Dress Her in Indigo

by John D. MacDonald

  “Why do you strain so hard to be clever, McGee?” he asked.

  “Answer a question with a question,” I said, “and you buy time to sort things out.”

  “I used the name Rocko in a generic rather than a particular sense. The Rockos of the world are always scheming, aren’t they? Just as you were when you first arrived. I merely said that I feel competent to protect myself against the schemes of … the Rockos and the McGees.”

  “But you met the girl, didn’t you? Bix Bowie?”

  “Should I have?”

  “Through Rocko or through Eva Vitrier, one or the other. Why not?”

  He smiled. “I went through deep analysis ages ago, my dear man, with a very fashionable New York shrink. He had this quaint trick of trying to stir up guilt by asking questions in exactly that manner. One does lie to one’s psychiatrist, you know. The truth is so utterly rancid sometimes. One wants to look better. But with all that endless talking, it is terribly difficult to remember what one might have said a dozen afternoons ago. No, I did not meet the lass. Nor do I see any reason why I should be expected to have met her, or have any memory of her if I did. What are you really looking for?”

  “All the reasons why the girl drove off the mountain in your car, Bruce.”

  “I shall never never forgive the little bitch. That was a marvelous little car. Very loyal and dependable.”

  David Saunders yawned, belched, reached for the wine bottle.

  “See?” Becky cried. “We’re boring poor David. A lovely meal, Bruce. Do you have any of that marvelous brandy? The kind I like? I can’t remember the name. Good! Just a tiny bit, no more than a tablespoon. And can we leave table? Thank you, darling.”

  As we got up, Meyer said, “Mr. Bundy, I appreciate your hospitality and your kindness, but I think that I am beginning to feel unwell. The altitude and the wine, I think. The best thing for me would be a walk in the fresh air. I can walk down to the plaza and take a cab back up the hill to the hotel. No, Travis. Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”

  Gracefully and shrewdly done, old friend. After he left the brandy was served, and I noticed that Bruce gave David Saunders the opportunity to pour his own, and a snifter that gave him enough scope to be foolhardy. They went off into the house. Bruce wanted to show David some of the artifacts he had collected.

  Becky and I went into a far corner of the patio, sat together on a stone bench near a small, persistent fountain.

  “You were very naughty, Travis, really.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Ah! Such innocence. It was a lovely little party and then you made poor Bruce so awfully uncomfortable and nervous. He was terribly upset by that whole Rockland affair. Actually, it’s the last thing he wants to have mentioned.”

  “And you know all about it?”

  “He talks over his problems with me. He asks my advice. He’s not a bad sort, you know. Sometimes he is quite foolish and impulsive and he encounters … problems that are typical of the world he lives in. I think that because I never condemn him, we’ve been able to become friends.”

  “Such good friends you brought him a little gift.”

  “A gift?”

  “One husky, sunburned young archeologist.”

  “Of course, ducks! We are frightfully nasty degenerates who go about handing our discards to our chums. And I imagine that quite puts you off, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know enough about it. Or about you.”

  “Me? I am just a wicked old woman with a ravenous appetite for strong young men. They are generally sweet and touching and grateful. But this chap was … out of focus somehow. He fancies himself as some sort of overwhelming stud. But he has that talent for little bits of brutality that betrays him for what he really is. I had begun to suspect him, and then he told me a horrid little story about beating up homosexuals and taking their money when he was at school. Such chaps are usually hiding their own tendencies from themselves. I had decided to cut him loose because he is really dull. He has no sense of fun. But I had described him to Bruce, and Bruce said that were I to bring him around, he could quickly tell me if my suspicion was correct. After ten minutes Bruce knew and let me know. So … it might be rather nice for Bruce after such a fiasco with that Rockland person. Bruce is quite lonely this year. The chap who used to stay with him drowned last year in the surf at Acapulco when they were down visiting friends. It was a terrible shock to Bruce. Do I sound as if I were pleading for forgiveness and understanding? Hardly! After all, I did not exactly bash him upon the head and gift wrap him and put him on the doorstep did I?”

