Crowned Heads

by Thomas Tryon

  “It was after ten that night. I was reading in the only comfortable chair in the room, when I heard rapid footsteps in the road, then an impatient rapping on the door. I opened it and there stood Fedora. She was wearing a half-buttoned red shirt and a dark skirt, and looked disheveled. Quite out of breath, she stared at me without saying anything, then brushed by and came in, and stood pressing her crossed hands on her chest, as if trying to get control of herself. She hardly glanced at me, but gave the place the full once-over, and finally muttered, ‘I wondered what this place looked like.’ When she turned again I saw that her eyes were puffy, and I thought she must have been crying.

  “I said, ‘Would you like to sit down?’ but she didn’t want to. Just kept hovering, moving from the table to the window, and stopping to check the view. ‘The same as ours,’ she declared glumly. The spyglass was on the sill and she picked it up to inspect it, then put it down without saying anything; but she gave me a look, then took my reading chair and let her wicker basket fall beside her. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me something? You don’t make much effort, do you?’

  “‘I haven’t got much, unless you’d like some wine.’

  “‘What sort?’ She narrowed her eyes appraisingly. I brought a bottle from the refrigerator and showed her the label. She glanced at it, then produced a comb from the basket and began combing her hair. ‘It’s not Vouvray, if that’s what you still drink,’ I told her. She stopped combing for an instant and gave me another look, but different, more speculative, penetrating. I thought she was trying to figure how I’d come by that information.

  “‘Anything would be better than Greek wine. Greasy, don’t you think?’

  “I said I thought it was all right, and if she wanted me to open the bottle … She made one of those Fedora-imperial gestures, which I took for yes, then dropped the comb in the basket and made a show of settling back in the chair. She had deliberately pushed the lamp aside when she sat, as if the idea of light were repugnant to her, and it shone now not on her face, but on the red shirt. It was old and worn, shabby even; a button was missing on the placket, another on the flap; but I was sure it was the one I had brought to her in a cleaner’s bag in Paris.

  “‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  “‘I was just admiring your shirt.’

  “‘It’s very old. Very.’ She sniffed at the shoulder. ‘And smells.’ She idly drew the buttonless threads through her fingers. ‘Hardly something to admire. Admire me if you choose—here I am, à voire service, La Scandalosa in person. Look your fill. Do you find me ravishing? Ever young? La Déesse? No, say—you can be frank; one will not hold it against you.’ She turned her face, offering the fabulous profile to the light. The opportunity was irresistible, and at the risk of more hostility, I asked:

  “‘How do you do it?’

  “‘I am a sor-r-r-ceress; it is my single greatest piece of magic. Infallible. A trick, you see. One I was taught.’

  “‘Whose trick?’

  “She became secretive, put on her Mona Lisa smile, hoarding her mystery. ‘Somebody …’

  “‘They say—’

  “‘I know what they say. Emmanuel Vando—yes, a devilish magician. I am his handiwork, am I not? Exhibit Number One. But even a magician’s tricks can fail. The rabbit does not always pop out of the hat.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘But presto, see how the magician is unmasked as a fake…. I owe nobody in the world for anything.’

  “She waved away her cigarette smoke and helped herself to the bottle, but making a face to let me know the wine was not to her liking. Then she stubbed out her cigarette in the dish and wanted another. I fished out my pack and offered one. ‘I don’t smoke Camels anymore,’ I said, striking a match. Her puzzled look indicated that my cigarette preferences were of no concern to her, and her fingers clamped around my hand, positioning it exactly where she wanted it, and I could feel tremors along the length of her arm. ‘I hate those damn Greek things. Viola brought American ones, but they go fast. I have an allotment’

  “‘Who allots you—yourself?’

  “She jerked her head toward the wall. They do. They allot everything up there. Are your eyes troubling you?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘Then stop with that squinting at me. One is not something to be squinted at.’

  “I had in fact been doing just that, trying to get a mental purchase—not on a woman in my chair, but on the legend of all my years, the ‘perfect work of art.’

