The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  We stopped for the night at Bailen, registering at La Plaza de la Naranja, just off the main road. Eva stormed unceremoniously to her room, but did agree to eat dinner with me, a minor improvement in our cold war.

  At the risk of seeming provincial, I’ve never approved of Spanish dining etiquette. A late supper cum midnight snack doesn’t agree with my digestive tract. Eva and I squinted at the menus in the semidarkness and finally managed to order Cochinillo asado, Polio al Barco, and sangria by a quarter to eleven.

  I glanced at a neighboring table. “The food looks edible, anyway.”

  “Are you speaking as a gourmet?”

  “Not really. But my wife’s cooking does spoil me.”

  “Oh, yes. Janet, isn’t it?”

  “Janice.”

  She turned her head to study me. “For some reason, I can’t see you married. You have the look of a rumpled, unpressed bachelor.”

  I smiled as the sangria arrived. “Sorry to break your heart.” I passed her a glass. “Fifteen years of matrimony. Sixteen in September.”

  Eva took a healthy gulp. “A whirlwind courtship, I suppose.”

  “Naturally. She was too good an agent to lose.”

  “Such an unbridled romantic.” Another sip. “Kids?”

  “None with Jan. A son by my first marriage.”

  Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “You? Twice-bitten?”

  “Sad but true.”

  “The girl back home, right?”

  “In Honolulu.”

  Eva’s glass made a wide swing toward her mouth. “Are you sure you’re from Hawaii? Shouldn’t you be … blond and sun-kissed?”

  “Not necessarily. Among rich haoles, you do well to be nondescript and unethnic. Eastern Seaboard Wasp, with a mere hint of a tan, is considered very proper.”

  Eva grinned. “Did you qualify?”

  “We both did. Louise and I.” I toyed with my fork. “But … things happen. We separated before I went into the Army. After the war, I didn’t come back. We still see each other every year or so, when I visit Ron.” I shrugged. “Christmas and birthday cards and all that. My son doesn’t understand, I’m afraid.” I laughed tightly. “Unlike Louise, who understands everything. Or so she tells me when we meet. All knowing and forgiving.” My hand dropped the fork. “Somehow, though, I get the feeling she wouldn’t care too much if I dropped dead.”

  Eva sighed and settled back in her chair. I felt very comfortable in the room-within-a-room we were building out of sangria and small talk.

  “Tell me something, Hall.”

  “Hm?”

  “Do you find me attractive?”

  “Women! This afternoon you sweated over your fate worse than death, and now you want me to meter your sex appeal?”

  Eva flushed pale pink. “Well?”

  Candlelight cast a kind glow on her face and bare shoulders, framed by a simple black dress.

  “The answer’s yes. You’re very lovely.”

  Her lips curled in Gioconda irony. “How earnest, Hall.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently. “But I don’t feel safe letting it warm up.”

  “That’s very pure. And quite unworldly.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then why the unbreakable vows with Wifey?”

  I raised both hands. “We’re hot for each other.”

  “I can imagine! A regular duel of the titans.”

  “Cut it out, Eva. You don’t have to play slut queen for my benefit. You don’t love me. I’m not even sure you like me. So it’s all moot sparring.”

  “You know,” she drawled, “I’m not sure you’re entirely normal.”

  “Such veiled barbs. You’re a master, Eva.”

  The wine glass circled in for a landing. “Once I read someone—a literary critic, I think—who said that American novelists form a long daisy chain of failed queers.”

  “Then I must be the missing link.”

  Wine sputtered across the table. I jumped up and pounded her on the back as clattering dinnerware died and people stopped, food in hand, to stare at us.

  Eva finally regained her breath. There wasn’t a sound in the dining room. Every eye trained on us.

  We glanced at each other across the table and broke up.

  “Good God, Hall, how much did we drink last night?”

  The car’s exhaust boomed along with my head as I maneuvered out on the road leaving Bailen. “I lost count after the third pitcher.”

