The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

  But Marco had to look. He had to know. He had to find out what floated on that bubbling, gurgling stream; had to see what bobbed and twisted in the torrent that emerged from the tunnel exit.

  The water trickled, eddied, churned, swept out in a raging and majestic tide. Marco knelt in the gutter and stared down at the flow. It would be a hemorrhage, it would be blood, he knew that; but how could it be? Marco stared and saw that it wasn’t blood. Nothing emerged from the tunnel but dirty water—dirty water carrying caravels of leaves, a fleet of twigs, a flotilla of old gum-wrappers and cigarette butts. The surface of the water was rainbow-veined with oil and grease. It eddied and mingled once again with the steady flow from the faucets leading back into the tunnel. The level rose to the markings on the side of the treadle-pit.

  So the tunnel was empty. Marco sighed gratefully. It had all been a nightmare; his fears were groundless. Now all he needed to do was launch the single gondola and go through the tunnel for an inspection of the lights on his exhibits.

  Yes, all he had to do was sail into the waiting mouth, the hungry mouth, the grinning jaws of death—

  Marco shrugged, shook his head. No use stalling, he had to go through with it. He’d turn the lights on; he could use the handswitches en route to stop the treadle if needs be. Then he could inspect the cut-off and see if everything was barricaded off. There was nothing to worry about, but he had to be quite sure.

  He slid the heavy gondola off its truck and into the channel. Holding it with a boat-hook, he stooped again and switched on the motor. It chugged. The treadle groaned under the water, and he knew it was moving. The deep, flat-bottomed gondola rested on the moving treadle-struts. Marco let the boat-hook fall and stepped into the forward seat of the boat. It began to move forward, move towards the red lips, the black mouth. The entrance of the tunnel loomed.

  Marco leaped from the boat with a spastic, convulsive tremor agitating his limbs. Frantically, he switched off the motor and halted the gondola at the lip of the tunnel. He stood there, all panting and perspiration, for a long moment.

  Thank God, he’d thought of it in time! He’d almost gone into the tunnel without remembering to turn on the lights. That he could never do, he knew; the lights were necessary. How could he have forgotten? Why had he forgotten? Did the tunnel want him to forget? Did it want him to go into the blackness all alone, so that it could . . .

  Marco shook his head. Such thoughts were childish. Quite deliberately, he walked into the ticket booth and plugged in the cord controlling the tunnel light circuit. He started the treadle going and jumped into the moving boat, barking his left shin. He was still rubbing the sore spot as the boat glided into darkness.

  Quite suddenly Marco was in the tunnel, and he wasn’t afraid any more. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. The boat bumped along slowly, the water gurgled, the treadle groaned. Little blue lights cast a friendly glow at intervals of forty feet—little blue lights behind the glass walls of the small papier-mâché exhibit booths set in the tunnel sides. Here was Romeo and Juliet, here was Antony and Cleopatra, here was Napoleon and Josephine, here was the cutout . . .

  Marco stopped the boat—halted the treadle, rather, by reaching out and pulling the handswitch set near the water’s edge in the left wall of the tunnel.

  Here was the cutout . . .

  Formerly the tunnel had contained an extra loop; a hundred and twenty feet more of winding channel through which boats had doubled back on an auxilliary treadle. Since November this channel had been cut out, boarded up, sealed up tightly and cemented at the cracks by Marco’s frantic fingers. He had worked until after midnight to do the job, but it was well done. Marco stared at the wall. It had held. Nothing leaked into the cutout, nothing leaked out of it. The air of the tunnel was fetid, but that was merely a natural musty odor soon to be dispelled—just as Marco’s fears were dispelled now by the sight of the smooth walled surface.

  There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Marco started the treadle. The boat swept on. Now he could lean back in his double seat and actually enjoy the ride. The Tunnel of Love would operate again. The bobby-soxers and the college kids, the sailors and the hicks would have their romance, their smooching, their dime’s-worth of darkness. Yes, Marco would sell darkness for a dime. He lived on darkness. He and Dolores would be together; just like Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Marco and—but that was over.

