by David Goodis
He closed his eyes. He let his head sag, let the magazine slide from his fingers, and he knew he was going to stride halfway toward sleep and stay there, dangling at the halfway point, and she couldn’t wake him up. She would let him stay there, half asleep until it was four thirty, until it was time to get the bandage off. Now he could feel his face separated from the bandage, knowing it was new and ready under the bandage, all ready with the bandage so loose and air in there and everything dry and fresh and ready. And clean, like the clean shirt he wore, and new, like the new tie, and ready as his body was ready, ready to get moving and go away. And he thought of Patavilca, and he thought of George Fellsinger and he thought of the money remaining in the pocket of the grey worsted suit. Almost eight hundred dollars, and it was enough, very much enough. It was enough for food and lodging and railroad tickets. Down through Mexico, down through Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica. Down through Panama. Or perhaps he could fly. It would be better to fly. It would be swift and luxurious. Down through Mexico. Past them all and down through Colombia and Ecuador. Down to Peru, landing in Lima, then going up to Patavilca, staying in Patavilca, staying there for always. And the things he had seen in the travel folder were spreading out, going out very wide, and now immense, and moving in all the dimensions, the water purplish out there away from the bright white beach, the water moving, the waves coming in, smooth under the sun, smooth as his face was smooth, smooth under the bandage.
He wondered who had killed George Fellsinger.
The money would last long in Patavilca. American money always lasted long down there in those places, and after he made certain arrangements with papers he would find work and gradually he would learn to speak Spanish, learn to speak it the way they spoke it down there and would have something to start with, something to build from, something that would grow by itself even as he kept building it.
He wondered about his health. The kidney trouble. The sinus.
He would be all right if he watched himself, and if he did have attacks now and then he knew how to handle these attacks and he would be all right. He would be all right in Patavilca. He would be fine down there, and he wondered if they had cigarettes down there, and he wondered what Peruvian cigarettes tasted like, and wondered if he would see a woman down there who would be very thin, very graceful with the thinness. He decided that after a while when his Spanish was all right he would open up a little shop and sell the things they needed down there. He could make trips to Lima and buy things and bring them up and sell them in the shop. He wouldn’t work hard. He wouldn’t need to work hard. He would have everything he needed and would really have everything he wanted. And it would be delightful down there in Patavilca.
He wondered why anyone would want to kill George Fellsinger.
If there was anything wrong with the Patavilca idea, it was only that he would be alone down there. But wherever he went he would be alone because he couldn’t afford to take up with anyone. Sooner or later that someone would begin asking questions that had no direct answer and it would lead to a puzzle and that someone would want to solve the puzzle. So Patavilca was logical after all, and he was glad it was logical because it was the place where he wanted to be, because he so much liked what he had seen in the travel folder, and he had seen many travel folders, many pictures of many places and he had never seen anything quite like Patavilca. So he was glad it was going to be Patavilca after all, and when he was down there for a while maybe he wouldn’t be alone after all because then he would be speaking Spanish and he would get to know Peruvians and there would be things to talk about and places to see and he would have everything he wanted in Patavilca. He wouldn’t get too friendly with anyone, but he would know just enough people to prevent himself from getting lonely.
He wondered if things had happened in the Fellsinger case that weren’t in the papers.
And in Patavilca they would never get him. For the rest of his life he would be away from them. He saw something that had happened long ago. It was when he was in Oregon to see that basketball game. That day when he arrived up there it was snowing in Eugene. He was in his room in a little hotel and outside it was gradually clearing but there was much snow. A little bus came down the street. There were some children playing on the sidewalk and they were making snowballs. As the bus passed them they threw snowballs at the windows. He remembered one of the children was wearing a bright green sweater and a bright green wool cap. And the bus was bright orange, and as the snowballs hit the windows the driver let loose with the exhaust that caused a minor explosion, a spurt of black smoke that frightened the children and sent them scampering away. But they were away and that was what they wanted. And he would be away and that was what he wanted. The spurt of black exhaust smoke was the futile attempt to grab him, but it wasn’t enough to grab him and in Patavilca he would be away. He would be away from everything he wanted to be away from.
He wondered why someone had killed Gert. He wondered why that someone had killed George Fellsinger.
In Patavilca he would be under the sun most of the time, letting the sun pour down on him, on the beach under the sun, walking into the purplish water. Perhaps it was really and fully as purplish as it had looked in the travel folder.
A hand nudged his shoulder. He looked up. He saw her.
She said, “Vincent—it’s time.”
