The Puzzleheaded Girl

by Christina Stead

  “When I go to sleep at night, I put this hand on the pillow beside me and if I wake up I kiss it,” he said with sincere tenderness. Linda, touched, looked at the hand and gave it back to him. The Prince held the hand in his lap and began to murmur to her, asking her about herself, her parents. “I see you love your parents just as my wife does.”

  Linda began to tell him about New York. “I’m going back soon,” she said with joy. Tears came into her eyes. “I shall be so glad to see them. I’ve been away nearly two years. All the time I expected them to come. Now I am going home in a month.”

  “And you are going to marry Mr. Paul?” She did not answer. Two voices exploded behind the closed doors. The Prince got up and went over to the window, placing the hand on the table and resuming his original pose.

  They heard George crossing the room in a temper, a door opened, after a moment George shouted, “Take them out, I won’t have them! Take them away at once!” and once more his steps. He opened the door and appeared red-faced. Barby ran after him.

  “Just till tomorrow, Georgie baby, and I will take them to the airport. If you won’t lend me the Mercedes, you can lend me the Renault, you could give me the Renault if you were nice,” she said, pouting. “You don’t need two cars, and I need one. I can’t do business, going in the subway. The Prince can drive me and I’ll do the business. So will you give me your Renault, baby? You owe me something. You did not share your estate with me fifty-fifty as you were told to do.”

  “The Renault is sold,” said George, “you won’t get anything out of it. It’s in Rome. You just keep your hands off me, Barby. We’re divorced. I owe you nothing. I’ve paid you your alimony.”

  “I don’t want alimony, I want you to go into business with me, be partners,” she said pouting, and hanging around him. “George, darling, go into the bedroom and get my handbag, I left it there.”

  “I’ll get it and you must go,” said George. “Take your rubbishy paintings and get out.”

  “They are not rubbish, they are van Goghs and Utrillos and Rouaults.”

  “They are van Fakes, every last one,” shouted George. He went into the bedroom and was away a few minutes. At last he returned. “You spilled everything all over the bedcover,” he said stormily, “I had to pick it all up.”

  “I didn’t spill it, Georgie, you must have done it,” she said taking the bag and rummaging in it. “Georgie, you have taken two thousand francs.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he shouted. “Don’t pull anything.”

  “George, when I came I had five thousand francs and I left my handbag on your bed and you spilled the things out and looked for money because you have a Mercedes and you are going to get married, but you have no money, you are broke and you found two thousand francs and you thought, I will take it back because I have to pay her alimony.”

  “Don’t tell such terrible lies, Barby,” he shouted; “you know you didn’t have another two thousand francs.”

  “Yes, I did, George,” she pouted; “and this is the second money I have lost today. I had a lot of dollars in my bra. Some were in my bag; they took those and I thought I would put five hundred dollars safely into my bra and pin it and so I did. But somehow it slipped out and someone picked it up—the customs officers or the hostess on the plane, I expect. Perhaps I dropped it in the ladies’ room. So I am without a cent, I am broke, and you will have to help me out. The Prince has friends, perhaps; but I have not. You are my friend, my husband, and you owe it to me. You are always behind with the alimony. But I don’t want alimony. I came to you to make a proposition. I paid for the pictures, you give me the money for the freight and I will fly back as quick as I can and pay you back and we’ll make a business arrangement. But the Prince must be in it too.”

  “Barby, you’re a little liar and thief and cheat,” he shouted, outraged, “if you had any money, you stole it yourself. Now get out. And take those van Fakes. I’m not having the police here.” She persisted that they were genuine masterpieces; but George said, “I saw them, I saw them. A cat could see they’re fakes.”

  “No matter what they are, baby, though they’re genuine. I can sell them in New York and California and Texas; I have contacts,” she said, amiably.

  In the end, Barby refused to remove the canvasses unless George drove her and the Prince to a small hotel. She whipped into the car first, took the wheel and could not be dislodged; she drove them away. George was away a long time. He came back about eight o’clock at night very tired.

  “I am so tired, I don’t sleep, I don’t dare take sleeping pills because they are bad for me, I’m a drug-rejector,” he said to Linda; “and Barby has finished me. She knows how to drive me mad. I ought to go to South America, take you with me, we could both go now. When Barby is around and knows I have a car or money or even a roof over my head, she will try to take it all from me. I am used to her hangers-on, all good-for-nothings she picks up. They never give any trouble. It is Barby! It is Barby!”

