After he had gone by once, he looked back, caught by the gleam of her hair. He had seen it before. He made the round of the deck and at the second opportunity scrutinized her more closely. Yes, it was—the dame he had literally picked up in the hall at Gus Silver's. He had asked Nick Spinelli: Who's the red-headed cutie? Nick said: I dunno; the other one, she's an actress. He retorted impatiently: I know that; lives upstairs; name of Brennan. The Brennan didn't interest him; he had a hunch she must be one of those highbrows; he never saw her around at the swell night clubs or anywhere, and the older woman who shared her apartment was a teacher. Of course Gus and Tony knew who lived in the same apartment house with them. All they knew about the red-head was that she called once in a while. He always fell for red-heads ... He sat down in the next chair.
The tag on her chair said Wiekes. That didn't tell him anything. Looked like musical comedy. Dimple in her chin. She held onto him when he picked her up. If it hadn't been for the mob around, and checking off the truck, he might have got her telephone number right then. And here she was on the boat for Havana, only a week later.
He had taken the boat, instead of flying down to Miami and then across, because he thought it might give him the edge to drop in unexpectedly. In Florida, he would have run into some of the boys, and the tip would have gone ahead. That last lot of Bacardi had been cut twice; they were double-crossing somewhere along the line. Since the election, in fact ever since the conventions, when repeal became a certainty, they thought they could get away with anything and clean up, figuring the racket wouldn't last more than a year or two. Probably not that long. Well, he'd be there in person for the pay-off. Might tie up direct for legitimate business; he had influence enough to get licenses; there would be decent saloons again. Always too much overhead on the speaks. The old saloon was honest, he thought sentimentally. . . . Like most men who live on the edge of the law, he was very sentimental about honesty. He believed in "straight" gamblers and big-hearted bad men. He also spoke well of good women, and would go miles out of his way to avoid one. You had to marry them.
He lit a cigar. It was too early to go down to the bar. He was a temperate man, retaining the habits of his early years, when he had been a pork-and-beaner. Welter weight. He never got any further than the preliminary bouts at twenty-five dollars; he could take punishment but hadn't the speed.
Scratch lot of skirts on board, mostly round-trip tourists. Red-head was the only one that looked like a live one. And she was asleep.
A gust of wind scattered the ash from his cigar; stray flakes blew across Geraldine's face. She started and rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry," said a deep voice. Words and tone struck her ear as familiar. The man sitting next to her tossed his cigar overboard.
"Oh, you needn't," she protested, too late. "It didn't do any harm."
"Well, it can't do any harm now, unless a flying fish samples it," he said.
Geraldine smiled vaguely. His voice was singularly agreeable, and he was handsome in a bold masculine way. Black-haired and blue-eyed, with a ruddy complexion and a bluish shadow on his jaw in spite of a close shave. He must be somewhere about forty-five. Perhaps he was a little too well-dressed, and he wore a cabochon ruby ring on one large manicured hand. "'Steward," he called. The deck steward paused attentively. "What will you have, Miss Wiekes?"
"Nothing," said Geraldine, taken aback by his immediacy. "No, really, thank you, but it's too cold to keep my arms out of the rug." Too cold for comfort on deck, even in the sun; but she stayed as a duty, to get the sea air. "Did you say there were flying fish?"
"Not yet. Sometimes you see them the last day. You haven't been to Cuba before?"
"No, never. How did you know my name?"
"Well, you're labeled. Excuse me," he took a card from his pocket and offered it to her. F. I. Matthews. "Here you are, Miss G. Wiekes. What does the G stand for?"
"Guess. And F. I.—for instance?" I sound like a halfwitted flapper, she thought. It doesn't matter; I'm so cold, and he has a nice voice. Deep and warm. Comfortable.
"Suppose we trade," he said. "The boys call me Matt. I don't usually tell my first name. But it's Florence. Florence Ignatius. Now laugh."
She did laugh. Florence! With those shoulders. "That's right," he said. "My mother used to call me Flurrie. I had to lick every boy on the block."
"I'm sure you could," she said. "My name is Geraldine." She thought, he'll be calling me Gerry in ten minutes.
