Slowly, almost stupidly, her gaze moved along the signs hanging the length of the street and there it was, like something experienced in old nightmares, a small white sign with black letters announcing the Anglo-Majorcan Export Company. Something like a long sigh escaped Melissa and then—calmly ending the moment of suspension she moved forward and without hesitation crossed the street to enter an alley that would remove her forever from the Veri Rosario. No more than a moment had passed since the man had shouted. She must have jolted him into betraying himself, or perhaps he had called to his comrade for help.
It was like being wrenched out of a deep sleep and Melissa was trembling as she came out upon the Plaza Gralmo Franco. It was not her carelessness that shook her, although she found it unforgivable, but rather it was the sensation of having stumbled to the edge of an abyss, of having looked briefly into a world of violence where no laws were recognized and no mercy discernible. What would have happened if she had continued her stroll down the Veri Rosario? She could not easily shrug away the abrupt urgent shout of the one man, the running footsteps of the other, or the resultant sense of nightmare. It had been like a slow-motion moving picture suddenly shifted into high speed; the one moment everything calm, the scene a cobbled street peopled with browsing tourists, and then the menacing shout.
But even more sobering was the realization that she had seen the Anglo-Majorcan Export Company with her own eyes for this gave it a reality that it had never possessed for her before. She knew now that it existed, and that behind its façade there might even be real people who mourned Stearns’ death. The reactions of the two men following her had verified the significance of the shop, thus adding another dimension of identity to its existence and marking it a place of danger. Because it was no longer just a name to her now, because she had seen it and it was a provable reality, she found herself recalling Stearns with astonishing clarity. She was able even to remember the texture of his voice as he gave her the book on A deck.
This incident on the Veri Rosario upset her. She realized that it had undermined something that she could not afford to lose, it was challenging her to acknowledge something unacknowledgeable. She felt obscurely oppressed as she walked up the plaza, as if she had acquired a burden of which she must rid herself. She found herself passing the police station, the telephone company, and the post office again, and on impulse—thoroughly disoriented—she mounted the stairs of the telephone company and walked inside. She had taken only a few steps into its dim interior when a man asked her in English what she desired. “I’d like a telephone number,” she told him.
“But of course, let me be of service. What is the name of the people to which you speak?”
Out on the steps she saw a man in a black suit loitering, and realized what a fool she was. “Excuse me—gracias,” she stammered, and turned and walked out, appalled at her folly. In another second she would have requested the telephone number of the Anglo-Majorcan Export Company and her words would have been irretrievably spoken aloud, they would have become available to any man who wished to know what the American señora had wanted and a link would have been forged between her and Stearns and the export company. She might just as well have walked down the Veri Rosario and entered the building. She shuddered. She had come to Majorca to display her innocence and in one hasty moment she had very nearly thrown everything away, perhaps even her life. Nor could she chance using the telephone at the hotel, either, for again there might be a man in a black suit who checked such requests. She must—had to—remember that she was to leave Palma on Monday without giving away any knowledge of the export company, and certainly without succumbing to any quixotic impulses.
The hotel was now the only safe place for her in an unsafe world, and as she hurried toward it up the boulevard she could regard with satisfaction what she had earlier scorned. Having discovered that she could not trust herself she must place all of her trust in this monument to security instead. It was why the hotel had been built, of course: to please and to reassure tourists who wanted no undermining influences from the world outside its walls. Here lay the ultimate safety of all, the safety of the womb, and she could appreciate this fact as never before, she could appreciate the young men of the island who wore the insignia of the hotel because they had been civilized and motivated, in fact everything in this particular corner of Palma had been sterilized and made palatable. How peculiar that she had not understood this, but had scoffed at travelers who must arrive in a country only to ignore it and hug the pools, the dining rooms, the boutiques. She too would ignore Palma now.