  “What did happen with Rockland?”

  “My dear, you are very, very nice. But, my word, you are tiresome at times! Here we are, quite alone, both of us with that marvelous knowledge that we would be awfully, awfully good in bed together, and all you seem to want from me is a long tiresome story—far too long to tell here. I know you respond to me. We’re becoming quite deliciously aware of each other. Shouldn’t you be trying to bundle me off into my lonely bed instead of leaving the advances to me? I am quite sick of the young, young men. They are in endless supply, and unlike poor David, they are terrible sweet and earnest and dear. But too sweet. Like endless desserts. They cloy. But one accepts, because the mature ones with any style and presence are usually married. And I have a rule about that. It is too much like theft.”

  “But what about my wife and five kids?”

  “You lie, sir! A woman leaves her mark, her scent, her shape upon what is hers, whether it is her furs, her underthings, or her man. You are not married, and I doubt you ever have been. Though I was once, several centuries ago.”

  “Here I come again, tiresome as ever. How do I find out about Rockland?”

  “Why, I should imagine that you would have to sit down with Bruce and have him tell you, dearie.”

  “Correction. How do I find out about Rockland from you?”

  “Let me see now. You are asking me to betray a confidence. That means that I would have to have some good reason for breaking faith. I should have to know exactly why you wish to know all this, and understand your motives. And, of course, I would have to believe you. That is the tricky part, because you lie so much. And you lie so well! No woman ever knows a man, or ever really trusts him until they have made love. Then, of course, she often discovers she has trusted some absolute scoundrel. But then it would be too late, would it not?”

  “Let me see. You picked me off the sidewalk in front of this place. You have not had enough booze to cloud the mind of a mouse. You are damned attractive, Becky. And I am sitting here on a fag’s patio in lovely Oaxaca letting you put a ring in my nose so you can lead me off to the sack. Such things don’t happen.”

  “Such a horrid, suspicious, nasty little mind. You are a towering chap, showing signs of rough use, and I find you monstrously attractive. Your pale eyes and your big hands and the way your lips are made and the way your voice sounds, all these things have just made me terribly randy. So I choose not to blush and simper and flirt, because men are horribly anxious to protect their pride and quite often never make the attempt for fear of failure. And life is awfully short, and each day it is shorter by one day. And there is something else about me which I might or might not tell you later. It depends.”

  “All right. Such things happen.”

  “But in case you feel overwhelmed or anything, we don’t have to make it definite, not at this moment. I can provide a nightcap and we can cast ballots or something. But let’s find those two dear boys and say goodnight.”

  When we were halfway across the patio, David and Bruce appeared in the corridor, walking toward us. Bruce had hold of David’s arm. David Saunders was staggering, mumbling, making sweeping gestures, tripping on the irregularities of the tiles.

  “Whas’m never’n standa menshunenny.”

  He peered at us, feet planted wide, and wrenched his arm out of Bruce’s grasp. He started to say something incomprehensible and made another big gest
ure which swung him off balance. He melted down onto the tile and sagged over onto his back and began to snore.

  “I think he drank a little too much,” Bruce said.

  “Would it be too much of an imposition for you to put him up for the night, dear?”

  “Gracious, no!”

  “Want me to help you with him?” I asked.

  “Thanks, I can manage. Becky, the gate is on the latch. When you shut it, give it a try to be sure it’s locked, will you?”

  “Of course,” she said. We thanked him for the dinner. He acknowledged it in absentminded fashion. He sat on his heels, worked one arm under David’s shoulders, another under his thighs, poised for a moment, and then came up smartly with the slack meaty burden. The head lolled and an arm swung limply. In sleep the sullenness was gone. David was a large dreaming child. His burned features looked more delicate. Bruce’s feat had been impressive and I suspected it had been done for my benefit. He could indeed feel quite able to take care of himself.

  We went in her Lotus. She said my rented car would be quite safe where it was parked. She drove through the dark streets alertly and competently, sitting tall, chin up, hands solid on the wheel, through the rush of wind, past dark buildings.