He brought his head back. She was smiling.
She said, “It’s four thirty. It’s time to take the bandage off.”
He looked at his wrist watch. It said four thirty.
She went into the bathroom. She came out with a pair of scissors. He began to quiver. His face felt very dry and flat and smooth and ready under the bandage. The bandage was soggy and old and his face felt new.
She started to cut the bandage. She worked slowly. She sat there with his face brought forward a little so she could get at the bandage better. Now the bandage was coming off. It came off smoothly, easily, and she unwrapped the gauze until she came to more adhesive tape, then she went through that with the scissors and unwrapped more gauze. He watched her. She didn’t see his eyes. She had her attention centered on the bandage, getting it away from his mouth, now going up past his cheeks and his nose, and he watched her, and her face wouldn’t tell him anything, and she had it coming away from the upper part of his face and then she took hold of it where it was caked and very slowly she pulled it away so that now she had the entire bandage off. And she had it in her hands, with the scissors and she was looking at him. She was looking at his new face.
And then she fainted.
15
IT WAS quiet and very slow, the way she went down, the way she subsided on the floor. She looked tired and little there, and now he was not yet starting to wonder why she had fainted. He only felt sorry for her because she had fainted. He went into the bathroom and took hold of a glass and turned on the cold water faucet. Then he realized there was a mirror in front of him, level with his face. And he looked up.
And he saw his new face.
He frowned.
It was very difficult to believe that he was actually looking at himself. This was not himself.
This was new and different and he had not expected this. The shape of his face was changed. The aspect of his face was all changed. He still had the same eyes and nose and lips, unchanged, but they seemed to be placed differently.
There was nothing dreadful about it. There was everything remarkable and fascinating about it. The man who had fixed his face was a magician. He wondered why Irene had fainted. He leaned toward the mirror. There were no scars, except when he made extremely close study he could see the faint outlines. Only five days ago, and it was astounding. There was nothing in the mirror to indicate that he had been given a new face, but his former face had undergone an operation and new flesh had been added and steel had gone into the flesh and his face had been changed. There were no signs of damage, there was nothing except the new face. He could see it under the five-day beard, the
pale, scattered growth.
And he wondered why she had fainted.
He leaned even closer toward the mirror. And he examined his new face. He twisted his features and his features twisted nicely, as if he had always owned this face. He put his hands to his face and it was really his face. In the mirror he saw his hands on his face and on his face he felt the pressure of his hands and there was no pain, there was no special feeling. Only his hands on his new face.
Perhaps the beard had something to do with it. But he didn’t have much of a beard, and his face was distinct under what beard there was. The beard hadn’t caused it. He wondered what had caused it, what had caused her to faint.
He filled the glass with cold water, went into the living room. He dipped fingers into the glass, flicked water on her face. She opened her eyes. She started to sit up. She looked at his face and shuddered and closed her eyes again. He flicked more water, and she opened her eyes, sat up fully. She looked at him. Her eyes stretched up and down.
He said, “Is it as bad as that?”
His voice was different.
He said, “It’s all right with me. And if it’s all right with me it ought to be all right with you.”
His voice was very different. It had always been a light voice. Now it was even lighter, and it was somewhat hollow.
She stood up. She was looking at him. She said, “I expected to see something very dreadful.”
“Is that why you fainted?”
She nodded. She couldn’t stop the up-and-down stretching of her eyes. She said, “I guess it was everything, added up. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know what to say. He mumbled, “I guess these things happen sometimes.”
“Take the whiskers off,” she said. “Maybe I’m imagining things.”
He went into the bathroom. He looked at the face again. Then he prepared it for shaving. The skin cream felt all right, the soap felt all right. Even the razor felt all right. And afterward the cold water felt like cold water always feels. He mopped the towel against the face and then he looked at the face. It was bright and new and clean. He wondered what had happened to the flesh that had been taken from his arms. He couldn’t see any sign of it on his new face. And on his arms the cuts had healed, had been healed now for two days. And he had a new face, and already he was beginning to feel that he had always owned this face. And it was magic.
He went into the living room, buttoning his shirt.
She looked at him. Now he was arranging his tie. She said, “Yes, it’s unbelievable.”
“Are you going to let it get you?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You have no problem,” he said. “I’m all right now. I can go now. You don’t need to worry about it any more.”
She looked at the window. Out there it was coming down from overturned tubs. The wind was hitting it and throwing it all around out there and it was one of those very big rains that come down now and then from the north, pushed by a wild and warm wind.
She said, “When are you going?”