She walked up to her room and changed into her bathing suit, gathered up robe, cap, purse, sketchbook, and towel, and returned to the lobby. There was a line at the tour desk and she inquired the reason of the desk clerk. “It’s the Caves of Drach tour tomorrow,” he explained. “You don’t know of it? It is very popular, an all-day tour made only twice a week. Very fine, you should see it.”
“Obviously I should,” said Melissa firmly, and she joined the line and paid for a reservation. She was done now with unguided and misguided ventures into the unknown, it was time to join such well-organized rituals of her own people, the tourists. With her next day competently arranged she went to the pool and captured a chaise lounge in the sun….
12
She dined alone that evening, sitting straight and proud beside the window because she was aware of The Profile’s gaze upon her just as it had followed her all afternoon at poolside. “I have an audience again,” she told herself. “I can sit here proudly because there is again someone for whom to perform.” She had arrived later than the man, who was dining tonight with the teen-aged boy. When he arose to leave she was not at all surprised to see him go out of his way to pass her table. Nor was she surprised when he paused beside her and waited for her to look up.
He said with a slow smile, “I think you’re American, too.”
“Yes, I am,” she said brightly. “From Massachusetts. And you?”
“From California.” He held out his hand. “Marc West’s the name.”
She shook his hand. “How do you do, and I’m Mrs. Aubrey. Melissa Aubrey.”
He said gravely. “I was wondering if you’d care to join me later in touring some of the nightspots here.”
“But I’d be delighted,” she told him with equal gravity. “Is that your son traveling with you?”
“I’m not married,” he said. “No, that’s Peter Carmer. His parents are still at the pool.” He added politely but with infinite meaning, “And you are traveling alone, too, Mrs. Aubrey?”
“Yes, quite alone.”
“Fine!” His smile registered his pleasure. “Shall we meet then at nine in the lobby?”
“At nine—and thank you,” she said. Still smiling she watched his broad shoulders move across the room to join the waiting boy. So it had happened, she mused; incredible! Life did have magic still, and she and Marc West would see Palma at night and softly, gently come to know each other…it was all so smooth, so effortless, the way inevitable things must happen.
* * *
—
She dressed ritualistically in her most striking frock, like a person whose life might be forever changed in the course of the next hours. “I need an evening like this,” she thought. “I need it and I deserve it, I’ve handled all this by myself for much too long, and now it’s time to confide in someone.” The thought of sharing her burden gave a feeling of joy. To tell someone of what she had endured, to relinquish decision, to hear a man say with authority, “Let me take care of everything, I’ll see that this shocking affair is brought to an end at once.” Later she would tell him that in her mind she had called him The Profile before she knew his name, and he would say, “For me it was seeing you arrive in the dining room that first evening, you looked so superbly fearless as you sat there alone…”
Promptly at nine o’clock Melissa descended in the elevator to fi
nd Marc West waiting for her near the first of the boutique shops. He was in conversation with a middle-aged couple, each of them plump-breasted and very American, the man in a white dinner jacket, the woman in a wildly flowered dress. Seeing Melissa Marc West smiled. “Here she is,” he said. “This is Mrs. Aubrey, folks. Mrs. Aubrey, I’d like you to meet the Jamisons, Joe and Hazel.”
“How do you do.”
“Isn’t Majorca divine?” beamed Hazel.
Melissa nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes.” She smiled at Marc, waiting for him to disengage them tactfully from the Jamisons, but his eyes were intently fixed upon two people crossing the lobby. “Emil,” he called, “Emil, you and Betty care to join our group tonight?”
Melissa was surprised. She glanced at the Jamisons, both of whom smiled eagerly back at her with very white, square teeth. She realized in astonishment that the Jamisons were also going to view the night life of Palma with Marc West, and that in all probability Emil and Betty would be joining them, too. She felt not so much disappointed as wary; she had not expected so pedestrian an arrangement from a man who looked as Marc West did. It was no longer a question of romance but of taste.