"It's pretty," he remarked. Then he was silent for awhile, and she was gratefully aware that he had a capacity for repose, the ease of perfect physical coordination. That was what his voice expressed, the rhythm of a balanced organism. He looked at her quietly and openly, without offense, a simple tribute to her femininity. She felt less forlorn. She thought, to be alone and unnoticed is to be a ghost. The boat, to her, was rather ghostly; being old-fashioned in its appointments, white paint and gilding and red carpets. Ships were like that when she used to go down to the docks at Hoboken and imagine herself stepping aboard and sailing around the world. The world she would have seen then had vanished, unless in forgotten faraway corners. If one could find such a lost port and go ashore without farewells and stay long enough to recover the lost years. There might be glimpses of them in Havana. Behind green jalousies or through the grilled gates of high-walled courtyards. If there were a fountain . . . And no skyscrapers . . .
The ship's bells struck; she failed to count correctly, but it must be tea-time. Dutifully aired and frozen, she thought she might go down and revive with a hot bath before dinner. Struggling out of her cocoon, she stood up unsteadily, saving herself with an outstretched hand as the deck slanted slowly.
"Better take my arm," Matthews was beside her. She was glad to accept.
"I turned my ankle last week," she said, defensively mendacious. It was so stupid to be ill, grotesque not to be able to stand up.
"I'm sorry," he said for the third time. "You did hurt yourself on that damn' keg?"
"How did you know?" The question was superfluous as she stared at him. "Was it you caught me?"
"Sure. I spotted you right away, this afternoon."
"How extraordinary," she said feebly.
"So I owe you a drink," he said.
She let him guide her down to the smoking room, where she ordered coffee, and he insisted on adding a pony of brandy. The brandy, the smoke, the after effects of sea air and nervous exhaustion, induced a not unpleasant stupor; she could not rouse herself to go below until the first gong sounded for dinner. Matthews talked very little, but his silence was soothing; she sat with her chin propped on her hand and smiled drowsily at intervals, to indicate politeness. When she was obliged to go, he asked: "How about having dinner with me?" He walked down the stairs and along the corridor with her, toward her stateroom.
"I don't know—don't wait for me," she temporized. An elderly female tourist shared her stateroom; as Geraldine opened the door Matthews stepped back with noiseless celerity, to avoid being seen. He was not seen. Geraldine went in and sat down on the sofa, waiting for the other woman, Mrs. Carroway, to finish dressing. Afterward, by herself, she got her clothes off, with a dim intention of putting on a dinner dress. She would nap for fifteen minutes first. . . . When she awoke, she knew by the texture of the darkness that it was past midnight. Mrs. Carroway had come in, gone to bed and to sleep. Geraldine burrowed into the blanket and slept till morning. She had not slept a night through for months.
In the morning she still felt nebulous but not ill. She managed to reach the dining saloon for lunch. Afterward, she went on deck. Matthews was there. Two young men were with him. She saw them instantly as a pair; it would be hard to tell which was which. It wasn't that their features were similar; one did not exactly observe their faces, only their sleek hair, the exaggerated Broadway cut of their clothes, their narrow heads and thin chests. As Matthews rose to meet Geraldine, the two young men moved away, keeping together.
It seemed as if a habit had already been esta
blished as Matthews sat down beside her. The afternoon passed lazily, ending as before with coffee and brandy in the smoking room. At seven Geraldine managed to stay awake, dress, and go to dinner. The young men were once more with Matthews, and again they removed themselves. "Weren't you busy?" she asked. "How?" Matthews said. "Oh, you mean Eddie and Spud—no, they've got nothing to do." He did not offer any further elucidation of Eddie and Spud. It was remarkable how little he could say and still seem friendly, even sociable. His black tie and pearl studs were obviously expensive; it was somehow not vulgar of him to be slightly overdressed. She thought, men used to wear ear-rings and gold chains and scarlet plumes and velvet cloaks.
