Keith Laumer - Assignment in Nowhere

“Mr. Bayard! Ye’re awake!” She had a squeaky voice as jolly as the whistle on a peanut stand, with an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“And hungry, too, I’m guessing! Ye’d like a lovely bowl of soup, now would’t ye, sir? And maybe a dab of pudding after.”

“A nice steak smothered in mushrooms sounds better,” I said. “And, uh…” I had meant to ask her who she was, but then I remembered: kindly Mrs. Rogers, of course…

“A glass of wine, if it’s available,” I finished, and lay back, watching little bright spots dance before me.

“Of course, and a nice hot bath first. That’ll be lovely, Mr. Bayard. I’ll just call Hilda…” Things were a little hazy then for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of bustlings and the twitter of feminine voices. Hands plucked at me, tugged gently at my arms. I made an effort, got my eyes open, saw the curve of a colored apron over a girlish hip. Beyond her, the older woman was directing two husky, blonde males in maneuvering something heavy below my line of sight. The girl straightened, and I caught a glimpse of a slim waist, a nicely rounded bosom and arm, a saucy face under straight-cut hair the color of clover honey. The two men finished and left, the motherly type with them. The girl fussed about for a minute, then followed the others, leaving the door open. I got up on one elbow, saw a six-foot-long enameled bathtub half full of water placed neatly on the oval rug, a big fluffy towel, a scrub brush, and a square cake of white soap on a small stool beside it. It looked inviting. I sat up, got my legs over the side of the bed, took deep breaths until the dizziness went away, then pulled off the purple silk pajama bottoms and stood, shakily.

“Oh, ye shouldn’t try to walk yet, sir!” a warm contralto voice said from the doorway. Honey-hair was back, coming toward me with a concerned look on her pert features. I made a halfhearted grab for my pants, almost fell, sat down heavily on the bed. She was beside me now, with a strong hand under my arm.

“Gunvor and I’ve been worried about ye, sir. The doctor said ye’d been very sick, but When ye slept all day yesterday…”

I wasn’t following what she said. It’s one thing to wake up in an unfamiliar room and have a little trouble getting oriented; it’s considerably different to realize that you’re among total strangers, and that you have no recollection at all of how you got there…

With her assistance, I made the three steps to the tub, hesitated before tackling the climb in.

“Just put your foot in, that’s right,” the girl was saying. I followed orders, stepped in and sat down, feeling too weak even to wince at the hot water. The girl perched on the stool beside me, tossed her head to get her hair back, reached for my arm.

“I’m Hilda,” she said. “I live just along the road. It was exciting when Gunvor phoned and told me about yer coming, sir. It isn’t often we see a Louisianan here—and a diplomat, too. Ye must lead the most exciting life! I suppose ye’ve been in Egypt and Austria and Spain—and even in the Seminole Nation.” She chattered and sudsed me, as unconcernedly as a grandmother bathing a five-year-old. What little impulse to resist I may have had faded fast; I was as weak as a five-year-old, and it felt good to have this lively creature briskly massaging my back with the brush while the sun shone through the window and the breeze flapped the curtain.

“…yer accident, sir?” I realized Hilda had asked a question—an awkward one. I had a powerful reluctance to admit that I had—or appeared to have—some sort of mild amnesia. I hadn’t forgotten everything, of course. It was just that the details were hazy…

“Hilda—the man that brought me here—did he tell you anything about me—about the accident?…”

“The letter!” Hilda jumped up, went across to a table decorated with red, yellow, blue, and orange painted flowers, brought back a stiff square envelope.

“The doctor left this for ye, sir. I almost forgot!”

I reached for it with a wet hand, got the flap open, pulled out a single sheet of paper on a fancy letterhead, formally typed:

“Mr. Bayard, It is with deep regret and expressions of the highest personal regard that I confirm herewith your retirement for disability from the Diplomatic Service of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon V…”

There was more—all about my faithful service and devotion to duty, regrets that I hadn’t recovered in time for a personal send-off, and lots of hopes for a speedy convalescence. Included was the name of the lawyer in Paris who would answer all my questions, and if at any time could be of assistance, etc. etc. The name at the end was unfamiliar—but then, of course, everybody knew Count Regis de Manin, Deputy Foreign Minister for Security. Good old Reggie…

I read the letter twice, then folded it and crammed it back into the envelope. My hands were quivering.

“Who gave you this?” my voice came out hoarse.

“T’was the doctor, sir. They brought ye, in the carriage, two nights since, and he was most particular about ye. A pity about yer friends having to hurry to catch the steam packet for Calais—”

“What did he look like?”

“The doctor?” Hilda resumed her scrubbing. “He was a tall gentleman, sir, handsomely dressed, and with a lovely voice. Dark he was, too. But I saw him only for a moment or two, and in the gloom of the stable-yard I couldn’t make out more.” She giggled. “But I did mark his eyes were close together as two hazelnuts in an eggcup.”

“Was he alone?”

“There was the coachmen, sir—and I think another gentleman riding inside, but—”

“Did Mrs. Rogers see them?”

“Only for a few moments, sir. They were in a shocking hurry…”

Hilda finished with the bath, dried me, helped me into clean pajamas, helped me stagger back to bed and tucked me in. I wanted to ask questions, but sleep came down over me like a flood from a broken dam.

The next time I woke up, I felt a little more normal. I got out of bed, tottered to the closet, found a suit of strange-looking clothes with narrow trousers and wide lapels, a shirt with ruffles at collar and wrist, shoes with tiny buckles.

But of course they weren’t really strange, I corrected myself. Very stylish, in fact—and new, with the tailor’s tag still in the breast pocket.

I closed the closet, went to the window for a look. It was still open, and late-afternoon sun glowed in the potted geraniums on the sill. Below was a tidy garden, a brick wall, a white picket fence, and in the distance, a tall openwork church spire. There was an odor of fresh-cut hay in the air. As I watched, Hilda came around the corner with a basket in her hand and a shawl over her head. She had on a heavy, ankle-length skirt and wooden shoes painted in red and blue curlicues. She saw me and smiled up at me.

“Hello there, sir! Have you had yer sleep out, now?” She came over, lifted the basket to show me a heap of deep red tomatoes.

“Aren’t they lovely, sir? I’ll slice ye some for dinner.”

“They look good, Hilda,” I said. “How long have I been asleep?”

“This last time, sir?”

“Altogether.”

“Well, ye came about midnight. After we tucked ye in, ye slept all through the next day and night, and woke this morning about ten. After yer bath ye went back, and slept till now—”

“What time is it?”

“About five—so that’s another six hours and more.” She laughed. “Ye’ve slept like one drugged, sir…”

I felt a weight slide off me like thawed snow off a steep roof. Drugged! I wasn’t sick—I was doped to the eyebrows.

“I’ve got to talk to Gunvor,” I said. “Where is she?”

“In the kitchen, plucking a fine goose for yer dinner, sir. Shall I tell her—”