That again. A challenge since the day he arrived on the Shaughnessy doorstep.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I’ll be there.”
ARTHUR WENT TO XENIA SHORTLY AFTERWARD and told her the plan. She seemed shaken by it—and Xenia was not often shaken.
“I know it sounds frightening,” he said, “but you’re safer staying here.”
They were in her room at Valle del Sol; a breeze from the blue distant mountains fluttered the curtains, reminding Arthur of those afternoons in Paris when they’d first met. Through the big window, they could see the orchards spread out along a hillside crowned with the silhouetted dots of cattle walking slowly along the crest.
“Well, I said wanted an adventure,” Xenia remarked.
“Something to tell our grandchildren.” God, he thought, I’m beginning to sound exactly like Papa. “I wish Mick was here,” Arthur said.
“Why do you say that?” she snapped.
There was something in her tone Arthur didn’t understand. “He’s a negotiator,” Arthur replied. “I’ll bet he could negotiate with Pancho Villa, if it came to that.”
“I thought he was the lawyer for the gangs,” she said. Arthur sensed discomfort in her voice.
“Did you know the government once hired him to arrange the release of one of its diplomats?”
She shook her head.
“Mick’s a salesman. He sells ideas to people—puts ideas in their heads they thought they’d never have.”
Xenia came to him for what he at first took for a hug of affection. He took her gently in his arms, not holding her tightly, but enough to feel the warm curves of her body, and ran his hands over her back, and then moved them down.
“Oh, Arthur . . .” she said.
He didn’t answer, but continued touching her, until she suddenly pushed herself away and turned her back to him.
“There is something I need to tell you,” Xenia said. As she sat on the bed facing him, noise from the courtyard below swelled up, charros flirting with señoritas. Then she let out a breath and began.
WHEN ARTHUR WAS AWAY IN CHICAGO a couple of months back and she had gone to Back Bay for a ladies’ luncheon at the Copley House, Mick had spied her in the lobby as she was leaving.
“Well, now,” Mick said jovially. “Where is our young Arthur? In Chicago, I’ll bet, counting his money.” Mick was dressed to the nines, his face tanned, his shirt collar starched and firm around his muscular neck. He’d removed his top hat and bowed.
“Yes, you have it right,” Xenia said. “We’ve been wanting to have you to dinner, but Arthur is just so busy these days . . .”
“Not to worry, my dear, I understand. I’m just old Mick, a poor relation . . .” He began to scrape and tug at his forelock, an old joke between him and Arthur. It made Xenia laugh.
“So if the man himself is not available, why don’t you come and join poor old Mick for a libation? You see, I just settled a rather large matter, and crave companionship.”
Mick was already a drink or two in, but Xenia didn’t want to seem rude, even if it was the height of impropriety to be seen in public with a man not her husband. And just at the moment Xenia didn’t care. Seeing Mick always put her in a good humor, as it did for Arthur. Mick was full of smiles and stories and dash, and she found him handsome. Besides, she was a modern woman who’d just had an excruciating lunch with a hundred biddies whom she couldn’t care about less. It had not been her avant-guarde literary set today, but the obligatory annual luncheon of the Back Bay Women’s Society, which had devolved into a silly society of bluenoses partially interested in planting flowers in the city’s parks.
“All right,” Xenia said.
They sat at a table beside big palms growing in hammered brass urns. Mick ordered a whiskey and a bottle of white Bordeaux, which was brought to their table in a bucket. It was midafternoon and there were few patrons there, which made Xenia feel more comfortable. She sipped her wine and made small talk, then had another glass, which she drank a little faster. It was terribly unlike her, but by the end of an hour she’d drained two-thirds of the bottle.
“I’m going to Paris, France, at the end of the month,” Mick was saying.
“Oh, wonderful,” Xenia said. “That’s where—”
“I know,” he cut her off.
“There’s a little pension, just off the Champs—”
“I know about that, too.”