  She said her place was in La Colonia. Wider streets. High walls. Gates. She swung in and stopped, the headlights shining on an iron gate. She gave me the keys, indicating the one for the gate. I unlocked it and swung it open. She drove in and waited while I closed and locked the gate. Then along a curving drive paved with white gravel. Night lights on in the house. Left the car in front. Went through large formal rooms and out into a walled area in back. She turned on lights, little spots and floods and the lights below the water level of a large curved pool.

  “I know,” she said. “It left rather a bad taste. But Brucey will not be sordid about it. He’ll undress poor David and tuck him into a big bed and leave him quite alone. In the morning he’ll be tearful and terribly upset and accuse poor David of all manner of amorous aggression, and claim he is going to register a bitter complaint with me. Poor David will be beside himself with shock and fright and shame. And sometime tomorrow they will kiss and forgive, and I expect that after the weekend David will be moving in, and in a few months he will have rather a pretty little lisp. He might become a much nicer person, actually. Just stop looking so broody and accusing about it, darling. Open that cupboard door and you’ll find ice and all kinds of liquor. Cheer up, dammit!”

  So I made my drink. She refused one. She sat beside me for some silent moments, then got up from the chaise and walked to the far end of the pool. Without posing, posturing, or artifice, she kicked her shoes off, pulled the mini-dress off, floated a wisp of brassiere onto the pile, stepped out of sheer pants, hooked her bare toes over the curbing. Her figure was riper than I would have guessed, but solid, smooth and firm as that of a circus girl, tumbler, or ballerina.

  “Goes with the nightcap or not,” she called to me. “Whatever you choose, my good man.”

  And in she went, in a flat sleek slapping racing dive.

  Well, you came down here, fella, to find out about Bix Bowie. And, by God, no sacrifice is too great once a fella gives his solemn word, right? And the way you get to know a country is by getting to know the people, right? And even though there’s a pretty good size to that pool, what with the pool lights and all, you ought to be able to catch her sooner or later. So I think the answer ought to be that if it really goes with the nightcap, then …

  But I discovered I was already trying to pull the trousers off with the shoes still on, so I sat down again and untied the shoes, thus solving that problem with hardly any trouble at all.

  She clung, sweat-misted, still breathing deeply, and ground the scratchy ruff of her tawn-crisp hair into the side of my laboring throat; she gave her small crow-caw of delighted laughter.

  “You do have to say something, you know,” said Lady Becky. “Some observation. Some passing comment. I rather like to remember the better ones.”

  “Okay. Passing comment: Quote. Holy Mackerel. Close quote.”

  She rolled up onto an elbow. “I think you are very nice, McGee. I think I will tell you what you just enjoyed.”

  “I wouldn’t want to try to describe it myself.”

  “I have to confess how ancient I am, darling. I am terribly old. I was married before the Battle of Britain. I was in London for the whole bit. Dreadfully earnest and devoted and valiant. Family tradition. All heroes. Volunteer nursing service. Stiff uppper lip. So my beloved husband was in Spits, and they pranged him early on. And the others went, bit by bit. The chums and brothers, the family and the sister. Stiff upper lip, lass. Strive on. So it ended, you know. And peace came, and two days later some damned delayed action thing went off, and it was my last duty call. Collapsed a row of flats and they burned. And I held two screaming tots, one after the other, on my lap, charred little things, trying to pop morphine into them before they died. Managed with one and didn’t with the other. Dreadful stench. Total pointlessness. Walked all night, said odd things. They put me off to rest. I was expected to pick up the loose ends of my life and start over, somehow. Do good works. But there were no loose ends, lamb. And I had a bellyful of good works.

