The next morning Dr Phillips called to change his dressing.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ he commented, holding his torch in one hand as he retaped Maitland’s eyelids to his cheeks. ‘Another week and you’ll be out of this for good. At least you know what it’s like for the blind.’
‘One can envy them,’ Maitland said.
‘Really?’
‘They see with an inner eye, you know. In a sense everything there is more real.’
‘That’s a point of view.’ Dr Phillips replaced the bandages. He drew the curtains. ‘What have you seen with yours?’
Maitland made no reply. Dr Phillips had examined him in the darkened study, but the thin torch beam and the few needles of light around the curtains had filled his brain like arc lights. He waited for the glare to subside, realizing that his inner world, the grotto, the house of mirrors and the enchantress, had been burned out of his mind by the sunlight.
‘They’re hypnagogic images,’ Dr Phillips remarked, fastening his bag. ‘You’ve been living in an unusual zone, sitting around doing nothing but with your optic nerves alert, a no-man’s land between sleep and consciousness. I’d expect all sorts of strange things.’
After he had gone Maitland said to the unseen walls, his lips whispering below the bandages: ‘Doctor, give me back my eyes.’
It took him two full days to recover from this brief interval of external sight. Laboriously, rock by rock, he re-explored the hidden coastline, willing himself through the enveloping sea-mists, searching for the lost estuary.
At last the luminous beaches appeared again.
‘I think I’d better sleep alone tonight,’ he told Judith. ‘I’ll use mother’s room.’
‘Of course, Richard. What’s the matter?’
‘I suppose I’m restless. I’m not getting much exercise and there are only three days to go. I don’t want to disturb you.’
He found his own way into his mother’s bedroom, glimpsed only occasionally during the years since his marriage. The high bed, the deep rustle of silks and the echoes of forgotten scents carried him back to his earliest childhood. He lay awake all night, listening to the sounds of the river reflected off the cut-glass ornaments over the fireplace.
At dawn, when the gulls flew up from the estuary, he visited the blue grottoes again, and the tall house in the cliff. Knowing its tenant now, the green-robed watcher on the staircase, he decided to wait for the morning light. Her beckoning eyes, the pale lantern of her smile, floated before him.
However, after breakfast Dr Phillips returned.
‘Right,’ he told Maitland briskly, leading him in from the lawn. ‘Let’s have those bandages off.’
‘For the last time, Doctor?’ Judith asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly. We don’t want this to go on for ever, do we?’ He steered Maitland into the study. ‘Sit down here, Richard. You draw the curtains, Judith.’
Maitland stood up, feeling for the desk. ‘But you said it would take three more days, Doctor.’
‘I dare say. But I didn’t want you to get over-excited. What’s the matter? You’re hovering about there like an old woman. Don’t you want to see again?’
‘See?’ Maitland repeated numbly. ‘Of course.’ He subsided limply into a chair as Dr Phillips’ hands unfastened the bandages. A profound sense of loss had come over him. ‘Doctor, could I put it off for –’
‘Nonsense. You can see perfectly. Don’t worry, I’m not going to fling back the curtains. It’ll be a full day before you can see freely. I’ll give you a set of filters to wear. Anyway, these dressings let through more light than you imagine.’
At eleven o’clock the next morning, his eyes shielded only by a pair of sunglasses, Maitland walked out on to the lawn. Judith stood on the terrace, and watched him make his way around the wheelchair. When he reached the willows she called: ‘All right, darling? Can you see me?’
Without replying, Maitland looked back at the house. He removed the sunglasses and threw them aside on to the grass. He gazed through the trees at the estuary, at the blue surface of the water stretching to the opposite bank. Hundreds of the gulls stood by the water, their heads turned in profile to reveal the full curve of their beaks. He looked over his shoulder at the high-gabled house, recognizing the one he had seen in his dream. Everything about it, like the bright river which slid past him, seemed dead.