“I bet you’ll meet a girl there,” Xenia said. “Just the way Arthur and I—”
“Such luck.” He sighed. He seemed to be cutting off all her thoughts.
“I wish Arthur and I could go back there.”
“For a renewal?” Mick asked.
“Something like that. He’s just so—”
“I know.” He cut her off again.
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Could I have another glass?” she said. “I’m worried about Arthur.” She told him: Arthur worked too hard, was away so much of the time, and when he was home he didn’t seem to enjoy the company of her friends. He either went flying or stayed up in his study with the butterflies or coins and stamps. He didn’t even seem to have much time for the children.
Mick nodded and listened. He offered an opinion that Arthur actually didn’t like her friends or enjoy her salon parties.
“But he’s always encouraged me,” she said. “He seemed to be having a good time, at first, anyway . . .” She nodded when the waiter offered to refill her wine glass.
Xenia still had trouble piecing together what happened next; it seemed like a long, odd blur. She remembered talking to Mick about Arthur, about their lives. She remembered at one point that he reached over and put his hand on top of hers. She didn’t remove it, and then she recalled turning her hand over and taking his in hers, the fingers entwining. The sun seemed to be going down outside, casting bright slanted shadows on the palm fronds. Another bottle of wine arrived. People began to fill up the place. She remembered looking into Mick’s eyes. Both of them were leaning toward each other across the table. The point she tried to make seemed important. Mick was terribly sympathetic, the most sympathetic person she’d ever met.
Then he looked up and said:
“Xenia, I think that’s old Thomaston, from the bank. He’ll have with him a party you’ll know. I keep rooms here. Do you think we might be more comfortable up there?”
She didn’t think. She nodded. Waiters came, chairs were moved. They were on an elevator, in a hallway, a door opened. She was in a large elegant suite. Wine was put to chill in a silver cooler. A glass. He pressed against her from behind. She could feel his breath, his excitement. She tried to move away, but he held her firmly and put his hands around her waist. She tried again, but he had her tightly, pressing harder and harder.
“No, Mick,” she said, “no—what’s this?” It seemed like something that was not actually happening and that her voice was incorporeal.
He turned her around and began to kiss her. She turned her head away, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her back. She tried to talk through his mouth on hers, telling him, “No, no . . .” But he held her arms tightly and pushed her onto a sofa. She kept saying, “No, no, Mick, please . . .” But he was too strong. She started to scream, but he put his hand over her mouth and with the other was fumbling under her dress. She remembered feeling fright, panic. Then he was on top of her, with his hand still over her mouth. She managed to get an arm free and raked his face hard with her nails, but he twisted it back and held it down. She kept struggling and crying, “No, no,” but all that came out were muffled noises.
Afterward he’d gone into the bedroom and she lay there, finally staggering to the bathroom, where she threw up. She looked into the mirror: her makeup was smeared and there were black streaks on her cheeks where the mascara ran. She washed her face and straightened herself up as best she could. There was blood on her collar. When she came out of the bathroom, he was waiting for her.
Mick offered to escort her down to he
r car and she let him, stunned, shocked, and still under the influence of drink. No words were exchanged.
She woke up before dawn in her own bed, head splitting, and it took several minutes for her to remember, but it hit her like a blow to the stomach. Her mind was swimming and confused. She was still dressed and she began to tear at the clothing and throw it in all directions. This kind of thing doesn’t happen, she kept repeating to herself.
Arthur’s best friend! What if anybody found out? Who would believe her? For a moment she decided it hadn’t happened; only a monstrous dream. But no, no dream. She went into the bathroom and became sick again, then bathed, and that’s when she noticed blood under her fingernails. At least she’d fought.
She sat on the edge of her bed as her mind raced hysterically. How could she explain to Arthur, or anyone, what she had been doing in Mick’s hotel suite—drinking? It would be Mick’s word against hers, and he was a skillful lawyer. Suppose no one believed her? Suppose . . .