She had put on a black crêpe dinner dress. For five years she had worn nothing but black for evening, through indifference and because it made her look slimmer. Now she had lost so much weight, her frock was falling off her shoulders; a silver girdle took in the waist. She did look ten years younger, slender and brilliantly flushed, with her blonde cendré hair curled by the damp. The tiny coppery freckles across the bridge of her nose had come out frivolously in the sun; her neck and arms were of that translucent whiteness which goes with red hair. An inconvenient complexion, immune to tan and subject to sunburn, but dazzling at propitious moments. Her sleepy smile was misleading. Matthews watched it consideringly. He asked her where she expected to stay in Havana. She looked in her handbag unsuspiciously and gave the name of a hotel which had been recommended to her as cheap enough and quiet.
After dinner they watched the dancing until Geraldine was once more overpowered by drowsiness. Matthews walked with her to the companionway.
"I suppose that lady in your stateroom turns in early?" he remarked.
Geraldine said: "I suppose so."
"I've got a bunkie too," Matthews said. "Would you care to take a turn around the deck?"
Geraldine thought it might blew the cobwebs out of her head. She wasn't expecting what happened. She had given him no provocation.
In a dark angle of the afterdeck, Matthews folded her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. He was not rough but competent and unhurried. His vitality, as real as a magnetic current, dazed her, and she was shocked by her own acquiescence. Her bare arm slid over the soft broadcloth of his sleeve, and when she ducked her head the smooth satin lapel caressed her cheek. He lifted her off her feet and kissed her hair where it curled about her ear.
"Let me go," she gasped. "You mustn't—there are people—"
He set her down. She ran, but got back her wits before entering the lighted corridor. How ridiculous! As she paused to regain composure, Matthews was at her elbow. She couldn't say anything. He took her arm and escorted her to her stateroom. "Go away," she whispered. He nodded and obeyed.
The next morning she was ashamed of having slept again profoundly, almost happily. But why was she here, except to rest? . . . There was nothing for it but to avoid the man and forget the incident. She packed and went to lunch late. Matthews was not at table. When she ventured on deck he found her. She bowed curtly, without speaking or stopping.
"You're not mad?" he said.
"Don't be silly," she retorted. He reduced her to the elementary repartee of the elementary female. She was afraid she would be saying next that she wasn't that kind of girl! In spite of herself, the reflection made her giggle. "I was very much annoyed," she said. "I think you made a mistake." How idiotic—she mustn't argue with him about it.
"Don't stay mad. I kind of lost my head," he said. She could not imagine that he understood she was rebuking him for his careless choice of place and occasion; though he did. "I apologize."
"Very well." Drop it . . . The situation was resolved by the sudden discovery that they were in sight of land. Then there was luggage to see to, and the crowd on deck. She grew fatigued again in the prolonged bustle of passengers pressing to the rail, the tug and quarantine boat edging alongside, the tender standing by. That must be Morro Castle . . . The harbor was very blue, and Havana was a city, that was all . . . On the tender she was very shaky, and Matthews locked her arm in his; she was unable to resent it, since she would have sunk down in a heap on her suitcases without him. Nobody paid any attention; the dancing motion gave most of the passengers sufficient uneasiness on their own account. Geraldine surrendered temporarily. At the end of the confusion, Matthews was handing her into a cab with her belongings, outside the dock. Eddie and Spud had materialized silently. Matthews said: "Listen, Spud, I'll be along in about half an hour; you see if they got my reservations, and have my baggage sent up." Spud said: "O. K." Matthews stepped into the taxi beside Geraldine and gave the address of her hotel.
Powerless against an apparently natural sequence of events and enmeshed by circumstantial evidence, Geraldine perceived her cabin companion, Mrs. Carroway, watching her departure. She had not conversed with Mrs. Carroway, beyond the unavoidable forced civilities of their proximity; but she knew precisely what Mrs. Carroway must surmise. She protested: "Mr. Matthews, I'd rather you didn't—"
"Now don't worry; I'll just drop you at your hotel," he said calmly. She clutched at the fact that he had told Spud he would "be along in about half an hour." And he had reservations, doubtless at some more expensive hotel. "I couldn't leave you to get lost in a strange town," he said. ... In any event, she couldn't scream and jump out of the cab. At least, he had given the right address to the driver. In her bewilderment, she got no specific impression of Havana, except that there were street cars and business blocks such as one might see anywhere. When they drew up, she sprang out of the cab with no recurrence of her inability to walk. A porter took her suitcase. Though Matthews went with her into the hotel, he stood aside while she registered. He tipped the porter liberally; and when she said: "Thank you so much; good-by," Matthews said: "That's all right. Take care of yourself."