Suddenly the gulls rose into the air, their cries drowning the sounds of Judith’s voice as she called again from the terrace. In a dense spiral, gathering itself off the ground like an immense scythe, the gulls wheeled into the air over his head and swirled over the house.
Quickly Maitland pushed back the branches of the willows and walked down on to the bank.
A moment later, Judith heard his shout above the cries of the gulls. The sound came half in pain and half in triumph, and she ran down to the trees uncertain whether he had injured himself or discovered something pleasing.
Then she saw him standing on the bank, his head raised to the sunlight, the bright carmine on his cheeks and hands, an eager, unrepentant Oedipus.
1964
THE VOLCANO DANCES
They lived in a house on the mountain Tlaxihuatl half a mile below the summit. The house was built on a lava flow like the hide of an elephant. In the afternoon and evening the man, Charles Vandervell, sat by the window in the lounge, watching the fire displays that came from the crater. The noise rolled down the mountainside like a series of avalanches. At intervals a falling cinder hissed as it extinguished itself in the water tank on the roof. The woman slept most of the time in the bedroom overlooking the valley or, when she wished to be close to Vandervell, on the settee in the lounge.
In the afternoon she woke briefly when the ‘devil-sticks’ man performed his dance by the road a quarter of a mile from the house. This mendicant had come to the mountain for the benefit of the people in the village below the summit, but his dance had failed to subdue the volcano and prevent the villagers from leaving. As they passed him pushing their carts he would rattle his spears and dance, but they walked on without looking up. When he became discouraged and seemed likely to leave Vandervell sent the house-boy out to him with an American dollar. From then on the stick-dancer came every day.
‘Is he still here?’ the woman asked. She walked into the lounge, folding her robe around her waist. ‘What’s he supposed to be doing?’
‘He’s fighting a duel with the spirit of the volcano,’ Vandervell said. ‘He’s putting a lot of thought and energy into it, but he hasn’t a chance.’
‘I thought you were on his side,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you paying him a retainer?’
‘That’s only to formalize the relationship. To show him that I understand what’s going on. Strictly speaking, I’m on the volcano’s side.’
A shower of cinders rose a hundred feet above the crater, illuminating the jumping stick-man.
‘Are you sure it’s safe here?’
Vandervell waved her away. ‘Of course. Go back to bed and rest. This thin air is bad for the complexion.’
‘I feel all right. I heard the ground move.’
‘It’s been moving for weeks.’ He watched the stick-man conclude his performance with a series of hops, as if leap-frogging over a partner. ‘On his diet that’s not bad.’
‘You should take him back to Mexico City and put him in one of the cabarets. He’d make more than a dollar.’
‘He wouldn’t be interested. He’s a serious artist, this Nijinsky of the mountainside. Can’t you see that?’
The woman half-filled a tumbler from the decanter on the table. ‘How long are you going to keep him out there?’
‘As long as he’ll stay.’ He turned to face the woman. ‘Remember that. When he leaves it will be time to go.’
The stick-man, a collection of tatters when not in motion, disappeared into his lair, one of the holes in the lava beside the road.
‘I wonder if he met Springman?’ Vanderve
ll said. ‘On balance it’s possible. Springman would have come up the south face. This is the only road to the village.’
‘Ask him. Offer him another dollar.’
‘Pointless – he’d say he had seen him just to keep me happy.’
‘What makes you so sure Springman is here?’
‘He was here,’ Vandervell corrected. ‘He won’t be here any longer. I was with Springman in Acapulco when he looked at the map. He came here.’
The woman carried her tumbler into the bedroom.
‘We’ll have dinner at nine,’ Vandervell called to her. ‘I’ll let you know if he dances again.’
Left alone, Vandervell watched the fire displays. The glow shone through the windows of the houses in the village so that they seemed to glow like charcoal. At night the collection of hovels was deserted, but a few of the men returned during the day.