That morning a spray of roses arrived. No card. She knew who they were from. An hour later the maid came to her room to announce a visitor. She knew who that was, too. Xenia came down in her dressing gown and robe. They sat in the parlor with the door closed.
“What have you done, to come here?” she demanded desperately.
“Not me—us.”
“You rotten thing! You know exactly what . . .” There were deep ugly scratch marks on his right cheek. She was glad to see that; it was like the mark of Cain.
“I want to apologize,” he said.
“You . . . raped me!” she spat between clenched teeth.
“Xenia, that’s not so!” His voice was firm; even. His opening argument clearly had not worked.
“I was drinking wine, Mick. I only wanted to tell you about Arthur.”
“You didn’t need to tell me a thing.”
She remembered how he kept cutting her off, her thoughts truncated by this smooth-tongued killer of men.
“I want you to leave now,” Xenia told him. She had to look away because she was confused by what she felt—other than sheer revulsion.
“Why? Because of something we’ve both known was bound to happen between us for the past ten years?”
“That’s not true! Nothing was bound to happen! I was trying to talk to you, and you took advantage of me!”
“I am Arthur!” he burst out. “Arthur and I are as the same person, and we have been all our lives—since either of us can remember. I would do anything under the sun for him, or for you.”
“You are insane! Get out!” she said, but Mick ignored the order.
Mick, too, had tried to make sense of it in his own desperate, impulsive way. He told her that the three of them could work it out—Arthur in Chicago four days a week and then . . .
“You’re crazy!” Xenia said to him, appalled. “Do you have any idea what you did?”
Mick was not paying attention to her. She watched as he began to grovel. Yesterday he had forced her; today he fell to his knees. It would have been comical in a play, with her in the audience and not onstage. He began blubbering, “I am not a bad man. Believe me, I’ll make it right.”
“You’re sick, you’re crazy,” Xenia told him. It was all she could do to keep from shouting, even from scratching his eyes. No, nothing could make it right. Mick, the man of action—but that’s all he was, with none of Arthur’s refinement or decency.
He began to weep inconsolably. She sat and watched him for a long time until he finally sobbed himself out.
Xenia made the decision. She would keep this thing to herself. Even if Arthur believed her, and she knew he probably would, the impact it would have upon them all could be devastating. And, worse, she decided it had been her fault, too. She’d had no business to go for drinks with him, let alone get talked into going up to his room. That was why there were rules, and she had broken them.
Finally, when Mick was reduced to quiet little choking noises and trying to struggle to his feet, Xenia shook her head sadly and spoke. “You have always been a friend to Arthur, Mick. And he cares for you. So he isn’t going to hear of what happened from my lips, because it might well ruin all our lives, if it hasn’t already. But I don’t wish to ever see you again. I hope you understand that.”
“I have always considered you and Arthur my family,” he said.
“Arthur and I have our own family.” There was a cold composure in her eyes.
Mick seemed finally to understand. He rose and took his hat and looked at her for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I’m beginning to see, and I’m very sorry.”
She looked away until she heard the door close. I hate myself, she thought, as she heard his car start up and drive away. It’s my fault, too, and I hate myself . . . She sat in the parlor, where the sun streamed in through the windows, for such a long time that the downstairs maid finally knocked on the door to see if she was all right. She wasn’t. This was a scourge that would not wash away, at least not that she could foresee—it was an indelible stain on her whole being.
ARTHUR REACTED WITH A STEELY ANGER that he’d never felt in his life. He’d tried to interrupt several times to clarify some point that Xenia had told him, but she had waved him off until she got the whole story out. There was so much to take in, Arthur could barely comprehend it, but two things above all were clear: his best friend had raped his wife and left her to bear his child.
He fought to control his outrage.
“Does he know?” he said finally.
“No, not about the baby,” she replied.
“Do you . . . are you going to . . . ?”
“I can’t see anything else,” she said.
“Well, there are people who can do things . . . ?”
“I’ve considered that. It isn’t right, I’ve thought about it long and hard.”
“I’ll agree to what you say,” he told her, “but he must be dealt with, too. I will see to it.”