“Now.”
“No.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t stay here either,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I just feel that I can’t, that’s all.”
“I don’t get this.”
“Neither do I. But it’s the way I feel. I just can’t stay here. I’ve got to go away somewhere.”
He picked up a pack of cigarettes. She wanted one. He lit her cigarette and lit his own. He looked at the window. He said, “All right, Irene. Give me it. All of it.”
“Beginning with what?”
“Your father.” He walked toward the window. He examined the thickness and speed of the rain. He turned and looked at her.
She said, “He didn’t kill my stepmother. It was an accident. That’s what he said. That’s what I believed and what I’ll always believe. And I’ll always believe that you didn’t kill your wife and you didn’t kill George Fellsinger.”
“With Gert and Fellsinger it was no accident. Somebody killed them.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“Then who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
He sat on the sofa and made little burning orange circles with the end of the cigarette. He said, “Maybe it was Madge.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe it was Bob Rapf.”
“Maybe.”
He stopped playing with the cigarette. He put it in his mouth and gave it a pull. He let the smoke come out slowly and he looked at her and he said, “Maybe it was you.”
She came over to the sofa and sat at the other end. She leaned back and her eyes went toward the ceiling. She said, “Maybe.”
Parry took another pull at the cigarette. He said, “I don’t know why I’m trying to figure it out. I don’t see what difference it makes now. I don’t want to get even with anybody. All I want is to get away. I’ve got my new face and nobody will recognize me, and I ought to be getting on my way while the getting is good.”
“But you’re curious, aren’t you?”
“I guess that’s it,” he said. “I guess I’m beginning to get curious.”
“And angry.”
“No,” he said. “No, I’m not angry. I thought all along it was an accident that killed Gert. Now that I know it was murder I ought to be angry. But I’m not. I’m not even angry about Fellsinger. I’m sort of sad about Fellsinger but not too sad because he didn’t have much to live for anyway. What I can’t understand is why anyone would want to kill him.”
“And your wife?”
“That’s easier.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s something. Start from there.”
“No. I’ll let it stay where it is and I’ll go away from it. I’ve had enough of it. I’ve got to get away.”
“Maybe if you tried you could find something.”
He looked at her. He studied the grey eyes and said, “Do you really want me to try?”
“If you think it’s worth it, yes. If you think you’ve got something to start with, a place to start, and a time, and if you can work from there——”
“Yes,” he said, still studying the grey eyes. “I’ve got a place and a time. The place was that road. The time was the moment you followed me into those woods.”
“Take it back further. Take it back to the trial. Do you see any logic in the fact that I was more than a little interested in the trial?”
He looked at the floor. “How sure are you that your father was innocent?”
“Just as sure as I know you’re innocent. Just as sure as I know there’s a world and a sun and stars. I reacted normally when I recognized the similarity between your situation and what happened to my father. I couldn’t get in on your trial but I knew it was an accident, just as my stepmother’s death was an accident. All I could do was write crazy letters to the Chronicle.”
He nodded. “That was all right then.” He shook his head. “Now there’s no similarity. There’s a killer in this somewhere.”
“You’re not a killer, Vincent.”
He frowned. “That can’t be the only reason you’re going to bat for me. There’s another reason dancing around in the middle of all this and now that we’re having a showdown you might as well hand it over.”
She didn’t reply to that immediately.
He watched her.
A good fifteen seconds went by. Then she said, “I’m helping you because I feel like helping you. Do you mind?”
“No,” he said. “I’m too tired to mind. I’m too tired to coax it out of you. But every now and then I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll even worry about it. I don’t know. Let’s play some Count Basie.”
“Nothing doing.” Abruptly her voice was firm. “You don’t want to hear Basie just now. You want to hear all about the hook-up. Madge, and myself—and Bob.”
; He remembered a phrase used by the little man, Max Weinstock, the upholsterer. He said, “Just one of those things.”
“No, Vincent. Not just one of those things. San Francisco is a big city. When the trial ended I wasn’t satisfied. I knew there were things that hadn’t come out in the courtroom. I wanted to get at those things. There’s a certain gift some people have for getting to meet people and striking up friendships. I’m either blessed or damned with that gift, because only a few weeks after the trial ended I was friendly with Madge Rapf.”
“Did she know what you were after?”
“If she did, if she had the slightest idea, she ought to get an Academy Award. No, Vincent, I’m sure I managed it all right. We were seeing a lot of each other, lunch and shopping and movies and so forth, and it got to the point where I could write her biography if I wanted to.”