  “But she must be good in business,” said Linda. “Do you think she will make money? Perhaps we could help her. I’d like to go into business. I think I could do that, sell pictures.”

  “We are never going to touch those crazy van Fakes,” said George firmly. “I know what cemetery she got them in. I think I know the man. But this Prince is in it; and Barby is completely without morals.”

  “But how do you know they are fakes?”

  “I know,” said George. “Do you think they have van Gogh and Cézanne and Rouault lying around Paris in heaps? The place is skinned. There can only be fakes left. I know all about it from a friend. Besides,” he cried testily, “Barby would never touch a genuine article. It wouldn’t appeal to her. She only likes the phoney; because the market for the real is known, whereas the market for the fake is anything you can get. She loves that.”

  Linda desisted; but often during the afternoon she lay back, her eyes wandered and she began to smile.

  This evening they celebrated the engagement; they laughed, but Linda became pensive. This was her third engagement. They all wanted her to marry. It had just occurred to her that if she married George, she would not have a home in New York, an apartment and furniture; she would be his secretary in Paris or Vienna, sometimes flying to New York. Or would her parents come to visit her? She did not think about George’s remark, “I don’t want any children, honey; I want you to love me.” This passed in one ear and out the other. She lived from day to day: and she liked to see how things worked themselves out.

  The next day, George was meeting refugees in Montparnasse. He despised them; “mendicant riffraff” he called them. He did not take the car, so that they would not try to pump money out of him. Linda was typing some of the refugee manuscript when Barby, alone, ran up the stairs, called out cheerily, threw her arms around her, kissed her and called her darling. Linda, delighted by the sharp, smart, irritable New York voice, hugged and kissed her; they moved around the rooms, talking and laughing. Barby had brought a bottle of wine and some steaks.

  “I’ll cook you an American meal; I know you must be homesick for it.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  Barby asked questions about George and Linda answered. “Are you going to marry him? You don’t seem to me his sort of girl.”

  “I don’t know,” said Linda, with friendly frankness; “he says so and the Deans seem to want it. I think everybody wants to get rid of the problem. I’m a problem.”

  “George is the biggest problem you’ll ever run into,” said Barby, decidedly. “Listen to me, honey. I’ll tell you about George. I don’t want you to make a big mistake. I did. I was only sixteen. Georgie-Porgie likes girls young. I’m twenty-four now. He’ll marry you and in two or three years, he’ll get a middle-aged typist, he likes them, and he’ll fall flat on his nose for some other American kid. He’s got a complex. But you haven’t, have you? I mean, when you get married you have to be sure the other one has a sort of complementary complex. Then there’s a bal
ance. But have you got a complex?”

  “I suppose I must have,” said Linda; “I don’t seem to get anywhere, no one likes me and I don’t know what I want.”

  “That’s nothing, you’re a kid of twenty-two. Go home and marry a straight American and you’ll have the same values. George’s a European. He hates Americans. Only Baby Blue-eyes doesn’t know it. He keeps marrying them to make them into his own little girl.”

  She cantered along, rushed along, honeying and laughing and Linda felt that she had not been so cheerful since she came abroad. “I suppose I’m a real American and I can’t change,” she said. “George wants me to go home and he’ll come and join me in a couple of months.”

  “Don’t do it, honey,” urged Barby. She went on talking fast, “You go home and see your parents and see what it is you really want. Over here you’re lost, you feel frustrated, you’re disoriented. You’ll be okay at home.”

  “Yes,” said Linda eagerly.

  Presently she asked her about the Prince. “I liked him.”

  “I think I’ll marry him,” said Barby.

  “But what about his wife?”

  “What wife?” said Barby in the sharpest tone.

  “He carries this beautiful hand with him that he had yesterday, to think of his wife. He says he puts it on the pillow at night.”

  “Dimitri is a damned liar, he’ll spin any yarn,” cried Barby indignantly. “He bought that hand yesterday and he spent nearly all my money on it. He’s crazy about curios and antiques. I was so—furrrious—” She paused. “I was so mad at him, he promised me he’d sell it this afternoon; and he’s gone to sell it.”