  Marco was actually grinning when the boat glided out into the light of day again.

  Dolores saw the grin and thought it was meant for her. She waved from the side of the channel.

  “Hello, darling!”

  Marco gaped at the tall blonde in the flowered print dress. She waved at him, and as the boat drew up opposite the disembarking point she stooped, stopped the motor, and held out her arms to the man in the gondola. His grin disappeared as he rose.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just thought I’d surprise you. I guessed where you’d be going.” Her arms pressed his back.

  “Oh.” He kissed her without giving or receiving any sensation.

  “You aren’t mad, are you, darling? After all, I’m your wife—and I’m going to be working here with you, aren’t I? I mean, I’d like to see this old tunnel you’ve been so mysterious about.”

  Lord, she was a stupid female! Maybe that’s why he loved her; because she was stupid, and uncalculating, and loyal. Because she wasn’t dark and intense and knowing and hysterical like . . .

  “What on earth were you doing?” she asked.

  The question threw him off balance. “Why, just going through the tunnel.”

  “All alone?” Dolores giggled. “What’s the sense of taking a boat ride through the Tunnel of Love by yourself? Couldn’t you find some girl to keep you company?”

  If you only knew, thought Marco, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t care. “Just inspecting the place,” he said. “Seems to be in good shape. Shall we go now?”

  “Go?” Dolores pouted. “I want to see, too.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Come on, darling—take me through the tunnel, just once. After all, I won’t be getting a chance after the season opens.”

  “But . . .”

  She teased his hair with her fingers. “Look, I drove all the way down here just to see. What’re you acting so mysterious about? You hiding a body in the tunnel, or something?”

  Good Lord, not that, Marco thought. He couldn’t allow her to become suspicious.

  Not Dolores, of all people.

  “You really want to go through?” he murmured. He knew she did, and he knew he had to take her, now. He had to show her that there was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing in the tunnel at all.

  And why couldn’t he do just that? There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. So—“Come along,” said Marco.

  He helped her into the boat, holding the gondola steady in the swirling water as he started the treadle. Then he jumped into the seat beside her and cast off. The boat bumped against the sides of the channel and swayed as he sat down. She gasped.

  “Be careful or we’ll tip!” she squealed.

  “Not a chance. This outfit’s safe. Besides, the water’s only three feet deep at most. You can’t get hurt here.”

  Oh, can’t you? Marco wiped his forehead and grimaced as the gondola edged towards the gulping black hole of the Tunnel of Love. He buried his face against her cheek and closed his eyes against the engulfing darkness.

  “Gee, honey, isn’t it romantic?” Dolores whispered. “I bet you used to envy the fellows who took their girls through here, didn’t you? Or did you get girls and go through yourself?”

  Marco wished she’d shut up. This kind of talk he didn’t like to hear.

  “Did you ever take that girl you used to have in the ticket booth in here with you?” Dolores teased. “What was her name—Belle?”

  “No,” said Marco.

  “What did you say happened to her at
the end of the season, darling?”

  “She ran out on me.” Marco kept his head down, his eyes closed. They were in the tunnel now and he could smell the mustiness of it. It smelled like old perfume—stale, cheap perfume. He knew that smell. He pressed his face against Dolores’s cheek. She wore scent, but the other smell still came through.

  “I never liked her,” Dolores was saying. “What kind of a girl was she, Marco? I mean, did you ever . . .”

  “No—no!”

  “Well, don’t snap at me like that! I’ve never seen you act like this before, Marco.”

  “ Marco.” The name echoed through the tunnel. It bounced off the ceiling, off the walls, off the cutout. It echoed and reechoed, and then it was taken up from far away in a different voice; a softer voice, gurgling through water. Marco, Marco, Marco, over and over again until he couldn’t stand it.

  “Shut up!” yelled Marco.

  “Why . . .”