  “I said, ‘You just said you didn’t owe anybody in the world for anything….’

  “She lolled her head back, smoking and drinking her wine, hardly interested in what I was saying. ‘I don’t,’ she replied airily.

  “‘But you do, you see.’ I bent closer with what I considered my most winning manner. ‘You owe me for a pack of Camels.’

  “She made a little ruffle of derision with her lips. ‘I have smoked only two. They’re not Camels anyway.’

  “‘Not these; another pack.’ When I finally refreshed her memory about the day at the Louvre, she returned my look with faint amusement. ‘You expect one to remember a pack of cigarettes from—how long?—almost thirty years? You flatter yourself. One meets many people, but one does not remember them.’ I recalled what Willie Marsh had told me about her use of the third person, and the way she had employed it on our former meeting; at least that remained. She sat regarding me through a haze of smoke, one of her movie poses. I kept detecting currents of nervousness, irritation, antagonism, and I wondered why she’d come. She wanted something, but I couldn’t figure out what.

  “Then her stern look softened somewhat, up went the eyebrows at the center, down came the heavy lids, out came the catlike tongue tip, curling smoke like a lash. Fedora, the movie vamp. ‘I read the thing on your book jacket. It says you are famous; is that so?’ I started to reply and she said indifferently, ‘That’s all right, I know many famous people. We gad about together. Bir-r-rds of a feather. Well, I’m waiting.’

  “‘Waiting?’

  “‘I am Rapunzel, come to let down my hair. Ask me questions.’

  “‘I didn’t think you liked being asked questions.’

  “‘I don’t. I wouldn’t answer them anyway. I just want to see what you’ll ask. You newspaper people ask such silly things. “What is your favorite role?” “What do you have for breakfast?” “Are you in lo-o-ove?”’ Again the sarcastic slur in the thick guttural accent. ‘Foolish questions from foolish people for foolish readers. Why do you waste one’s time?’ She closed her eyes. The shadowed lids lowered, then raised, the long fringe fluttering slightly, and looking from her cigarette to me, she asked:

  “‘Have you another kind of cigarette?’

  “I didn’t get it at first. I thought she meant a different brand, but her tone insinuated more, and I finally caught on.

  “‘Sorry, I don’t. It’s not a good idea to bring grass through customs, is it? Greek jails can’t be very pleasant.’

  “She laughed again. ‘I have done it—but not always with the happiest consequences. Undoubtedly you have read.’ Then she actually pouted, the famous movie pout, which should have been followed by the ironic smile, but wasn’t.

  “‘You are not adven-n-turous,’ she drawled. ‘I like adven-n-turesome men. No hashish? No pills?’

  “I made a light, open-handed gesture. Sorry, no dope for madame. She dropped her cigarette, still burning, into the dish, put down her glass, and rose.

  “‘It is late. I must be going. Thank you.’ She started for the door. I could see how displeased she was, but if I thought that was all she had come for, I was wrong.

  “‘Look—’ I began, but her quick gesture silenced me as a light flashed through the window and we heard footsteps. She gave me a quick, worried look. ‘Say nothing,’ she ordered, flattening herself against the space between window and door. In a moment someone rapped.

  “‘They sent me—I was to ask you—’ The rap sounded again. She put her finger to
her lips and nodded that I was to open the door. Mrs. Balfour stood there with a tight smile, and behind her, holding a flashlight, Kritos, with his lowering look.

  “‘Good evening,’ said Mrs. Balfour, oh so politely, and peered in. I kept my eyes on her, but stood blocking the doorway. She prattled on in a very Englishy way. ‘Quite comfortable, are you? Got ev’rything you need? Ah, asphodel—how lovely.’ She gave my flowers a nod, me another smile. ‘Yes, and’—she was peeking through the crack between door and frame—‘there you are, my dear,’ looking at Fedora as if her hiding were the most natural thing in the world. Fedora gave me a helpless look and stepped into the beam of Kritos’s light.

