, the color of a flower. The pathway was freshly graveled; here and there daffodils were in bloom.
Suddenly she found herself in the central plot. A stone bench ran along one side, and on it were seated four women. Two of them looked a lot like her, with red hair and green eyes and small white teeth. The third was middle-aged, dressed in a strange garment that ended halfway up her calves, with a ratty piece of fur around her neck. The last was enormously fat. She was wearing a pair of pink tights and a short pink skirt covered with spangles. From her head sprouted two antennae, like a butterfly's, and a pair of obviously false wings was pinned to her back. Felicia was surprised at the appearance of the woman in pink, but was too well bred to show it.
The women murmured among themselves. "We were expecting you," they said; the first one shifted over, making room for her. "We could tell it was your turn."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"We are Lady Redmond," said the middle-aged woman sadly. "All of us," the fat woman with the wings added.
"There must be some mistake," Felicia protested. "I myself am Lady Redmond."
"Oh, yes, we know," said the first woman. "But every man has more than one wife. Sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time, sometimes ones he doesn't even know about."
"How did you get here?" Felicia asked. "Why can't you go back to the outside world?"
"Back?" said the first woman. "We have all tried to go back. That was our mistake." Felicia looked behind her, and indeed the pathway by which she had entered was now overgrown with branches; she could not even tell where it had been. She was trapped here with these women.... And wasn't there something peculiar about them? Wasn't their skin too white, weren't their eyes too vague ...? She noticed that she could see the dim outline of the bench through their tenuous bodies.
"The only way out," said the first woman, "is through that door."
She looked at the door. It was at the other side of the graveled plot, affixed to a doorframe but otherwise unsupported. She walked all the way around it: it was the same from both sides. It had a plain surface and a doorknob; there was a small pane of glass at the top, through which she could see blue sky and some grayish-pink clouds.
She took hold of the doorknob and turned it. The door unlocked and swung outward.... There, standing on the threshold, waiting for her, was Redmond. She was about to throw herself into his arms, weeping with relief, when she noticed an odd expression in his eyes. Then she knew. Redmond was the killer. He was a killer in disguise, he wanted to murder her as he had murdered his other wives.... Then she would always have to stay here with them, at the center of the maze.... He wanted to replace her with the other one, the next one, thin and flawless....
"Don't touch me," she said, taking a step backward. She refused to be doomed. As long as she stayed on her side of the door she would be safe. Cunningly, he began his transformations, trying to lure her into his reach. His face grew a white gauze mask, then a pair of mauve-tinted spectacles, then a red beard and moustache, which faded, giving place to burning eyes and icicle teeth. Then his cloak vanished and he stood looking at her sadly; he was wearing a turtle-neck sweater....
"Arthur?" she said. Could he ever forgive her?
Redmond resumed his opera cloak. His mouth was hard and rapacious, his eyes smoldered. "Let me take you away," he whispered. "Let me rescue you. We will dance together forever, always."
"Always," she said, almost yielding. "Forever." Once she had wanted these words, she had waited all her life for someone to say them.... She pictured herself whirling slowly across a ballroom floor, a strong arm around her waist....
"No," she said. "I know who you are."
The flesh fell away from his face, revealing the skull behind it; he stepped towards her, reaching for her throat....
I opened my eyes. I could hear footsteps coming down the gravel path. They were real footsteps, they were on the balcony. They stopped outside the door. A hand knocked gently, once, twice.
I still had options. I could pretend I wasn't there. I could wait and do nothing. I could disguise my voice and say that I was someone else. But if I turned the handle the door would unlock and swing outward, and I would have to face the man who stood waiting for me, for my life.
I opened the door. I knew who it would be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I didn't really mean to hit him with the Cinzano bottle. I mean, I meant to hit someone, but it wasn't personal. I'd never seen him before in my life, he was a complete stranger. I guess I just got carried away: he looked like someone else....
And I certainly didn't think I would knock him out like that; I suppose it's a case of not knowing your own strength. I felt terrible about it, especially when I saw the blood. I couldn't just leave him there, he might have had a concussion or bled to death, so I got Mr. Vitroni to call a doctor. I said I thought this man was trying to break into the house. Luckily he was out cold, so he couldn't contrad
ict me.
It was nice of him not to press charges when he came to. At first I thought it was only because he wanted the story: reporters are like that. I talked too much, of course, but I was feeling nervous. I guess it will make a pretty weird story, once he's written it; and the odd thing is that I didn't tell any lies. Well, not very many. Some of the names and a few other things, but nothing major. I suppose I could still have gotten out of it. I could have said I had amnesia or something.... Or I could have escaped; he wouldn't have been able to trace me. I'm surprised I didn't do that, since I've always been terrified of being found out. But somehow I couldn't just run off and leave him all alone in the hospital with no one to talk to; not after I'd almost killed him by mistake.
It must have been a shock for him to wake up in bed with seven stitches, though. I felt quite guilty about that. His coat was a mess, too, but I told him it would come out in the dry cleaning. I offered to pay for it but he wouldn't let me. I took him some flowers instead; I couldn't find any roses so they were yellow things, sort of like sunflowers. They were a little wilted, I said maybe he could get the nurse to put them in water for him. He seemed pleased.
It was good of him to lend me the plane fare. I'll pay it back once I'm organized again. The first thing is to get Sam and Marlene out of jail, I owe it to them. It was Sam's lawyer that gave away the fact that I was still alive; I shouldn't hold it against him, he was just doing his job. And I'll have to see Arthur, though I'm not looking forward to it, all those explanations and his expression of silent outrage. After the story comes out he'll know the truth anyway. He loved me under false pretenses, so I shouldn't feel too rejected when he stops. I don't think he's even gotten my postcard yet, I forgot to send it air mail.
After that, well, I don't have any definite plans. I'll feel like an idiot with all the publicity, but that's nothing new. They'll probably say my disappearance was some kind of stunt, a trick.... I won't write any more Costume Gothics, though; I think they were bad for me. But maybe I'll try some science fiction. The future doesn't appeal to me as much as the past, but I'm sure it's better for you. I keep thinking I should learn some lesson from all of this, as my mother would have said.
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