  Eva gingerly cradled her skull. “And you were supposed to reform me.”

  After a stop for coffee we felt slightly more human.

  “Well, I told you my life story last night.” I glanced at Eva as we slowed while passing through Padul. “How about reciprocating?”

  Her eyes lost their focus as she gazed out the window. “Where do I begin? There’s so much to tell! I was born of poor and humble parents …”

  “Spare me your wit. Before lunch, at any rate.” I braked the Ferrari as we entered Durcal. “Did you have many friends as a kid?”

  “Friends? Sure, plenty. Mostly rich snots, though. One time …”

  She chattered for the next two hours as we flew down the empty road to Motril and cruised along the Mediterranean toward Balerma. All about her girlfriends who ripped up her paper dolls and her airedale, Skipper, who died of kidney stones and her first date and college and her moving to Switzerland and her sex life and her money and how her father was driving her to ruin.

  But never in all the welter of half truths did she mention a thing about the Titanic.

  It was late afternoon when we arrived at the little beach house just past the outskirts of Balerma near the Punta del Moro.

  Eva walked through the living room to the big glass doors sliding onto the balcony facing the sea. I sat the luggage on the floor and stood behind her.

  “Quite a scene,” I said.

  She silently studied the orange cliffs loping down to the huge crescent beach curving around us. An urgent wind blew off the sea and the breaking waves were some of the largest I’d ever seen on the Mediterranean. There wasn’t another human in sight.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, before her voice resumed its hearty badgering mold. “So this is your torture chamber. Very plush.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” I tugged the suitcases toward the bedrooms. “No talkathons tonight, Eva. Ferrari lag. We’ll get a fresh start in the morning. There’s something I want to show you tomorrow. You’ll need your energy.”

  Eva’s first surprise came at seven A.M., when I showed her the carport at the side of the cottage.

  “A jeep?” She blinked incredulously as I climbed behind the wheel. “Where in hell are you taking me?”

  “Where finicky Italian sports cars fear to tread.” I held out my hand. “All aboard.”

  We cruised along a paved highway to Almeria, then over unmarked dirt tracks into the desert roads of boulders and sand and wishful thinking. Fortunately, I’m blessed with a boy scout’s canny sense of direction.

  “Hall, have you lost your mind?”

  “Patience, Eva.” I kicked into four-wheel drive, skidded us atop a sand dune, and cut the motor. “Come with me.”

  I carried a picnic basket and helped Eva through the blasted Martian landscape, trying to ignore the painful chafing of clothes against scar tissue as we rose over the last knoll. Then I pointed. “Curious, no?”

  She gaped at a scene of war and devastation. The snaky skeleton of railroad tracks, blackened by dynamite scars, lay twisted like coat hangers. An old steam locomotive sprawled on its back, with upturned steel wheels sparkling in the sun. A drunken conga line of splintered passenger coaches trailed behind the engine at crazy angles. Two crows circled warily above, but we were the only people in sight.

  “What in God’s name happened?”

  I steadied her as we plunged through the sand toward the train. “It’s a movie, Eva. They shot here last summer. ‘Lawrence of Arabia,’ it’s called. Due for releas
e this Christmas.” I threw out my arms at the wide open spaces. “Tourists haven’t got wind of it yet. But it’ll be picked clean before too long. I thought you’d like to see it. Illusions like this don’t last forever.”

  We spent the next couple of hours poking through the rubble. She climbed atop the roof of one of the coaches and forced me to follow. The perfect picnic spot, she said.

  Eva was not a shy eater. I spent most of my time passing her hard-boiled eggs, pepper, and celery stalks.

  “Hall,” she mumbled around a mouthful of roast beef, “how could you give all of this up?”

  “‘This?’”

  “The movie business, I mean. You were in it, weren’t you?”

  “In my flaming youth.”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Most of the time I spent under house arrest at the writers’ block at Metro. I saw myself as a latter-day Algonquin wit fighting the corrupt temple of Mammon. But it didn’t play; so I got out.”