She realized that she had just been introduced to Emil and Betty Carmer, who were Peter’s parents, and that they too were smiling at her expectantly. “You the lady artist?” asked Emil brightly.
Marc West laughed. “Yes, we’ve all been curious. Are you?”
Melissa nodded, and Emil crowed triumphantly. “Thought so.”
Marc West said gravely, “We saw you sketching at the pool this afternoon. That’s what I said right away, remember, Emil? I said ‘You can tell by the way she looks that she’s some kind of artist.’ ”
“But how thrilling,” said Hazel.
Emil’s wife said, “Do you make ashtrays?”
“I make pictures,” said Melissa, bewildered. “That is, I paint pictures.”
“Do any nudes?” asked Emil with a wink.
Hazel poked him in the ribs. “Now don’t you go getting ideas there, Emil. Betty, you’d better watch him tonight. Marc, what are we waiting for?”
“I had hoped the Robertsons would join us,” he said, plainly disappointed. “But obviously they’re still tied up. Shall we find a taxi?”
He grasped Melissa’s arm. As they moved toward the doors he said, “The Robertsons’ daughter flew in unexpectedly today but there’s not a room available in Palma. At last report the manager was trying to find a cot for her. It’s because of the conference beginning here soon,” he explained. “Political conference.”
“Uh—yes, I’ve heard about it,” she said politely.
Two taxis were ordered and Marc West handed her into one. Behind them Hazel erupted with shrill laughter at being told she must sit on her husband’s lap in the second cab, and Melissa thought, “But this is deadly, why does he tolerate these people?” Catching his glance she smiled faintly but his eyes held no hint of conspiracy. “This is a good group we’ve got tonight, don’t you think so, Mrs. Aubrey?” he said, smiling.
She was startled. “Group?” she murmured dazedly.
“We had a good group last night, too,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many Americans are here, Mrs. Aubrey.”
Melissa said weakly, “I already am.”
There was a long silence as the taxi pulled away from the hotel. Marc West ended it at last by saying, “Yes, sir, we’re all lucky to have a roof over our heads. How long ago did you make your reservation here, Mrs. Aubrey?”
“Last April, I believe.”
“And did you come over by ship or plane?”
“Ship,” she said, and then, politely, “And you?”
“Plane.”
Another silence followed, and Melissa discovered that she could think of absolutely no way to keep the conversation moving. “And for how long are you traveling?” she asked desperately.
“I’m only here for a few days,” he said. “Then back to the old salt mines.”
She winced at his clichés. “And for you what are the salt mines?” she asked.
He laughed. “Now that’s what I like to forget while I’m on vacation. And in a place like Majorca I can.”
She discovered that she did not in the least care, but that it closed still another avenue of conversation. They were suddenly rescued, however: lights bathed the interior of the taxi, it drew to a halt and they had arrived at another hotel. They walked through a palm-studded lobby very similar to the one they had just left and then into a dim room containing more palms, an orchestra, and small tables. Hazel was already directing a waiter in the grouping of several small tables together. “Isn’t this place darling?” asked Hazel, glancing up with a smile.
“Darling,” echoed Melissa in a depressed voice.
They sat down and ordered drinks and Emil at once told a very bad joke. Marc West laughed hilariously, and Melissa turned to look at him. He was such a—a ponderous man, she thought, his personality so completely at odds with his handsome, even romantic appearance. Joe Jamison was now taking his turn at an equally poor joke and she thought grimly, “I don’t think I can stand a great deal of this.” She glanced at the two women and they each smiled at her eagerly. “Let’s order another round of drinks,” suggested Hazel, beaming.
Melissa thought, “Who am I trying to please, why am I smiling eagerly, too?” Already the muscles of her cheeks quivered from the fatigue of pretending. Feelings of entrapment added to her weariness. She reminded herself that if she left now she would be inexcusably rude, but the thought of remaining with them, of submerging her own self in an effort to act interested and even civilized, utterly dispirited her. Suddenly and firmly she pushed back her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud, and then lifting her voice, “I’m sorry but I’ve just remembered that if this is Thursday then I must be back at the hotel for a phone call at ten o’clock.”