  “Not you, Dolores. Her.”

  “Her? Are you nuts or something? There’s nobody but the two of us here in the dark, and . . .”

  In the dark? How could that be? The lights were on, he’d left them on. What was she talking about?

  Marco opened his eyes. They were in the dark. The lights were out. Perhaps a fuse had blown. Perhaps a short circuit.

  There was no time to think of possibilities. All Marco knew was the certainty; they were gliding down the dark throat of the tunnel in the dark, nearing the center, nearing the cutout. And the echo, the damned drowned echo, whispered, “ Marco.”

  He had to shut it out, he had to talk over it, talk against it. And all at once he was talking, fast and shrill.

  “She did it, Dolores, I know she did it. Belle. She’s here now, in the tunnel. All winter long I felt her, saw her, heard her in my dreams. Calling to me. Calling to me to come back. She said I’d never be rid of her, you’d never have me, nobody and nothing could take me away from her. And I was a fool—I came back, I let you come with me. Now we’re here and she’s here. Can’t you feel it?”

  “Darling.” She clung to him in the dark. “You’re not well, are you? Because there’s nobody here. You understand that, don’t you? Belle ran away, remember, you told me yourself. She’s not here.”

  “Oh yes she is!” Marco panted. “She’s here, she’s been here all along, ever since last season. She died in this tunnel.”

  Dolores wasn’t clinging to him any more. She drew away. The boat rocked and bumped the channel sides. He couldn’t see anything in the perfumed blackness, and he had to get her arms around him again. So he talked faster.

  “She died here. The night we took a ride together after I closed the concession. The night I told her I was going to marry you, that it was all over between her and me. She jumped out of the boat and tried to take me with her. I guess I fought her.

  “Belle was hysterical, you must understand that. She kept saying it over and over again, that I couldn’t leave her, that she’d never give me up, never. I tried to pull her back into the boat and she choked me and then she—drowned.”

  “You killed her!”

  “I didn’t. It was an accident, suicide, really. I didn’t mean to hold her so tight but she was fighting me—it was just suicide. I knew it looked like murder, I knew what would happen if anyone found out. So I buried her, walled her up behind the cutout. And now she’s coming back, she won’t let me go, what shall I do, Dolores, what can I do?”

  “You . . .”

  Dolores screamed.

  Marco tried to put his arms around her. She moved away, shrieking. The echo shattered the darkness. He lunged at her. The boat rocked and tipped. There was a splash.

  “Come back, you fool!” Marco stood up, groping in darkness. Somewhere Dolores was wailing and gurgling. The gondola was empty now. The blackness was spinning round and round, sucking Marco down into it. He felt a bump, knew the boat had stopped. He jumped out into the water. The treadles were slippery with slime. Cold waves lapped about his waist. He tried to find Dolores in the darkness, in the water. No wailing now, no gurgles.

  “Dolores!”

  No answer. No sound at all. The bumping and the lapping ceased.

  “Dolores!”

  She hadn’t run away. There was nowhere to run to, and he would have heard the splashing. Then she was . . .

  His hands found flesh. Wet flesh, floating flesh. She had fallen against the side of the boat, bumped her head. But only a few seconds had passed. Nobody drowns in a few seconds. She had passed out, poor kid.

  He dragged her into the boat. Now it moved away, moved through the darkness as he propped her on the seat beside him and put his arm around the clammy, soggy wetness of her dress. Her head lolled on his shoulder as he chafed her wrists.

  “There, now. It’s all right. Don’t you see, darling, it’s all right now? I’m not afraid any more. Belle isn’t here. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything will be all right.”

  The more he said it, the more he knew it was true. What had he done, frightening the girl half to death? Marco cursed the slowness of the treadles as the boat bumped its way out of the tunnel. The mechanism wasn’t working properly. But there was no time to bother about that. He had to bring Dolores around.

  He kissed her hair. He kissed her ear. She was still cold. “Come on, honey,” he whispered. “Brace up. This is the Tunnel of Love, remember?”

