What do you mean—dreamy stuff? asked O’Mara, grinning maliciously.
Oh, said Trevelyan, it might be about fog, fog and rain … how the trees and bushes looked when the fog suddenly drifted away. It might be about the color of fog, all the shades of gray which she could discern with her cat-like eyes. She had lived on the coast of Cornwall during her childhood—they’re all a bit loony there—and she would relive her walks in the fog, her experiences with goats and cats, or with the village idiot. In these moods she talked another language—I don’t mean a dialect, I mean a language of her own which no one could understand. It used to give me the creeps. It was a sort of cat language, as best I can describe it. She yowled now and then, a real yowl that made your blood curdle. Sometimes she imitated the wind, all kinds of wind, from a gentle breeze to a ripping gale. And then she would snuffle and weep, trying to convince me that she mourned the flowers which had been cut down—the pansies and the lilies particularly, they were so helpless, so defenceless. Before you knew it she would be walking through strange places, describing them intimately, as if she had lived there all her life. Places like Trinidad, Curasao, Mozambique, Guadeloupe, Madras, Cawnpore and such like. Eerie? I’ll tell you, I thought for a while she had second sight … By the way, couldn’t we have another drink? I haven’t a farthing, as you probably know…
She’s a queer one, all right. And a bloody, obstinate cuss, too. Get in an argument with her and you’re doomed. She knows how to block all the exits. You’re trapped, once you start in with that one. I never realized that women could be so utterly logical. It wouldn’t matter what you were discussing—odors, vegetation, diseases or sun-spots. Hers is always the last word, no matter what the subject. Add to all that, a mania for detail, a mania for minutiae. Shell sit at the breakfast table, for example, with a broken petal in her hand, and she’ll examine it for an hour. She’ll ask you to concentrate on a minute piece of this petal no bigger than the merest sliver of a splinter. Claims she can see all sorts of curious and wondrous things in this piece of nothingness.
All with the naked eye, mind you. Her eyes are not human eyes, by God. She can see in the dark, of course, even better than a cat. She can see with her eyes closed, believe it or not. She demonstrated that to my own satisfaction one might. But what she can’t see is the other person! She looks right through you when she talks to you. She sees only what she is talking about, whether it’s fog, cats, idiots, remote cities, floating islands or floating kidneys. In the beginning I used to grab her by the arm and shake her—I thought perhaps she was in a trance. Nothing of the sort! Just as wide-awake as you or I. Even more awake, I’d say. Nothing escapes her. ‘Did you hear that?’ she says sometimes, right in the middle of a sentence. ‘Hear what?’ Maybe a cake of ice slipped just the fraction of an inch in the ice-box. Maybe a leaf just fell to the ground in the back-yard. Maybe a drop of water dripped from the kitchen faucet. ‘Did you hear that?’ I’d jump whenever she said it. After a while I began to think I was growing deaf—she gave such importance to these inaudible nothings. ‘It’s nothing,’ she’d say, ‘it’s just your nerves.’ And with all that she has absolutely no ear for music.
All she hears is the scratching of the needle: her pleasure is derived solely from detecting whether the record is an old one or a fairly new one, and how new, or how old. She can’t tell the difference between Mozart, Puccini and Satie. She likes hymns. Dingy, melancholy hymns. Which she always hums with a seraphic smile, as if she were already among the angels. No, really, she’s the most detestable bitch imaginable. There’s not a spark of joy or gayety in her. If you tell her a funny story she’s bored. If you laugh she’s outraged. If you sneeze you have bad manners. If you indulge in a drink you’re a sot … We’ve had intercourse—if you can call it that—about three times, I guess. She closes her eyes, lies rigid as a pole, and begs you to get done with it as quickly as possible. Worse than raping a martyr. When it’s over she gets a pad, props herself up in bed, and writes a poem. To purify herself, I suppose. I could kill her sometimes…
What about the brat? O’Mara piped up. Does she want the child?
Search me! said Trevelyan. She never mentions the subject. It might just as well be a tumor, for all it seems to matter. Now and then she says she’s getting too stout … she wouldn’t say ‘fat’, that’s too coarse. Stout. As though it were strange to be blowing up like a balloon when you’re seven months along!
How do you know she is pregnant? asked Spud Jason sleepily. Sometimes it’s only imaginary.
Imaginary, huh! I only wish to Christ it were; She’s pregnant alright … I’ve felt it moving inside her.
It could be wind, said someone.
Wind doesn’t have arms and legs, said Trevelyan, getting irritated. Wind doesn’t roll over or have conniption fits.
Let’s get out of here, said Spud Jason. You’ll be giving this one ideas. and with this he gave his sidekick a poke in the ribs that almost knocked her off the chair.
As if it were a game they played time and again, Alameda rose quietly, walked round him, then gave him a resounding thwack on the face with the palm of her hand.
So that’s it? cried Spud Jason, leaping from his chair and twisting her arm. With his other hand he grabbed her long mane and pulled it vigorously.
Behave yourself, or I’ll blacken your eyes for you!
You will, will you? Alameda was brandishing an empty bottle.
Get out of here, the two of you! shouted Mona. And don’t come back again, please!
How much do I owe you? said Spud Jason sheepishly.
You don’t owe anything, said Mona. Just get out and stay out!
11
To my surprise MacGregor dropped in one night, ordered a drink, and paid for it without a murmur. He seemed unusually mellow. Inquired solicitously how we were doing, what the prospects were, did we need any help—legal help—and so on. I couldn’t make out what had come over him.
Suddenly, when Mona had turned her back, he said: Couldn’t you pull yourself away for a few hours some night?
Without waiting for me to say yes or no, he went on to tell me that he was in love again, head over heels, in fact. Guess you can tell it, can’t you. She was a funny gal, in a way, he explained. A divorcee, with two kids on her hands. How do you like that? He then said that he wanted to impart something very confidential. He knew it was hard for me to keep my trap shut, but just the same … Teas, you know, doesn’t suspect a thing. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Damn it! Don’t laugh! I say it only because you might spill the beans some night in one of your chivalrous moods.
I grinned.
So that was the set-up. Trix, the new one, lived in the Bronx. To hell and gone, as he put it. He was out every night till three, four or five in the morning. Tess thinks I’m gambling. The way the money’s going I might just as well be out shooting crap every night. But that’s neither here nor there. What I’m asking you is—can you steal away some night, just for a few hours? I said nothing, just grinned again. I’d like you to look her over … tell me if I’m cuckoo or not. Here he paused a minute, as if embarrassed. To focus it a little better for you, Hen, let me tell you this: every night after dinner she gets the kids to sit in my lap, one on each knee. And what do you think I do? Tell them bed-time stories! Can you picture that? He burst out into a loud guffaw. You know, Hen, I can hardly believe it myself. But it’s a fact. I couldn’t be more considerate of them if they were my own kids. Christ, I’ve already bought them a whole menagerie of toys. You know, if Tess hadn’t had her insides cleaned out, we would have had three or four brats ourselves. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why we’ve drifted apart. You know Tess, Henry—she’s got a heart of gold.
