Nothing So Strange

by James Hilton

  “Does Newby do that?”

  “Practically. But I don’t think he’s got much out of it so far. Matter of fact, I fool him a good bit. Whenever he comes in with trick questions I give him trick answers.”

  “He probably knows you’re only joking.”

  “He never knows anybody’s only joking. The man has no sense of humor at all. That’s why it’s such a holiday to be away from him.”

  “I’m glad you feel it is. It’s wonderful to see you in such good spirits.”

  “I’m not really in good spirits. I’m damned low.”

  “I’m sorry then. I hope you’re going to enjoy staying at the house. Nobody will bother you there. And if you yell in the night I’ll probably hear and I’ll rush in to wake you, but I won’t listen to anything, I promise that.”

  We drove on through the gathering dusk, and at the level of the pines the mountain air had a touch of ice in it. Then the sun dipped, and the last few miles were in darkness.

  Vista Grande was dim and cool, sheltered a little in its high valley. We had rum cocktails on the terrace, where there were patches of warm air lingering from the day; I introduced him to Dan, and he said afterwards: “I like the look of Dan. Where did you get him from?”

  “I haven’t an idea. For all I know my father took him with the house.”

  “How is your father, by the way?”

  “Fairly well … or rather, not very well. You’ll notice a difference.”

  “So will he, I expect.”

  I wondered if this meant that he regretted the angry letter but I thought it better not to let him know I knew anything about it.

  Then my father joined us, Dan helping him. He and Brad shook hands and the ticklish moment passed without awkwardness. But I soon noticed that my father’s presence seemed to put a damper on the conversation, so I filled in most of the gaps with chatter of my own. As the dinner progressed I noticed also a peculiar waywardness in the remarks Brad occasionally made—not the flashing, puckish waywardness that my mother used to have, but something sharper, acider—as if, out of a tired distillation of his day’s events, the last drops were bitter. I did not think he would enjoy the usual after- dinner hour in the library listening to the radio, and when my father suggested it I was not surprised that he excused himself and said he would go to bed early. I took him upstairs to his room. He said: “Tell him I’m sleepy. I’ve had enough of the radio. At the hospital it was on day in, day out. I used to count the number of times the announcers said ‘And now’ and ‘But first.’ And now, but first. But first, and now.”

  I left him muttering that, before and after he said good-night.

  * * * * *

  The next morning I found him already on the terrace when I came down; he was admiring the view and talking to Dan. He said he had slept well and I said I hadn’t heard any yells from his room, but maybe that was because I had slept well too. He answered seriously: “It doesn’t often happen. The yells, I mean. Only when I dream of flying—or people watching me.”

  “Watching you?”

  “Yes—I’m supposed to have what Newby calls a persecution complex. Everybody watching, listening, waiting, setting traps. And they do, too. That’s what I tell him when he says I have hallucinations about being spied on all the time—how can it be a hallucination when he spies on me all the time?”

  “A nice question for a psychiatrist.”

  “And he couldn’t answer it, naturally. He’s not much good. I told you I fool him. He keeps on asking if I’m getting over my fear of flying. Once I said yes, I’d like to go up again, because I wanted to be a skywriter, I wanted to write an obscene word in the sky. I spelled it out for him. He was fascinated. I could imagine him telling his fellow psychiatrists about a most remarkable case he had, a patient with a unique exhibitionist symptom…. I got a lot of fun out of it.”

  “But it wasn’t quite fair,” I said, “even to Newby. After all, what science would ever get anywhere if people fed it with deliberately wrong information?”

  “Ah,” he said, with sudden harsh intensity that made me feel I had touched a wrong note somehow or other. “But who’s talking about science? Psychiatry isn’t a science. It’s a conspiracy.”

  He glared, as if waiting for me to say something, and I was anxious now not to blunder again. “Well?” he continued. “Are you going to tell me that science is a conspiracy too?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “Because it would be a damned good answer—for this day and age.”

  His face was clouded over and I devoutly wished I hadn’t begun the argument. Dan brought breakfast and we ate for a while in silence. Then he said moodily: “What does one do in a place like this all the time?”

  “Anything one likes. I haven’t been here long enough yet to establish a routine.”

  “Ever take walks nowadays?”

  “Like the one we had once from Cambridge that day? Not often. I don’t believe I’ve ever walked so far since…. Do you still keep it up?” I realized the absurdity of the question and added: “I mean, did you, before—before you were in the hospital?”

  “Before I was in the hospital I was in the army and they walk you plenty during training…. In Alabama, that was. Too flat. I prefer mountains.”

  “Cambridge to where we walked was flat.”

  That proved another conversational blind alley. I broke the silence this time. I said: “Have you done any mountain climbing?”

  “Yes.”

  Then the dark mood spread over him like some final curtain, and I knew there was something wrong with him, something on his mind—perhaps even, as Newby had said, something he was trying to hide. I wondered how I could approach the barrier, but then I decided the best thing was probably not to approach it at all, but to let it stay till he liked it between us as little as I did, if that feeling should ever come to him.