In the morning two men came from the garage in Ecuatan to reclaim the car which Vandervell had hired. He offered to pay a month’s rent in advance, but they rejected this and pointed at the clinkers that had fallen on to the car from the sky. None of them was hot enough to burn the paintwork. Vandervell gave them each fifty dollars and promised to cover the car with a tarpaulin. Satisfied, the men drove away.
After breakfast Vandervell walked out across the lava seams to the road. The stick-dancer stood by his hole above the bank, resting his hands on the two spears. The cone of the volcano, partly hidden by the dust, trembled behind his back. He watched Vandervell when he shouted across the road. Vandervell took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it under a stone. The stick-man began to hum and rock on the balls of his feet.
As Vandervell walked back along the road two of the villagers approached.
‘Guide,’ he said to them. ‘Ten dollars. One hour.’ He pointed to the lip of the crater but the men ignored him and continued along the road.
The surface of the house had once been white, but was now covered with grey dust. Two hours later, when the manager of the estate below the house rode up on a grey horse Vandervell asked: ‘Is your horse white or black?’
‘That’s a good question, señor.’
‘I want to hire a guide,’ Vandervell said. ‘To take me into the volcano.’
‘There’s nothing there, señor.’
‘I want to look around the crater. I need someone who knows the pathways.’
‘It’s full of smoke, Señor Vandervell. Hot sulphur. Burns the eyes. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘Do you remember seeing someone called Springman?’ Vandervell said. ‘About three months ago.’
‘You asked me that before. I remember two Americans with a scientific truck. Then a Dutchman with white hair.’
‘That could be him.’
‘Or maybe black, eh? As you say.’
A rattle of sticks sounded from the road. After warming up, the stick-dancer had begun his performance in earnest.
‘You’d better get out of here, Señor Vandervell,’ the manager said. ‘The mountain could split one day.’
Vandervell pointed to the stick-dancer. ‘He’ll hold it off for a while.’
The manager rode away. ‘My respects to Mrs Vandervell.’
‘Miss Winston.’
Vandervell went into the lounge and stood by the window. During the day the activity of the volcano increased. The column of smoke rose half a mile into the sky, threaded by gleams of flame.
The rumbling woke the woman. In the kitchen she spoke to the house-boy.
‘He wants to leave,’ she said to Vandervell afterwards.
‘Offer him more money,’ he said without turning.
‘He says everyone has left now. It’s too dangerous to stay. The men in the village are leaving for good this afternoon.’
Vandervell watched the stick-dancer twirling his devil-sticks like a drum-major. ‘Let him go if he wants to. I think the estate manager saw Springman.’
‘That’s good. Then he was here.’
‘The manager sent his respects to you.’
‘I’m charmed.’
Five minutes later, when the house-boy had gone, she returned to her bedroom. During the afternoon she came out to collect the film magazines in the bookcase.
Vandervell watched the smoke being pumped from the volcano. Now and then the devil-sticks man climbed out of his hole and danced on a mound of lava by the road. The men came down from the village for the last time. They looked at the stick-dancer as they walked on down the road.
At eight o’clock in the morning a police truck drove up to the village, reversed and came down again. Its roof and driving cabin were covered with ash. The policemen did not see the stick-dancer, but they saw Vandervell in the window of the house and stopped outside.
‘Get out!’ one of the policemen shouted. ‘You must go now! Take your car! What’s the matter?’
Vandervell opened the window. ‘The car is all right. We’re staying for a few days. Gracias, Sergeant.’
‘No! Get out!’ The policeman climbed down from the cabin. ‘The mountain – pfft! Dust, burning!’ He took off his cap and waved it. ‘You go now.’
As he remonstrated Vandervell closed the window and took his jacket off the chair. Inside he felt for his wallet.
After he had paid the policemen they saluted and drove away. The woman came out of the bedroom.
‘You’re lucky your father is rich,’ she said. ‘What would you do if he was poor?’
‘Springman was poor,’ Vandervell said. He took his handkerchief from his jacket. The dust was starting to seep into the house. ‘Money only postpones one’s problems.’