  “Ever regret it?”

  “Hell, no!” I slapped my thigh in mock gaiety. “Look at all the swell folks I’ve met. You, for one. And your father, not to mention the interesting company he keeps.”

  She frowned gravely. “What do you mean?”

  “In the last few months I’ve learned some marvelous things about William Ryker. Get too close and you end up singed. Scarred for life.”

  “I could have told you that,” she chortled.

  “But I meant it literally.”

  I unbuttoned my shirt to the waist. Eva turned my way and flinched.

  “Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “How did it happen?”

  “You could call it a boating mishap, I guess.” I filled her in on the details.

  Eva bleakly examined the distant sand dunes. “And you think my father deliberately arranged it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better for my peace of mind that I don’t.”

  She seemed lost in thought as we packed up and headed back for the jeep. We didn’t exchange ten words on the return drive to Balerma.

  The sun floated on the western edge of the Mediterranean as we headed down the last stretch to the beach house.

  I pulled off onto the soft shoulder and put the stick in neutral. “Look at that.”

  Eva’s eyes followed my outstretched arm. About seven miles out an ocean liner furrowed through the choppy water, its superstructure orange against the slanting sunrays, heading for Gibraltar and the distant Atlantic.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I peered out to sea. “Italian registry, I think. Maybe the Cristoforo Colombo, the sister ship of the Andrea Doria.”

  “The one that sank.” Her voice was hollow. “People are such fools.”

  “How’s that?”

  Eva’s eyes clouded. “Like on board that ship. Wrapped up in their little worlds. And all the captain has to do is make the wrong slip, and those fine civilized folks would turn into rats before your eyes. Tearing at your face, gnawing at …”

  Eva hunched low in the seat and trained both eyes on the tired red sun. “I’m cold. Let’s head back. Please.”

  She had nothing to add during our drive home.

  The wind kept blowing off the sea even after a half moon rose from behind the cliffs.

  Eva came in from the porch and watched me put away dinner dishes in the kitchen. “So you can cook, too. My, Mr. Hall, you are a man of surprises.”

  “An old Army talent.” Drying my hands, I followed her into the living room.

  “Well,” she said, “what now? We’ve ruled out sex. No TV. No records. What do you suggest—Parcheesi?”

  I settled on the couch. “Want to talk?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.” Standing, I headed for the closet. “Then you can watch my old movies.” I pulled out a 16-mm projector I’d rented in Madrid. “Absolutely fascinating.”

  “Good God, Hall!” She sank to the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding! Let me guess. The kiddies on the front lawn? Your honeymoon at Niagara Falls? Aunt Sadie at Mount Rush-more?”

  “Not quite.” I set the projector on the coffee table. “They’re someone else’s; not mine.”

  Adjusting the elevation control, I plugged in the machine, then walked back to the closet, grabbed the film, and spooled it on the projector.

  “What’s it about?” Eva leaned forward in her chair.

  “You’ll see.”

  I threaded the film onto the take-up reel, then got the lights. The projector flashed a solid white beam onto the cream-colored wall.

  Leader clicked through the projector and the first scene flashed to life.

  “God, Hall! How old is this film?”

  “Over fifty years.”

  “I believe it! Where were these train pictures taken, anyway?”

  “England.”

  The scene shifted.

  “That looks like a dock. Some big ships there.”

  The scene cut to the dock, panning up to the black bow of the ship.

  “Titanic.” Eva’s voice was low and threatening. “Titanic! Hall, if this is your idea of a joke …”

  I didn’t answer. The camera trained on the thirtyish brunette and the young girl.

  I froze on the scene. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”

  “No.” Her lips trembled. “No!”

  “That’s you, Eva.” I pointed. “And that’s your mother.”

  “You’re lying! You’re just trying to trick me!”

  “No, Eva.” I flipped the projector forward.

  In the shadowy light of the projector lamp I watched Eva’s fingernails dig into the fabric of her chair.