  Linda reflected. “Well, all he did was talk about his wife.”

  Barby pouted, asked many questions; presently, she had the story. “He’s such a liar,” she said anxiously; “I’ve only known him three months and most of the time, I’ve been flying around Europe on George’s money, looking for art masterpieces. I knew there were stacks of them somewhere. I was tipped off. I finally, this week—” She paused. “And there’s a lot in Rome, I know that. Americans are buying them there. It’s a pity George left his typewriter in Rome; and the Renault—I could have taken it down there myself and done business.” She began thinking. “Are you sure they’ve sold the Renault?”

  “Yes. They’ve got the money there for George. He’s waiting for someone to bring it up.”

  “I’ll go and get it,” said Barby jumping up. “Barby, let’s give Georgie a great big surprise. Let’s do something for that cute little Pie-otter.” She became silent again; and then began wheedling and persuading. Linda had never seen Rome. Why not go there and then set sail from Genoa or fly from Rome to New York? Let them both go to Rome and get the money for George; and Linda could leave right away.

  “See your parents, make up your mind. See how you feel about Baby Honey when you’re in New York. Pie-otter is just an alien in New York. He isn’t a real American. He thinks he speaks without an accent,” she said, bursting into girlish laughter. “He’s so naive. He’s funny in New York.” She walked about thinking, “You see, Lin, I can’t take the paintings over till I get some money. I have to let Dimitri have what he gets for the ivory hand. I don’t have to, but he’d starve or run off with some pick-up—he can’t spend a day without a woman. And he’s such a liar—he’s got his head stuffed with film stories. He makes it up as he goes along. I want to keep him around in case I need him. He has a very good eye; he has natural taste. I never lose a man if I can help it, because you need contacts. The freight is enormous by air and the customs—at the customs I’ll say they’re copies, just to get them through; and I’ll say they’re for my family.”

  She had by now a complete plan in her head. “Do you know where George’s keys are? That’s such a swell car and I’m crazy about fast cars. I could get to Rome, if he’d only lend her to me. He knows I’m safe. But he’ll be arguing about his darling baby Mercedes for weeks. I’ve got to get to Rome. I know someone there, a contact, who will give me money. He’s crazy to be my partner. Come with me, baby; will you come?”

  It did not take long to persuade Linda. She hesitated at Barby’s suggestion that they should run off, take George’s car, leave him high and dry. “For a couple of days only, baby. We’ll come right back with the money from the Renault and then he can lend me that for the plane fare and the freight.” She talked on rapidly, intently. Linda liked to be led by an astute and busy New Yorker, and allowed it all to go forward; Linda knew all George’s affairs, had the addresses. Within an hour, Barby had set off with Linda in the Mercedes, with Linda’s few remaining bags in the back. In eleven hours they were in Switzerland. They stayed the night with some friends of George, who ran a little hotel Swiss-Touring in Montreux, where they put the rooms down to George’s account; and by seven in the morning, they were off again, promising to stay at the hotel on the way back, in two days. Barby spoke a fair French and her papers were in order. She was still described as George’s wife on her passport; but her true passport was that she knew men and understood officials. Barby had not wanted to leave word for George; but Linda had privately left a typed notice in the typewriter: Dear George, Barby is going to get some money and we will soon be back, Love, Linda.

  It was not till Prince Dimitri turned up at George’s lodgings that George had an inkling of the trouble. “My partner has gone to Rome,” and the Prince, placidly. “She wants to buy a few more canvasses down there, and then she will be back. But perhaps she will fly from Rome airport to New York; and then come back here. Or she may sell the paintings in Rome to Americans she knows there. Perhaps you know?”

  George said, “What is it? Where is she? Where is Linda? Where are my keys? I can’t find them. If I find out that that wicked little thief has taken them—” He suddenly turned scarlet. “Oh, my God! I know. She has taken the car.” He telephoned the garage: it was so. He began to rave, rushing up and down the apartment, almost out of his mind. “Oh, what a wicked scheming little devil! She will sell it. I know her. I’ll never see it again.”

  It was some time before he began to think more about Linda. Had she gone with Barby? He threw himself down on the sofa and sank back. “I know Linda went with her. Linda says yes to everyone. She adored Barby. She is so naive, so ignorant, she thought Barby was a business woman.”

