Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

‘Yes, I understand,’ Schmidt said, frowning. ‘It is very – ’

‘If you say romantic I’ll slug you.’

‘“Touching” was the word I had in mind. More than touching. Beautiful! Yes, yes, it is what I would expect from such a man. He fears to endanger you, and so he will stay away. Is that what you want?’

I had resigned myself to a long poetic tirade. The direct question startled me into the truth. ‘No.’

‘But he may be in the right,’ Schmidt said. ‘He knows more than you of the possible dangers.’

‘He has no right to make that decision for me. God damn it, Schmidt, it’s the same old macho crap you guys always try to pull and it’s not based on chivalry but on pure selfishness – tuck the little woman away in some safe place so you won’t have to worry about her. What about us worrying about you? If you follow me.’

‘Oh, I do,’ said Schmidt. ‘I follow you very well.’

My eyes fell. ‘Touché, Schmidt. I know; I’ve done the same thing to you. But in this case – in both cases – the damage is already done. Once you care about someone you’re wide open, and the worst part of it is not knowing. Something awful could happen to him anytime, it could be happening at this very moment, and I might not even know about it for days or weeks or . . . You know what I did yesterday? I bought a goddamn London newspaper and read the goddamn obituaries! I can’t live that way, Schmidt, and he has no right to expect me to, and no, I’m not going to call him because this is his problem and he’s got to come to grips with it and if he can’t admit the obvious, basic fact – ’

I broke off. I had run out of breath. Schmidt was nodding and smiling, and there was a calculating look in those beady little eyes of his.

‘Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I already owe you more than I can ever repay and I am deeply grateful to you for inducing this emotional orgy, even if you did enjoy every maudlin moment of it. But if you call him and repeat this conversation – ’

‘Now, Vicky, would I do such a thing?’ He took out his wallet. ‘Come, we must return to the museum. To work, to work, eh? I trust you will be more efficient in the future.’

It went on raining. Day after day. Three days, to be precise. I didn’t mind. At that point I’d have considered sunlight a personal insult. And the bad weather kept me occupied. Cleaning up after Caesar was a full-time activity

He and Clara had been glad to see me. Not that Clara admitted it. In fact, she spent a full day displaying her displeasure at my absence. She’d walk into the room and then sit down with her back to me, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure I was aware of how she was ignoring me. And she talked. There is nothing noisier than an irritated Siamese. Finally she condescended to get on my lap and after that I couldn’t get rid of her. I fell over her every time I climbed the stairs and she slept on my head instead of at my feet. With her tail in my mouth.

Caesar’s delight at my return was more openly expressed. Thanks to the incessant rain he was able to coat himself with mud whenever he went out and he was determined to share this pleasure with the one he loved best. If it hadn’t been for them and for Schmidt . . .

But I was feeling more suicidal than ever that gloomy Thursday evening. The drive home, through misty rain and fog, had been a nightmare of traffic and fender benders. Caesar had found something dead in the garden when I let him out, and he had rolled in it. Clara had decided she didn’t care for the brand of cat food I had been feeding her for a week. I had just bought a whole case of it.

I had been too depressed to change my wet clothes or my muddy shoes. I was sitting on the couch, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, dank hair dripping down my face, when the doorbell rang.

Schmidt looked like Father Christmas with an armful of parcels and a red scarf wound around his double chins. The bottle sticking out of one of the bags appeared to be champagne.

‘Coming to cheer me up, are you?’ I inquired sourly.

‘Do not be rude, you know you are glad to see me.’

‘Yes, I am. Hi, Schmidt.’

‘Gröss Gott,’ Schmidt said formally. ‘Help me unpack these things. We are having a party.’

‘I hope “we” means you and me.’ I followed him to the kitchen. So did Caesar and Clara. They knew Schmidt. When he began unloading his parcels I realized he’d been shopping at Dallmayr’s, Munich’s legendary gourmet deli. ‘I don’t want anybody else.’

‘I have invited another guest,’ Schmidt said. He was trying not to grin but he couldn’t hold it back, and I knew before he went on what he was going to say. ‘I think you will be glad to see him, though.’

Slowly I followed Schmidt back into the living room, and there I stayed – rooted to the spot is the phrase, I believe – while he went into the hall. Was I thinking, in that supreme and critical moment, of how god-awful I looked? Of course I was. I had allowed myself to imagine such a meeting. In that fantasy I was attired in robes of filmy white, and my (freshly washed and carefully brushed) hair fell over my shoulders. Trust Schmidt to pick a moment when I resembled a charwoman on her way home from work.

But I didn’t really care.

However, I managed not to throw myself at him when he entered the room. His hair was damp and a little too long; it curled over his ears. I swallowed and said, with typical graciousness, ‘You didn’t have to come.’

‘I tried to stay away,’ John said. ‘It was for your sake, my darling; I’m not worthy of you, but your image has been enshrined in my heart. Aren’t you going to stop me before I perpetrate any more assaults on English prose?’

He was smiling, but it was an oddly tentative smile, and if I hadn’t believed the word could never apply to John I would have said he looked a little shy.

‘I’m not going to do anything till Schmidt leaves the room,’ I mumbled.

‘Why not?’ Schmidt inquired curiously.

‘Why not, indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Damn good question, Schmidt.’

Mine is a small living room. One step was all it took.

‘Sehr gut,’ said Schmidt’s voice from somewhere in the rosy pink clouds. (I hate to mention those clouds, but as I have already admitted, my imagination runs to clichés.) ‘I will now open the champagne.’

‘No bandages,’ I whispered. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘What are you doing, counting ribs? The area is still a trifle sensitive, so if you wouldn’t mind – ’

‘You’re so thin. Did Schmidt call you, after I threatened to kill him if he – ’

‘You’ve lost bit of weight yourself, haven’t you? Here – and perhaps here – ’

‘He did call you.’

‘When he did, I had been sitting staring at the telephone for over two hours. Trying not to ring you. Are you angry with him?’

‘No. What did he say?’

‘My ears are still burning,’ John said wryly. ‘Even my dear old mum’s lectures never attained that level of surgically accurate analysis. Vicky . . .’ He put his hands on my shoulders and held me away. ‘We must settle this before Schmidt comes back and breaks that bottle of champagne over our bows. I thought it quite likely you’d never want to set eyes on me again.’

‘I told you I loved you.’

‘Yes, but – ’

‘Weren’t my demonstrations convincing?’

‘Oh, that. You couldn’t help that, you were powerless to resist. I’ve been told Great-Grandad had to beat them off with a club. Darling, stop doing that and be serious for once.’

‘Me?’ I stopped doing that.

‘I know. It’s your fault, I don’t behave this idiotically with anyone but you.’ He took my face between his hands. ‘Seriously, Vicky. I did try to stay away. If you hadn’t – ’