“That’s something I’ve also thought about,” she told him, “and the best thing is to let it go.”
“Leave it!” Arthur cried, rising, fists clenched. “He’s a brute and a coward, and if it’s the last thing I do on this earth I will make him pay for what he’s done to you.”
“I knew that’s how you’d feel,” she said, “but I think when you’ve had time to consider it, you will see it more my way.”
“But what of this baby?” he said. “Every time we look at it, we’ll think of this.” He felt suddenly ashamed of saying that.
“No,” Xenia told him. “We can’t let that happen. It certainly was not the baby’s fault. We can’t put it in an orphanage.”
“No, not that, never.” Arthur’s stomach was in knots and he felt light-headed and sickened, and had to sit down. He felt he must stay with Xenia now and not go on the Colonel’s cattle drive, but how could he ever explain that to his father without the whole story? Xenia must have sensed what he was feeling, because she came to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
“So when do we go to this country place?” she asked.
“Today, in a little while,” Arthur said. “They’ll get your things together. Bomba will drive all of you there. He’ll stay with you.”
“Well, you, my darling, take care,” Xenia said tenderly, “and come back soon and get us.” She kissed him on his forehead. “Because you are truly the only love of my life.” She meant it now, more than ever.
TWENTY-NINE
Ambrose Bierce sat in the shade of a willow tree writing in a tablet of stationery, tired and a little cranky after a lunch of cold beans and tortillas—what he wouldn’t have paid for a fresh ham sandwich on hot rye bread with mustard, Swiss cheese, and a glass of sweet milk. Instead he’d dutifully scooped up a portion of the beans from the pot in Villa’s mess area and washed them down with a cup of stale, tepid coffee.
Villa’s headquarters camp had become nearly deserted now except for some mess cooks and a few other flunkies. Everybody else was d
own where the fighting continued, and which Bierce could see fairly well from his position under the tree on the slope of a hill. The dull thud of artillery fire rumbled continuously back toward him and he could see soldiers moving in the smoky din, like ants whose hill had been disturbed. Bierce still could not get used to the constant staccato rattle of machine gun fire. If they had had those things back in ’63, he thought, well . . . what? The very notion of it made him shudder. There were also numerous loud booms he couldn’t account for; it wasn’t artillery; maybe they were using some kind of bomb.
The fighting had been going on for nearly seven hours, and from what Bierce could tell from his vantage point, the issue from Villa’s point of view was in doubt:
You might not believe this [Bierce wrote Miss Christian], but General Pancho Villa postponed the Battle of Chihuahua City until after sunrise this morning in order to have himself filmed by an American moving picture crew, leading the charge. His army attacked the well-fortified presidio and from what I can see, with little success. They have continued attacking it all day with artillery and infantry charges and mortars. A few chunks have been blown away but the Federals seem to be no worse for wear. The enemy have constructed trenches and barbed wire like they do in the European War and the toll Villa is taking from their machine guns must be terrible. I can see dead horses scattered all over the battlefield.
The general opened the battle with what one of his lieutenants described variously as “the sombrero gambit,” or “the Mexican hat trick.” During the night he had thousands of his soldiers remove their sombreros and spread them on a hillside. From the city it would look to the enemy like thousands of Villa’s troops were massed there for attack. From here, however, it looked like the hillside was full of toadstools. Unfortunately it did not work. Down below I saw several battalions who appeared to be re-forming for another assault but, in fact, they turned out to have been made prisoners.
He might be having more luck on the western side of town; you can hear heavy rifle fire from there and at least some of his soldiers seem to have gotten into the city streets. There has been a steady line of wounded, walking and otherwise, returning from the outskirts of the city. These are being attended at his hospital train. I went to it a while ago and was struck by the gore. Many men had arms and legs missing—horrible wounds. I was told the Federal troops are using some kind of explosives against them. I did not join in this attack as I feel I am too old for such things. Besides, I have a panoramic view of it from here.