In her allotted room, she got rid of the porter instantly, bolted the door, and collected her mind.
The room was admirable for that purpose. For a bedroom, it was immense, at least twenty feet square, with a lofty ceiling, limewashed walls and a stone floor, clean enough and restfully bare except for a strip of brown rug. An iron bedstead with a white coverlet, a heavy dresser surmounted by a flawed ancient mirror, three wooden chairs, a writing table and a bedside stand comprised the furnishings. There was a large bathroom with old-fashioned marble fittings. Two tall windows with green Venetian shutters opened from the big room onto a narrow railed balcony. The austerity of the interior was contradictorily tropical. It suited her mood much better than elaborate luxury. After a bath she wrapped herself in a kimono and peeped out between the shutters. The afternoon was warm as spring, not a Northern spring, which is cool underneath the warmth; this air of the Antilles was warm underneath coolness, acknowledging the dominion of the sun.
The street was commonplace, yet essentially foreign, with stone façades and balconies and little shops. People sauntered along the pavement. Nobody hurried. The women were mostly dressed in black. As she pressed the shutters, they opened wider than she intended. A man stared and called up to her from the street. Yet nobody addressed the women going by; apparently custom permitted only a salute to a woman on a balcony. Conforming by instinct, Geraldine drew back hastily.
Thinking of Matthews, she told herself severely that she had been flattering herself with the pleasing terrors of sheer hysteria. As if she were an artless maiden pursued by a villain. The state of her nerves was her only excuse; the silliest aspect of her alarm was that she had never been alarmed when she really was an artless maiden. Matthews had kissed her. As a girl she had been kissed and mauled about by impulsive men, with or without provocation. She had flirted, being a normal girl, committed mild indiscretions, and escaped hastily with her hair pulled down and her dignity not quite redeemed by indignant reproaches. She had never given such trifles a serious importance. Men were like that. They ought to be. Life would be dull if they weren't, she was candid enough to admit. There was a line beyond which a girl must not go. An imm
emorial and cherished feminine tradition held— perhaps hoped—that men were dangerous if ... Up to that shadowy limit, girls had a firm presumption of being in the right. They need only retreat, and then ignore the incident ... At thirty-eight, it was preposterous to be indignant. The worst of being thirty-eight was that there was absolutely no danger. She had been so startled she had reverted to an attitude that was, in the cold light of reason, comic. He had been courteous enough to sustain her vanity with an apology. And he had validated it by taking care of her on the tender, driving her to her hotel. On the whole, he had behaved creditably. She had been glad enough of his company, when she was perishing of cold, solitude and inanition. The insignificant adventure on deck—why pretend otherwise?—had stimulated her drooping self-esteem. Women are like that.
To-morrow, she thought, she would be a tourist, find a sightseeing bus and view the prescribed objects of interest. For what remained of the afternoon, she rested in her spacious seclusion, dipping in Lethe. This was the purpose of her journey, this first strangeness; while it lasted, she needed no diversion.
Dusk fell suddenly. She would dine in the hotel. She put on an afternoon dress and hat, not to be conspicuous alone. When she was ready, she hesitated; she dreaded even the effort of crossing the threshold, as if grief were waiting for her somewhere.
A knock sounded on the door. It must be the room maid; who else? But she knew she was not genuinely surprised when she opened the door and saw Matthews.
"How about dinner?" he said. "I'd have asked you before, but I didn't know if I could get away; I had some business. You're not dated up?"
"No—that is, I wasn't—" She was not going to dine with him. "I'll wait for you downstairs," he said. She thought afterward, there can never be any Judgment Day. Even God could not sift out the truth. Nobody knows. One does things; and there is no going behind the returns, recapturing intentions, defining volition.
The Golden Vanity Page 21
