Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

But a year later the same little fair came back, and with it again—much to our surprise—the Drome of Death. At first we thought it must be another—for it didn’t look quite right, somehow, and it was certainly a great deal shabbier, as if it weren’t properly kept up. Our doubts were resolved when we drew a little nearer.

There, on the faded plush dais, stood the boy—but himself too somehow faded and cheapened, and looking almost haggard—the beauty had gone out of him. Beside him was a girl, a little dark creature, dull-faced, dull-eyed. The same blue riding suits—but now, no silver wings. The boy was smoking a cigarette, and for a moment, when he saw us, he looked guilty. The recognition wavered, as it were, between us—and then he lifted his chin, proudly, turned his head, turned his eyes, and coldly, fiercely, dismissed us.…

And, with a pang, I knew that he was right.

The illuminated clock on the pavement before the brightly lighted lunchroom said five minutes to twelve. It was beginning to rain harder, a cold February rain, which threatened to turn to snow. Mixed with the black rain fell a few sodden snowflakes. The lunchroom was nearly empty. The after-theater crowd had come and gone, leaving behind it, on the wide arms of the armchairs, stained plates, empty bowls and cups with spoons in them, crumpled napkins flung on the floor, wet newspapers. Even in disorder it was colorful and picturesque; and it was warm. The bowls of fruit on marble counters, the salads and pies arrayed richly in glass cases gave an almost tropic air of luxury. O’Brien, a taxi-driver, who was finishing his bowl of cornflakes and cream and a cup of coffee, looked sleepily about him. He liked it—the warmth and color almost put him to sleep. He was so tired that he could hardly eat. A hard day; but profitable; he would be glad to get to bed. A steady succession of short runs from noon to six o’clock; and then, one of those freak fares, a man at the Touraine who wanted to go to Plymouth and back in the six hours before midnight. Judas! what a night. It had been an exhausting drive, pitch black, everything drowned in rain. The windshield wiper worked frantically, worked overtime. All that the headlights showed was a ghost-dance of rain, swirling, mixed with snow, and an unending inferno of puddles, rivers, and mud. His eyes ached. He wished to God he didn’t have the drive to the garage ahead of him—a mile and a half.… However, after that it would take him less than fifteen minutes to hit the hay.… He shoved his ticket and the change over the cashier counter, turned up his collar, and went out. Twelve o’clock.

He had left his muddy taxi, flag down, in a deserted alley round the corner from the lunchroom. There was no time-limit there, the cops wouldn’t bother him. Judas priest, what a rotten night! He stepped into an invisible puddle, cold water came through his shoes. Squelch, squelch. Hell’s delight. He crawled stiffly into his seat and pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—it didn’t start. Dead as a door-nail. Spark on—gas on—he pushed it again. Nga—nga—nga—nga—nga—nga nn! What the hell—cold probably. He primed it and was about to try once more when a girl, who must have come up from behind, made him jump by suddenly saying into his ear, “Hey, taxi!” Her hand was on his sleeve, and she laughed when she saw him jump. She seemed to be slightly drunk. Laughing, she showed, under the street lamp, several gold teeth. Her hat was sodden with rain, the fur piece round her neck was bedraggled, her wet pale face glistened.

“What the hell,” said O’Brien and, disengaging his arm roughly, again pushed the self-starter. Nga—nga—nga!… No response. He heard his door slam, and, turning round, discovered that the girl had got in. He was furious. “Well, I’ll be—” He banged on the glass and shouted, waving his arm. “Get out of there!” She didn’t move. He could hear her laughing. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “What’s the idea?” He sat, puzzled, for a moment; the problem seemed almost more than he could cope with, fantastic, horrible. It merely revealed to him his abysmal tiredness. He crawled out of his seat and opened the door. Rain struck his cheek, the door-handle was wet.

“Come on, Liz,” he said. “Get out.”

As she made no reply he put his head inside and stared at her. A smell of wet face-powder. She sat still in the far corner, smiling, showing a gold tooth.

“Come on!” he repeated. “You can’t ride with me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to ride with you, did I?”

O’Brien was taken aback.

“Well, what’s the idea? Are you kidding me?”

She gave a peal of laughter, lifting up her feet from the floor in delight.

“Sure I’m kidding you,” she giggled. “All I want is to sit down!”

“Oh, you do, now! You just want to sit down and have a nice little rest in popper’s taxi!”

“ Sweet popper!” she cooed. “Come on in and sit down. You’re letting the draft in.”

“You come on out before I drag you out!”

“Oo! Isn’t he rough!”

“One—two—”

“If you touch me I’ll scream, I swear to God I will!… Don’t you dare!… Ow, you dirty dog, let go of my arm! Let go!”… She screamed, as if experimentally, her blue eyes uninterruptedly bright with amusement. He dropped her arm, astonished. Then, while he stared, silent, she added, taking off her wet hat and giving her bobbed yellow hair a shake, “You shouldn’t be so rough, Charlie—that’ll make a bruise on my arm.… And now that you’ve come in, for God’s sake shut the door! It’s cold.”

“Are you drunk?” He sat down, as if merely temporarily, on the edge of the seat, wondering what to do.

“Sure, I’m drunk. You got to feel good sometimes , haven’t you?”

“Well, you oughter be ashamed of yourself.”

She slapped his cheek lightly, by way of administering an affectionate reproach. He seized her wrist and twisted it savagely. She screeched. Her face became hard and furious.

“Say, what the hell are you doing!”… She yanked her hand away, put her wrist to her mouth, and sucked it, absorbed, as if utterly forgetting him. In the silence he heard the rain pattering irregularly on the taxi roof. A shower of needles. He felt as if he were going to fall asleep, stared at her uncomprehending, shivered a little.

“Come on, kid,” he said, altering his tone. “You know you can’t stay here. I’m taking the boat round to the garage. I’m dog-tired and I want to hit the hay.”

“Who’s stopping you? I ’m not stopping you!”

“Where do you live, then?”

She eyed him distrustfully, with a hard childlike guile.

“What do you want to know for? Bah, you make me sick.”

“If it’s on my way, I’ll drop you there.”

“Oh, you will, will you! Very kind of you, I’m sure.… Not a chance, Charlie, I’m wise!”

“What the hell are you talking about?… Come on, now, be a good kid and get out.”

She looked at him, smiling. She leaned toward him, smelling of perfume, and smiled ingratiatingly, tilting her pale face a little to one side. She put her hand, with a very large wedding ring, on his knee, and gently squeezed it.

“Don’t you like me, Charlie?” she chirruped.

He put his arm quickly around her waist—she was soaking wet—and picked her up bodily. She screamed. “Let me go, you devil! Let me go, or I’ll break every damned window in your cab!” She struggled. As he tried to drag her toward the open door she struck his face, kicked in every direction, and finally had the brilliant idea of beating him over the eyes repeatedly with her wet velvet hat. Rain-water stung his eyes, blinded him. He dropped her on the seat again. Her fur piece had fallen off, and her dress, pulled up to her knees and twisted, showed a pale blue satin petticoat and gray silk legs, mud-splashed.