  The boat bumped out into the daylight. Marco stared ahead. They were safe now. Safe from the tunnel, safe from Belle. He and Dolores . . .

  Dolores.

  Marco peered at the prow of the bumping gondola as it creaked over the treadles. He peered at the obstruction floating in its path; floating face upward in the water as if tied to the boat with a red string running from its gashed forehead.

  Dolores!

  She had fallen in the water when she jumped out of the gondola, fallen and struck her head the way Belle had struck her head. It was Dolores’s body that bumped against the front of the boat and retarded its progress. She was dead.

  But if that was Dolores out there in the water, then what . . .

  Marco turned his head, ever so slowly. For the first time he glanced down at the seat beside him, at what lay cradled in his arms.

  For the first time Marco saw what he had been kissing . . .

  . . . the boat glided back into the Tunnel of Love.

  The Unspeakable Betrothal

  Not far thence is the secret garden in which grow like strange flowers the kinds of sleep, so different one from the other by the multiple extracts of ether, the sleep of belladonna, of opium, of valerian; flowers whose petals remain shut until the day when the predestined visitor shall come and, touching them, bid them open, and for long hours inhale the aroma of their peculiar dreams into a marveling and bewildered being.

  Proust: REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST

  AVIS KNEW SHE WASN’T REALLY as sick as Doctor Clegg had said. She was merely bored with living. The death impulse perhaps; then again, it might have been nothing more than her distaste for clever young men who persisted in addressing her as “ O rara Avis.”

  She felt better now, though. The fever had settled until it was no more than one of the white blankets which covered her—something she could toss aside with a gesture, if it weren’t so pleasant just to burrow into it, to snuggle deeply within its confining warmth.

  Avis smiled as she realized the truth; monotony was the one thing that didn’t bore her. The sterility of excitement was the really jading routine, after all. This quiet, uneventful feeling of restfulness seemed rich and fertile by comparison. Rich and fertile—creative—womb.

  The words linked. Back to the womb. Dark room, warm bed, lying doubled up in the restful, nourishing lethargy of fever . . .

  It wasn’t the womb, exactly; she hadn’t gone back that far, she knew. But it did remind her of the days when she was a little girl. Just a little girl with big round eyes, mirroring the curiosity that lay behind them. Just a little girl, liv
ing all alone in a huge old house, like a fairy princess in an enchanted castle.

  Of course her aunt and uncle had lived here too, and it wasn’t a really truly castle, and nobody else knew that she was a princess. Except Marvin Mason, that is.

  Marvin had lived next door and sometimes he’d come over and play with her. They would come up to her room and look out of the high window—the little round window that bordered on the sky.

  Marvin knew that she was a sure-enough princess, and he knew that her room was an ivory tower. The window was an enchanted window, and when they stood on a chair and peeked out they could see the world behind the sky.

  Sometimes she wasn’t quite sure if Marvin Mason honest and truly saw the world beyond the window; maybe he just said he did because he was fond of her.

  But he listened very quietly while she told him stories about that world. Sometimes she told him stories she had read in books, and other times she made them up out of her very own head. It was only later that the dreams came, and she told him those stories, too.

  That is, she always started to, but somehow the words would go wrong. She didn’t always know the words for what she saw in those dreams. They were very special dreams; they came only on those nights when Aunt May left the window open, and there was no moon. She would lie in the bed, all curled up in a little ball, and wait for the wind to come through the high, round window. It came quietly, and she would feel it on her forehead and neck, like fingers stroking. Cool, soft fingers, stroking her face; soothing fingers that made her uncurl and stretch out so that the shadows could cover her body.

  Even then she slept in the big bed, and the shadows would pour down from the window in a path. She wasn’t asleep when the shadows came, so she knew they were real. They came on the breeze, from the window, and covered her up. Maybe it was the shadows that were cool and not the wind; maybe the shadows stroked her hair until she fell asleep.