  “‘We wondered if you were still here,’ Mrs. Balfour continued, coming in a step. As she reached out her hand, Fedora backed away. ‘Have you esked him? And has he said yes?’ She looked back and forth between us with a bright, expectant smile.

  “Fedora shook her head. ‘No, Balfour, we were speaking of other things. The fact is, we hadn’t got around to it.’

  “‘Got around to … ?’ I looked from one to the other.

  “‘Ah, then,’ said Balfour, taking another step or two. ‘If I might just come in for a moment. Lovely weather, veddy mild.’ She was so proper and so irritatingly nice. She smiled again at Fedora. ‘Well, then, my dear, will you esk the gentleman or shall I?’

  “They exchanged a look, and I detected that beneath all the ‘veddy veddy’ was something else, a positiveness, even a threat.

  “‘Ask me what?’ I said, giving way as Mrs. Balfour ventured farther into the room.

  “‘Well,’ she began, with another look at Fedora, ‘we were hoping—that is—’

  “Fedora stepped forward and shoved the door back. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said angrily, facing her companion. ‘He will not do it, there is no need for him to do it, it is all ridiculous.’

  “‘But surely it won’t hurt to esk,’ said Mrs. Balfour.

  “Fedora’s look darkened. ‘Then you do it—not me!’ She gave Mrs. Balfour a little push aside and strode through the open door, then whirled in the light.

  “‘Don’t do it,’ she said, talking directly to me.

  “Mrs. Balfour spoke up, pleasantly as always. ‘But it’s such a little thing.’

  “‘Damn you.’ Fedora spun around and moved off up the roadway. Mrs. Balfour said a few Greek words to Kritos, who followed Fedora. When he got to her he touched her arm and she pulled away angrily, then marched off. I watched them go, and when I turned again, Mrs. Balfour was all the way into the room, bending to smell the flowers in the pitcher.

  “‘Ah, asphodel,’ she said again, straightening with her little smile. ‘Pliny says that the sad spirits of the dear departed used to cross the fields of asphodel to reach the waters of oblivion.’

  “I interrupted to say I doubted I was like either the elder or the younger Pliny, and then waited to hear more.

  “‘You know—oblivion—the waters of Lethe?’

  “‘Sure—of course. I just didn’t know which oblivion we were talking about.’

  “‘Well, that’s the one,’ she said, looking at the chair Fedora had quitted. ‘May I be seated for a moment?’

  “I nodded. She sat quite comfortably, folding her hands in her lap, and all that seemed lacking was a cup and a teapot under a quilted cozy, she was that homey. ‘You see, both of you being authors, you and Pliny …’

  “‘Both authors. Yes?’ I waited for her to come to the point.

  “‘Yes; you see, I am not unacquainted with your name. I have, in point of fact, had a peek into your novel. It seems a most interesting story.’

  “I acknowledged this and went on waiting. She hemmed and hawed, darting shy looks at me with all the timidity of a parson’s wife, but I was determined not to help her out.

  “Finally she got down to brass tacks. ‘You are a friend of Miss Ueberroth’s, we understand?’ I nodded, she nodded back. ‘Viola is a good friend to all of us.’

  “‘I’ve found her to be. I don’t think Fedora would agree, however.’

  “‘But she gives us cause to hope.’

  “‘One should always live in hope.’

  “‘Ah,’ she said hopefully, ‘we are obliged to.’

  “‘We?’

  “‘Why, yes—we.’

  “‘Does that mean you yourself, or is Fedora also included?’

  “‘But of course.’

  “‘And Countess Sobryanski?’

  “Her nod was brighter, more eager. ‘But that’s it, to a T. You see, it’s precisely why—it’s precisely why madame came to you tonight: to ask a favor—for—the countess—Sobryanski.’ She was rattling her words, and looking, if possible, even more nervous.

  “‘Yes?’

  “‘Since you are a friend of Fedora and she is a friend of—she’d made a little cradle of her hands, with the fingertips sticking up in a row like a child’s—‘the countess, since in a manner of speaking we are all friends, it occurred to us that you could perform a kindness.’