  I said cheerfully: “Well, you can swim or sun-bathe or read or play some game or just do nothing.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ll do whatever you do, unless you’d rather be left alone.”

  “No, no, of course not.” He put his hand on mine across the table—a gesture instead of an answering look. “But I’m afraid I won’t always be very good company.”

  “Oh, Brad, don’t talk like that. Good company is being with people you like. I like you, that’s enough.”

  “Do you play chess?”

  “Not very well.”

  We played most of the morning, and of course he beat me so easily it must have been as boring to him as it certainly was to me; not that I was bored by being bored, which is the main thing. Then Dan came by and watched our game, and Brad asked him if he played. It seemed he did, and I was glad to resign in his favor; moreover he played so well that I knew I shouldn’t be asked again. I sat around, reading the papers and wondering what kind of film would eventually be made out of my book. Then we had lunch, and in the afternoon Brad took a nap; my father joined us for cocktails and dinner, after which Brad went to bed early again. It wasn’t exactly an exciting day, but doubtless the kind that would do him good—more good, anyhow, than being psychoanalyzed all the time.

  It was several days before he suggested any variant of chess. Then one morning, when the sky was unusually clear, he pointed to the snow peaks in the distance and asked what they were, how far and how high. I told him and fetched maps. “We could drive as far as here,” he said, pointing, “and then climb this way if there’s a trail….”

  “And Dan will lend us his car and we can take a picnic basket….”

  “Rucksacks,” he said.

  “I’ll see if there are any.”

  “Have you enough gas?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, with no qualms at all.

  Dan managed to find rucksacks and by ten o’clock we were on the road. We drove the length of the Modena Valley and then through winding foothills to a ridge whence the mountains heaved up in a huge panorama. I asked him if h
e would like to drive, but he said no, he felt sleepy; and for half an hour he did sleep. I think there is a peculiar happiness in seeing people asleep when you like them and they are in your charge; there aren’t many ways it can happen, but a car provides one even when the other person snores and you can only give a half-glance now and again because the road is narrow and winding and has precipices on one side. He woke when we were almost at the place on the map. “You’ve been asleep,” I said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t dream.”

  I said nothing, and he went on: “I’m so used to that question—what did you dream? I invent dreams too, just to give Newby something to think about.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Is what worth what?”

  “The effort of inventing dreams just to give Newby something to think about.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t dream just now, anyway. I’d have told you if I had.”

  “I don’t see why you would. I wouldn’t want to tell all the dreams Ihave.”

  We parked the car where the paved road ended in a dirt track that led steeply upward. There was no other car, or any sign of habitation. We hitched up the rucksacks and began to climb. The sun was hot through the cool air, giving every breath a chance of being warm or cold. After a mile or so the dirt track narrowed to a trail that zigzagged through the chaparral; presently came the first manzanita with its reddish trunk and olive-drab leaves. He said that was a sign we were above a certain height, I forget how much, because I was thinking of an even happier sign—that he had a trace left of his old lecture urge. I asked him a few leading questions and he talked on about trees, but soon the trail grew too steep for conversation. We came to a gap where a valley opened out. The snowpeaks were now so near that we knew how far they were, and that we couldn’t possibly reach any of them and get back that day. I said we should have started earlier.

  “Next time,” he answered indifferently, but I liked the indifference because he had assumed there would be a next time.

  We sat on a patch of grass, ate sandwiches, and drank coffee out of a thermos. Then we smoked, and he went to immense trouble to stamp out the stubs. I am just as careful as anyone about brush fires, but I do it with less commotion. However, it was good to see him fidgeting. Presently he lay on his back and closed his eyes till a plane flew over, too high to see but loud enough to look for. I wondered if he had any fear of planes, as such, or as a symbol of something, or if it were only a matter of flying in them; and I wanted to be frank with him about my own flying. I was just about to be when he said suddenly: “I suppose you knew that Pauli died.”

  I lay down also looking up to the sky. “Yes, I heard so. I was terribly sorry.”

  He said nothing for several moments; then I said: “Is that what’s been on your mind, Brad?”

  He shook his head, irritably rather than in denial; then he exclaimed: “What’s the matter with me? Do I look as if there’s something on my mind? There ought to be something on everybody’s mind, anyhow.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. He went on: “They follow me around expecting me to spill the beans. What beans? They’re going to spill their own beans soon … human beans.” He laughed. “That must be a joke. Newby would get out his notebook.”

  I still didn’t speak. He continued: “You’re a good listener. Yet you don’t look like Newby when you’re listening—ears pricked up, memory all at attention…. I guess you’re just casually interested in me.”

  “Not so casual.”

  “Casual enough. I like it.”

  There was yet another silence and presently he raised himself on one elbow to look at me. “I’d say there was something on your mind too.”

  “Well, I’d like to smoke again, but if you’re going to worry about setting fire to the mountains I won’t bother.”

  “I’ll trust you.”