  At some time in this tirade, the Prince left. Many miserable hours George tramped about. He telephoned the Deans at St. Germain, on the off chance; but no, no, he knew where she had gone. At this moment she was speeding through Italy, with Barby, streaking along the road under the cypresses, roaring through the towns, enjoying the sensation, being admired by the speed-crazy Italians, tearing into Rome; remarkable, wicked Barby. “My curse, oh, my God, a vengeful, greedy, lying capricious dangerous woman, with no brains at all, nothing but crazy whims, which she calls business. And the world’s so crazy, and America is so crazy, that they think she’s wonderful. And what stories has she told Linda? That’s nothing. I can get Linda back—but my car! I will never get the Mercedes back.”

  He telephoned his friends in Rome, the two American girls, Madeline and Louise, who had his Renault for him and who were living in the little room he kept in Rome, for interviewing Easter Pascuale and other work. There was no reply: “The ladies are out.” “Tell them to call me back.” But he had little hope. “These Italians, all these insouciant Latins, unreliable, with no idea of efficiency; they won’t do anything.”

  He kept telephoning but had no reply till very late at night. Then Madeline spoke to him and said they had already given the money for the Renault as well as the typewriter to his young wife, Barby. Barby was returning to France at once.

  “And Linda—did you see Linda—an American girl, dark, beautiful—wasn’t she with her?”

  “No. Barby was alone. She came down alone. She is brave, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you all admire that highwayman,” he shouted. “She is robbing me. I’ll never see the m
oney or the car again. And where is the girl? What has she done with Linda?”

  He did not sleep all night, raving and crying. At last he took the train out, to see his friends in St. Germain; but there was no help there. They could only look at him in fear, the poor worn man, with pouched face, hair showing grey and his red-rimmed eyes. They knew nothing of Linda. “We’ll write to her parents: that’s all we can do.” He returned, shrugging, waving his arms, talking to himself. Presently he got a telephone call from the girls in Rome. They were full of enthusiasm for Barby and full of anecdotes. Barby had come over the Alps with a girl friend; and they had nearly been killed. Tearing down a slope in bad light, they had almost run into a wagon loaded with newly felled trees, roughly trimmed, and with the tops over the end of the wagon. By good luck, the ground dipped and they had passed under the projecting spikes, but skidded; and there had been some trouble. Barby had made the trip to Rome. The other girl went to hospital, but was soon out; and now Barby had arranged for her to fly to New York. She had gone, Barby generously helping with the fare. Barby could not make the trip back in the slightly damaged car, so she had sold it; but she had enough to take her canvasses to New York. She would meet George in New York.

  George was made more miserable by this news, that Barby had stripped him and Linda had left him without a word. He felt the top of his head lifting slowly upward and the wind blowing in; and at other times, he felt the fiery network that he thought was brain fever. He was unable to work. He visited several of his friends, including the doctor who always looked after him and told all his troubles. One of them put him to bed and looked after him for a few days. But when he returned to his lodgings there was rent, the agent who had cabled for his work; and there were one or two agonizing business problems to think about. Sully had written to say that she needed money for her psychoanalyst and that she had already tried to commit suicide. No word at all from Linda.

  “I will simply have to go to New York,” said George. Gradually he righted his affairs, did some writing which seemed good enough to him, but which the agent did not like. After some weeks he had a note from Linda. She was working in her father’s office and liked it. “I am glad I am back in New York. When are you coming over?” It took him four months before he could take a plane over. He saw his agent and handed her the completed refugee book, as well as the plan of another book he had roughed out on the plane. He then went to the office address given him by Linda, the Alfhill Manufacturing Company. There he met, not Linda, but her mother, a gay sheep-faced woman, about forty who put her arm around his waist and laughed upward. He introduced himself as a friend of the Deans. After cheerfully flirting with him, she gave in to his irritation and told him where Linda was. She was at a Madison Avenue address decorating her new home. She was just about to marry someone she had known as a child, a boy from the Beach who was going on to get his master’s degree. Alfred Hill would be supporting them both for the time being. “He is a warm, lovely boy, though a bit defensive,” she said; “but he is right for Lin: she can mother him; and he needs the build-up we are giving him. I told Alf we’ll have to sweat it out a bit, till he settles down. We’re here for that.”