‘How long are you going to stay? Your father told me to keep an eye on you.’
‘Relax. I won’t come to any mischief here.’
‘Is that a joke? With this volcano over our heads?’
Vandervell pointed to the stick-dancer. ‘It doesn’t worry him. This mountain has been active for fifty years.’
‘Then why do we have to come here now?’
‘I’m looking for Springman. I think he came here three months ago.’
‘Where is he? Up in the village?’
‘I doubt it. He’s probably five thousand miles under our feet, sucked down by the back-pressure. A century from now he’ll come up through Vesuvius.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Have you thought of that, though? It’s a wonderful idea.’
‘No. Is that what you’re planning for me?’
Cinders hissed in the roof tank, spitting faintly like boiling rain.
‘Think of them, Gloria – Pompeiian matrons, Aztec virgins, bits of old Prometheus himself, they’re raining down on the just and the unjust.’
‘What about your friend Springman?’
‘Now that you remind me …’ Vandervell raised a finger to the ceiling. ‘Let’s listen. What’s the matter?’
‘Is that why you came here? To think of Springman being burnt to ashes?’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Vandervell turned to the window.
‘What are you worrying about, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ Vandervell said. ‘For once in a long time I’m not worrying about anything at all.’ He rubbed the pane with his sleeve. ‘Where’s the old devil-boy? Don’t tell me he’s gone.’ He peered through the falling dust. ‘There he is.’
The figure stood on the ridge above the road, illuminated by the flares from the crater. A pall of ash hung in the air around him.
‘What’s he waiting for?’ the woman asked. ‘Another dollar?’
‘A lot more than a dollar,’ Vandervell said. ‘He’s waiting for me.’
‘Don’t burn your fingers,’ she said, closing the door.
That afternoon, when she came into the lounge after waking up, she found that Vandervell had left. She went to the window and looked up towards the crater. The falls of ash and cinders obscured the village, and hundreds of embers glowed on the lava flows. Through the dust she could see the explosions inside the crater l
ighting up the rim.
Vandervell’s jacket lay over a chair. She waited for three hours for him to return. By this time the noise from the crater was continuous. The lava flows dragged and heaved like chains, shaking the walls of the house.
At five o’clock Vandervell had not come back. A second crater had opened in the summit of the volcano, into which part of the village had fallen. When she was sure that the devil-sticks man had gone, the woman took the money from Vandervell’s jacket and drove down the mountain.
1964
THE BEACH MURDERS
Introduction
Readers hoping to solve the mystery of the Beach Murders – involving a Romanoff Princess, a CIA agent, two of his Russian counterparts and an American limbo dancer – may care to approach it in the form of the card game with which Quimby, the absconding State Department cipher chief, amused himself in his hideaway on the Costa Blanca. The principal clues have therefore been alphabetized. The correct key might well be a familiar phrase, e.g. PLAYMATE OF THE MONTH, or meaningless, e.g. qwertyuiop … etc. Obviously any number of solutions is possible, and a final answer to the mystery, like the motives and character of Quimby himself, lies forever hidden
Auto-erotic
As always after her bath, the reflection of her naked body filled the Princess with a profound sense of repose. In the triptych of mirrors above the dressing table she gazed at the endless replicas of herself, the scent of the Guerlain heliotrope soothing her slight migraine. She lowered her arms as the bedroom door opened. Through the faint mist of talcum she recognized the handsome, calculating face of the Russian agent whose photograph she had seen in Statler’s briefcase that afternoon.
Brassière
Statler waded through the breaking surf. The left cup of the brassière in his hand was stained with blood. He bent down and washed it in the warm water. The pulsing headlamps of the Mercedes parked below the corniche road lit up the cove. Where the hell was Lydia? Somewhere along the beach a woman with a bloody breast would frighten the wits out of the Russian landing party.
The Complete Short Stories, Volume 2 Page 14