  “So one makes an accounting of sorts. I had, God knows, money enough, and time, and a strong body. And I was in a world that charred tots, and I wanted no more of it. What I had most adored with Robin was all the lovely free marital fornication. Never could get enough. He used to say I had great natural talent. So I vowed solemnly, ducks, to become the jolly best piece of Anglo-Saxon ass in all Christendom. It is sad and remarkable that people really know so little about it. They sort of fumble about and trust to luck. I knew that all I had to work with was my body. I had to keep it as enticing as possible, because one must arouse intense desire, or the game is lost before it is begun, what? I haven’t changed an inch or a pound in twenty years, my dear. I stay on the most strict routine of diet and exercise. And I go twice a year to a Swiss clinic for hormone balance, and there is a clever little Japanese doctor in your California who does clever little operations when they’re needed. To know how to use the body, one must go to Yoga. God, how I labored, and then suddenly it fell into place. I have absolute and independent control now of every muscle in my body, even all those reactions that are supposed to be involuntary responses to erotic stimulus. And all this time, my dear, I was studying all the books on the arts of love that I could find. Hindu, Arabic, Ancient Egyptian. I am now a repository of all that learning and skill. And I know some astonishing things, luv. It is a responsibility, actually. I had to learn a great deal about anatomy, neurology, glandular functions, all that. So you see what’s in store, my good man? You’ve had a taste. And now I shall destroy you, bit by delicious bit. Because you shall respond again and again after you are quite certain you are finished. I need merely do some odd thing like … this?”

  And as I was tumbled back into my role of awed participant in the second strenuous, virtuoso performance, I realized I had come upon a prime example of that uniquely English phenomenon, the true eccentric. Some of them build cathedrals out of bits of matchstick. Some of them count the number of stalks of hay in the average haystack. Some write a hundred letters a week to the London Times. Some catalogue all the birds in fifty meadows. They are all quite mad, but do not know that they are mad, since they find a socially acceptable outlet for their monomania. This woman had been driven mad in a mad war, and had retained one little ledge of sanity and built the rest of the structure of her life upon it. But I could not carry my realizations any further, because something hitherto unknown had begun to happen, and it felt as if my head were starting to fry at the hair roots. I thought I heard her laughing, but then all I could hear in some far corner of the most primitive part of my mind, was myself roaring, atavistic and lonely.

  There was another time of respite when, halfheartedly, I asked about Bruce Bundy and Rockland. She told me that they had met on the veran
da of the Marqués del Valle many weeks ago, and that Bruce knew Rockland had let himself be picked up. Bruce had told her that Rockland was not exactly inexperienced. He had then begun to ask Bruce to lend him money. Some large amount. Ten or fifteen thousand. It was to be some sort of investment scheme. Rockland had hinted that it was illegal but quite safe. He would double Bruce’s money. He then got very surly when Bruce said he would not cash in perfectly good securities in order to lend money to an animal off the streets. Then apparently Rocko had to leave the trailer park. Bruce let him bring the truck and camper and put it in the shed beyond his wall where Bruce garaged his little English Ford. There was room for both. He had moved into Bruce’s house on an apparently permanent basis. But he had spent Thursday, the last day of July, away from the house all day and a good part of the evening. When he came back he had asked Bruce to lend him a smaller amount. Three thousand or even two. When Bruce refused, Rockland had accepted it too calmly. In the small hours of Friday morning, Bruce had heard the distant sound of Rocko trying to start his truck. Bruce put his robe on and hurried out. She said Bruce had taken something out of the motor and hidden it. Rocko got out of the truck and tried to hit Bruce. But Bruce had won some sort of belt for some sort of way of fighting, and he kept in splendid shape, and so he had hit Rocko and knocked him unconscious, but when he fell he had hit his nose on the stone floor and bled, and it had made Bruce ill. When Rocko could walk, feeling very weak and shaky, Bruce had helped him into the house and into bed, and then he had gone back and searched the truck and found his little Picasso bronzes, and the solid gold amulets from Yucatan, and the prints and drawings by famous Mexican artists, and some of his better silverware.

  Out of an increasingly hazy state, I interrupted her at this point in her narrative to ask her what she was doing.

  “Dearest, don’t tighten up like that. Trust your Becky. There. Turn just a little bit more this way. That’s a dear. This will rest and relax you. It’s something Japanese women used to know, thousands of years ago. Just don’t think about me. Don’t think about anything. Just let your mind drift.”