Five pairs of eyes swiveled toward her in astonishment. “A phone call here—in Europe?” Emil asked skeptically.
“From Paris,” lied Melissa flatly.
Marc West said smoothly, gravely, “Then allow me to take you back, I’ll wait with you for your call and bring you back here again.”
But Melissa was already standing and poised for flight. “I think it would be better if you didn’t, it’s an extremely personal telephone call.”
Marc West looked taken aback and then incredulous, but she did not wait to observe any further reactions. “Delighted to have met you all!” she cried, suddenly gay now that she was to leave their suffocating company. With a wave of her hand she turned on her heel and fled.
* * *
—
Once she had regained her room Melissa began to laugh. “ ‘Won’t you join our group?’ ” she repeated, locking the door and tossing the key on the bed. “ ‘Don’t you think we have a good group tonight, Mrs. Aubrey? We had a good group last night, too.’ ” But her laughter quickly subsided for she was not really amused by the incident. The man struck her as tragic who must collect people, the more the better, in order to defend himself against experience. She felt cheated instead: all the ingredients of magic had been there, the whole encounter had possessed every quality of a fairy tale, the exchanged glances, the idyllic atmosphere all leading up to the confrontation and the invitation to Melissa to join him for the evening—and then it had proved revolting. “Adam has spoiled me,” she thought, and then she realized, “No, it is not only Adam, it is myself, too.”
She stopped pacing, surprised by this thought, and suddenly she realized the extent of the change inside of her. She had lost something that had been an integral part of her for years, but what she had in truth lost—she saw this now—was the sickest part of all: she could no longer weave images or distort what she saw. Her needs were being replaced by values so that in her very failure tonight there was success. The knowledge transfixed her
, and she stood unmoving as she sought to understand it. For she would have liked to change Marc West into a man of integrity. She once might have willed him to be everything that she wanted—another, more possessable Adam—but she could no longer accomplish this. Try as she might, the man remained what he was: empty, unaware, and vain. This time not even her need to escape herself could carry her past reality. She could not construct a glorious phantom even of a man who was handsome, available, and attentive, because in spite of being all of these he was without a soul. He was literally, uninhabited.
She turned off the lights and sat down on the bed, thinking of this in the darkness as she listened to the sounds of music in the hotel below. She felt alternately frightened and intoxicated by this new freedom, a little dizzied by the vision it gave her of a life governed by choice rather than compulsive need. She found herself smiling at the audacity of her flight from the very epitome of everything once desirable to her, above all her flight from the available. When she fell asleep she was smiling.
13
But in the morning it was different. She awoke with a deep sadness in her and an edgy sense of restlessness, for she had lost something again. She wanted to turn back—now, quickly, before it was too late—and recapture that outgrown self for there was nothing yet to take its place. She was not ready for this new, discriminating Melissa, for to be discriminating was to remain alone, and she did not want to be alone. Once again she felt suspended between two points, neither here nor there.
As she dressed for the Caves of Drach tour, she wondered despairingly, “To whom can I turn now?” But again there was no one, and in this restlessness there was the feeling that she moved nearer and nearer to some discovery that she scarcely dared make, as if last night had carried her to the brink of something new and momentous which she could not bear to experience lest it shatter her.
She had an early breakfast and was one of the first to board the waiting tour bus. After an exchange of pleasantries with the driver she found a seat in the center next to a window. She was not really surprised when one of the men, in a black suit, climbed aboard the bus; he did not give her so much as a glance but looked grave and preoccupied as he moved to a rear seat. Next, to her surprise, came Marc West carrying several cameras slung around his neck but he was followed—mercifully—by the Carmer boy. They chose the two seats in front of her.
Uncertain Voyage Page 13