  Cut to the young blonde girl in her twenties out on deck. Eva’s eyes blinked furiously as she stared at the image, as if forcing herself not to see.

  Cut to Eva and her mother.

  “It’s a fake!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her voice was curiously whiny, like a child’s.

  “No.”

  “Yes it is! It is! It is! You’re lying!”

  The film showed Eva and Clair with the young girl.

  “It’s a fake! A fake!”

  The final scene flickered on the wall. All four people. Eva and Clair Ryker with Albert and Martha Klein.

  Eva stood, staring at herself perched on the shoulders of the handsome young man.

  “No!” The scream was a little girl’s—a scream of mindless maniacal terror.

  Eva ran through the open door and into the darkness.

  The film was flopping in the take-up reel as I ran after her. Standing on the balcony, I searched the moonlit beach.

  A figure fleeing across the sand. Heading for the breakers.

  I kicked off my shoes and tore after her. The wind blew sand into my eyes, blinding me, but I kept on running.

  Left? Right? Straight ahead? Which way? I blinked at the obscuring grit.

  A splash of white as a body plunged into the surf.

  My legs waded through the sand-quagmire. Blood pounded through my temples.

  A face broke surface, then went under.

  I hit the water without breaking stride. A wave crashed over me. I tumbled to the bottom, scraping my arms and knees.

  My face broke surface, choking in air. Eva was just ahead, thrashing to get away from me.

  Diving under, I grabbed her legs. She hit me in the side of the head. My skull rang as I grabbed her by the shoulders. She fought me with a tiger’s strength. I felt myself losing my grip on her, but clamped my arms around her waist. Her elbow smashed into my mouth, loosening teeth. Going under, I clenched my jaw against the salt water burning down my throat.

  I backstroked and held onto her like a sack of gold. Rough pebbles suddenly brushed beneath my toes and I stood, hauling Eva up on the sand.

  My chest heaving, I sank to my knees beside her.

  Wherever she was, she wasn’t here with me.

  The eyes trembled blindly back an
d forth. Her tongue hung loose in her mouth.

  “No, no!” she cried in a high childlike voice. “Don’t hurt me! I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”

  “Eva!” I shook her shoulders. “You’re all right! You’re safe with me!”

  “No!” She screamed at terrible visions up in the night sky. “Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! Mommy! Mommy! Please! Take me away!”

  I slapped her across the face. “Eva!”

  “Mommy!”

  I hit her again.

  “Take me away!”

  And again.

  “Leave me alone!”

  And again.

  Along silence. She watched me as if she’d never seen me before.

  “Come on, Eva,” I whispered. “I’ll take you back to the house.”

  Without a word she crumpled into my arms.

  20

  May 7, 1962

  Dr. Margaret Sanford’s Tokyo office is on Nakasando Avenue, not far from the Koishkawa Botanical Gardens. Her chauffeur wheeled Eva and me into an underground garage, then up an elevator, and down a lush carpeted corridor to the third door on the right.

  Implanted behind a desk stacked with disheveled files and reports, Margaret glanced up over the top of her reading glasses and rose to greet us.

  “Norman!” She pecked me somewhere behind the left ear. “How are you?”

  “Coping.”

  “And Janice?”

  “Fine. She indulges me shamelessly.”

  “Everyone does, my dear.” She patted my hand, turning her attention to Eva.

  I made introductions and tried to interpret Eva’s reaction to Dr. Sanford. Most people initially see her in a well-meaning, befuddled light. Good-hearted but not terribly bright. But it didn’t take long to taste gristle beneath the Eleanor Roosevelt mush.

  She shuffled behind the desk and shut drapes across the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, then picked forlornly at the clutter on the desk top. “You must forgive all this,” she muttered. “People ask me for a psychological definition of Homo sapiens, and I sometimes think ‘a paper-wasting animal’ would be as good as any.” She settled into the chair and folded both hands in front of her. “Now, Eva, what has Norman said about me? Or perhaps, knowing his talent for gossip, I should ask what he left out?”