Уильям Макгиверн - Seven Lies South

Laura Meadows was, he thought, the shining end-product of a large and fortunate class of Americans; she would have a degree in psychology or history, speak careful grammatical French, and play golf and tennis with precision and style. He could imagine her in white shorts and pinned-back hair swinging a racket to an instructor’s cadence, or, as a child in shorts and an unnecessary bra, swimming like a seal under the eye of a lifeguard. She would have been pumped full of vitamins and orange juice from the day she was born, and been in and out of every museum in New York City by the time she reached fourth grade.

Beecher realized there was considerable bitterness in his inventory. But he didn’t resent Laura Meadows. What he resented was the frustration she stirred in him. She symbolized everything that was unobtainable, beyond his reach; the rosy and prosperous life of America, with the tides of success sweeping everyone on to fine, fat futures.

That wasn’t for him. Trumbull said go home and go to work, which was all very well, but he had no home and there was no work he knew except flying military aircraft, and he was too old for that now. She had made him nostalgic, and he hated it; he despised this self-pity, this picture of himself with his nose pressed against the windows of the candy store, shut out from all warmth and pleasure. But he couldn’t help himself. And he wondered at his luck, wondered why she couldn’t have been one of the noisy, all-knowing ones, bursting to tell him of her hilarious experiences with bidets and foreign currencies. Why did she have to be so damned nice?

“Well, here’s luck,” he said, and gave her the gin-and-lemon punch. “When did you arrive in Mirimar?”

“Just this morning. I came over from Gibraltar by bus. That left me black and blue and beat so I slept till noon. Then I went to the Post Office and got your address.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Until Monday night. I’m flying down to Rabat. I want to see a little bit of Morocco. Then back to Madrid, you know, the Prado, Toledo and Alhambra,” she said, smiling and ticking the names off on her fingers. “Typical tourist with flat heels and camera.”

This was Friday, Beecher thought. She’d be in Mirimar two full days and nights. He realized that he would have to put on some kind of show for her; Bunny would expect it. The problem was pesetas; he was damn near broke. He had planned to go to Gibraltar this week end and change some of a slender stock of dollars. The Irishman would help him out, he decided.

“Well now,” he said, and rubbed his hands together briskly. “What do you want to go and see?”

She sat back smiling. “I want to look around Málaga, and I’d like to see a bullfight. And maybe go swimming. But I meant what I said about not being a nuisance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a pleasure.”

“Are you sure?” Then she laughed and put her head back against the chair. “I’m going to call you Mike. All right?”

“Sure.”

“I’m still slightly in awe of you, I’ll confess. I met you once, but you won’t remember. I was visiting Bunny and you were home on furlough. I was twelve and had big shining braces on my teeth. You were dark and grim and wonderful. A romantic birdman.” She laughed again and the sound was fresh and young in the long dark room. “We’d been to the movies, you see.”

“Most of Bunny’s friends had braces,” Beecher said. “I don’t remember yours specifically. They probably weren’t as ghastly as you thought. Now tell me about your trip so far. Are you having fun?”

“Oh, yes. I started in Paris. I took a room on the Left Bank, which is what everyone said to do, and mon Dieu, les types! There was a barefoot young man begging money for a children’s crusade to Moscow, and another who wrote poetry on roofing slate with big nails. It was wonderful. Then I went to London, where my brother gave me letters to his business friends. Some kind people took me to dinner, and other kind people asked me for the week end.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “It was like a novel. Nothing grand, but everything was so snug and cozy, like Thomas Hardy. Teas and open fires and a long hike to look at the view and then little pubs and dart games. I’ll hate to go home.”

“Where is home?”

“New York, and work,” she said, with a rueful smile; but her air of regret was merely polite, he guessed, the courteous reflex of travelers.

“What kind of work?”

“I’m with a commercial film company. Cigarettes that dance and beer bottles that sing. It’s hectic, but I enjoy it.”

Yes, she would enjoy it, he thought. He could imagine her in late conferences, arguing a point with the bright young men who abounded in such professions, and then dining much later, relaxed and sustained and sure of herself in the dark exciting city. He saw with a touch of panic that she had picked up her gloves.

“Here, let me fix your drink,” he said.

“No thanks. It was perfect, but I’m feeling just fine.”

She must be around twenty-five or twenty-six; it was no wonder she wanted nothing but a few words and a polite drink.

A silence settled between them, and he knew that she was about to leave; she had put her glass aside, uncrossed her legs, and was probably planning a graceful but noncommittal exit line. “This was such fun. I’ll tell Bunny... Well, I do have some shopping to do, so supposing I call you before I leave?... Yes, it was delightful... Thank you so much... ”

There was nothing to do in Mirimar this evening, he realized; everyone he knew would be at Don Willie’s.

“Where are you staying?” he asked her.

“The Espada.”

“That’s new. It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“When I came here two years ago this was a proper village. Now it’s blown up into a miniature Biarritz.” He was talking inanely, he knew, chattering pointlessly to keep her from leaving. And he experienced then the familiar and distasteful foreknowledge of defeat; he wanted to please her very much, not for Bunny’s sake, or to salve his pride or ego, but because he liked her, and wanted her to like him. And when he wanted something very much, the odds always adjusted themselves against him.

“Listen to me,” he said quickly. “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”

She smiled politely at him, as if she had been offered an inappropriate treat by a jolly adult. “But I’m not invited, am I?” she asked him. “And I’m obviously holding you up. No thanks, Mike, I must run along.”

“Please sit still a minute. Everyone’s invited to Don Willie’s tonight. He’ll be delighted to have you.”

“Are you sure?” she said, tilting her head and smiling at him with good-humored suspicion. “You’re not just being nice?”

“Not at all. Please say yes.”

“But I’d have to change.”

“That’s fine. I’ll put on a jacket and take you to your hotel. Let me freshen your drink. I won’t be a minute.”

“No thanks.” She smiled and stretched her legs toward the fire. “I’m fine. Take your time.”

Beecher closed the glass doors of the living room and walked down the hall to the telephone.

Sighing, he gave the operator Don Willie’s number. There was a long wait. A maid finally said, “Digame?” He asked for Don Willie. There was another wait. Then Don Willie’s voice exploded in his ear, high and tense and irritable. “Yes, yes? Who is it? What do you want?” Beecher could imagine him shouting into the phone, flushed and excited, with an eye rolling about anxiously to check last-minute preparations for his party.

“This is Mike Beecher.” He couldn’t make himself say Don Willie; the title was pure affectation, and Beecher salvaged some pride by not using it.