  “I think you can.” So I lit a cigarette. “And I mean that, too, Brad. If there is anything you want to tell me … about anything.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to know … about anything?”

  “Oh, plenty. I haven’t an idea what happened to you after we said good-by in Vienna seven years ago. I was barred, you know, from going back.”

  “Yes, I heard. You were against them and they thought I was for them. Where were you when the war started?”

  “Which war? Nineteen thirty-nine or nineteen forty-one?”

  “Nineteen thirty-nine.”

  “I was in Brazil.”

  “Writing?”

  “More or less.”

  “You’ve been around, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been around, but I don’t know exactly where it’s got me…. Perhaps back to where I started. Living in my father’s house amidst all the luxuries … and taking walks with you…. That’s how it did start.”

  “But it’s so damned different now.”

  “Of course. I was only joking.”

  “Joking?”

  “Well, your joke was worse—about human beans.”

  I had noticed before that there were certain things that made his face cloud over, as if some hidden nerve had been touched. I said hastily: “Let’s not talk about my life, anyway. Most of it’s in my book—which, by the way, I thought you’d read.”

  “Parts of it. I find I can’t concentrate on reading nowadays.”

  “You find chess easier?”

  “Not easier—but less troubling.”

  “What really troubles you, Brad?”

  “Still the casual interest?”

  “Yes—if that’s all you want.”

  “I’ll let you know someday. I can’t now. But I’ll tell you what happened after Pauli died.”

  He leaned over and took a cigarette out of my pack. “I went a little bit out of my mind,” he said, lighting it. “That’s what happened—chiefly. I was waiting for her to join me in Switzerland. The authorities hadn’t let me see her or even write a letter. I don’t know that she ever knew why it was I defended Framm at the trial—I don’t suppose they ever told her it was a bargain to get her released. I expect she died thinking I’d deserted her at the crucial moment. Probably others thought that too. It must have seemed strange…. How did it look to you?”

  “Well, of course, I knew the reason, so I didn’t think it strange.”

  “But others did?”

  “Maybe.”

  He fidgeted, then added: “Did people talk about it—to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And you had to tell them they’d got it all wrong.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything at first. I didn’t want to queer anything till Pauli was actually released.”

  “But afterwards—when you heard she’d died?”

  “Then it was too late for people to be interested. Things are so quickly forgotten—every journalist finds that out. Even a newspaper sensation like Pauli’s trial doesn’t leave more than a few scattered recollections…. And besides, there’s another thing. Suppose I’d tried to convince people you were really against Framm and the Nazis, how could I have explained why you went to work for him in Germany afterwards?”

  “So you know that too?”

  “I didn’t then, but what if they’d told me?”

  He gave me a wry smile. “You’d have been considerably puzzled?”

  “I still am.”

  “Yet you—you don’t think badly of me?”

  “Brad, that’s another thing I’ve learned as a journalist. The world’s so full of strange actions and strange motives—don’t condemn people just because they do what you can’t immediately understand. Or even always because they do what seems to you not good. Wait till they’ve had a chance to explain.”

  “So that’s my chance now?”

  “Only if you want it. I’m quite willing to go on taking you on trust.”

  “If I told you I worked for Framm in Germany because I planned to kill him, would you believe me?”

  “Yes … but did you?”

/>   “Did I work for him?”

  “No. Did you kill him?”

  He grimaced. “You’re so damned matter-of-fact, that’s what gets me. You can take plenty in your stride. I like you for that….”

  Tempting though this was as a side issue, what I really wanted was his story, and soon he began. It came in fragments at first, but not reluctantly. And he urged that if he wasn’t clear about anything I was to interrupt as he went along and ask for any further details I wanted. I think my remark about not condemning people for an absence of apparent motive made him specially anxious for me to understand his, and sometimes he would pause as if to invite questions. The whole thing built up to something I can put more connectedly at this stage into the third person; so here it is.

  * * *

  PART FOUR

  When the time came near for him to expect Pauli’s release, Brad went to Switzerland to await her. He had been told he would not be permitted to meet her in Austria; she would be put on a train under escort to the Austrian border town of Feldkirch; the train would then take her, unescorted, across the international bridge to the Swiss border town of Buchs. The Teutonic exactitude of all this irritated him, yet seemed also a perverse guarantee of authenticity. At any rate, he would be at Buchs when the day came.

  Meanwhile he found an inexpensive but comfortable pension at Interlaken and began to plan the quiet holiday they would both have together before the birth of their child. He chose Interlaken mainly because he knew a doctor there, but it was also a good climbing center, and during the time of waiting he built up his own physique after many years of overwork.

  The porter brought the letter to his bedroom along with coffee and brioches. When he saw the postmark “Wien” and the official seal on the envelope he thought it was what he had been waiting for. A minute later he knew he must do something drastic with himself or he would go totally mad. It was the morning of a perfect September day, and out of the window he could see the mountains. He stared at them for a long time. Then he dressed, packed a rucksack, put on heavy boots, and told the proprietress downstairs that he was off for a few days’ climbing. She smiled and wished him a good time.