  “‘What sort of kindness?’

  “‘You are fond of Viola?’

  “‘I like her, yes….’

  “‘And Fedora? You have seen her in the cinema, of course.’

  “‘Of course.’

  “‘Then perhaps you can spare some time for her.’

  “‘I would be happy to spend some time for her—anytime.’

  “Mrs. Balfour positively glowed. ‘Why, then, that’s the nicest thing—and the simplest. You will do it?’

  “‘Do what? You haven’t said.’

  “‘But of course I haven’t—how stupid. You will read your book. To Countess Sobryanski.’

  “‘Read my book?’ I repeated blankly. ‘To Countess Sobryanski?’

  “‘Yes. You see, that is the favor, that is the matter under consideration here, it is what Madame Fedora came to quiz you about: your willingness …’

  “I knew better about why Madame Fedora had come, but said nothing. Mrs. Balfour had risen and was still rattling.

  “‘She enjoys being read to. Her one enjoyment, really. Her eyes are bad; she has trouble seeing. We take turns, you see, Fedora and I, but since it is your book and you are, well, here—d’you see, she would like you.’

  “It really knocked me out. Here I was thinking something was up, something crazy or sinister or illegal, but all they wanted was for me to read to the countess Sobryanski. I had to keep from laughing. She was sitting there, little old English lady, living in hope that I would say yes to what I precisely and exactly wanted to say yes to, since her proposition would bring me to exactly the person I had originally come to see.

  “‘It seems you and Fedora do quite well reading to the countess. Why should you need me?’

  “‘Because that’s just it—she’s so used to us, she’s tired of our voices, and quite frankly, mine tires easily. I have a laryngeal complaint, so troublesome. She’d like someone quite fresh, as it were, someone new. And after all, you are the—author of the work. And,’ she took pains to add conspiratorially, ‘you would be well rewarded for your efforts.’

  “‘You mean I am to be paid?’

  “‘Not in money, not in cash, you see, but something equally negotiable. It is as good as—better than—cash.’

  “‘What might that be?’

  “She gave me another of those gay-old-lady smiles. ‘Why, then, you’ll just have to come and see, won’t you?’

  “I had no idea what legal tender she was proposing, or even if it was legal; I had no interest in being paid for a service I would willingly render freely, but I made a show of agreeing after some deliberation, and then only with reluctance.

  “She was delighted. ‘Believe me, sir, you may trust me.’

  “‘But of course I trust you, for if it comes to that—why shouldn’t I?’ We both thought that was a good one and laughed our way to the door, which I opened, to find the ominous Kritos standing there again.

  “‘When w
ould you want to begin this—um—reading?’

  “‘Why, tomorrow morning, if you’re free. When the weather is fair the countess enjoys being on the terrace. She likes the smell of the sea, we make her quite comfortable there, and if you came at eleven you could read until lunch.’

  “‘Fine. Shall I plan on lunch as well?’

  “‘Oh, dear.’ She gave me another of her worried looks, as though I might back down if lunch weren’t part of the arrangement. ‘Perhaps we can arrange a bite—something—yes, I’m sure. Veddy well—come along then—eleven. So nice.’

  “Sprinkling these abbreviated phrases as she went, she added a good night and slipped out the door. Kritos scowled at me, then lighted her way up the road.

  “I appeared at the villa the next morning a little before eleven. Mrs. Balfour admitted me at the gate, took me through the front of the house, along a hallway, and onto the terrace, where she asked me to wait, and then she disappeared. I professed to admire the exterior architecture of the house and its various details. There were matched yew trees in tubs on either side of the pairs of French doors that gave onto the terrace, and the statues whose backs I had been staring at through my spyglass were Italianate, allegorical representations with no special meaning to me. I was looking through one of the doors to see inside when I heard someone in back of me, and turned to find Fedora in the other doorway. Even behind her dark glasses she seemed the worse for wear.