He gave her a perfunctory peck on her white, clammy brow. Her hair smelled of waterweed, of oil and decaying food and dead smelts. He wiped his lips surreptitiously on his shirt sleeve. Hope guttered out in his breast like an expiring candle: what would he do now?
He noted with repugnance that the woman who called herself Felicia was undoing the fastenings of her dress; her fingers fumbled at the hooks. "Remember when we were first married?" she whispered. "And we used to slip out here at night, and embrace by the light of the full moon...." She looked at him with an inviting simper, which turned slowly to an expression of heartbreaking anguish as she read the disgust in his face.
"You don't want me," she said brokenly. She began to cry, her large body shaken by uncontrollable sobs. What could he do? "You didn't want me to come back at all," she wept. "You're happier without me ... and it was such an effort, Arthur, to get out of that water and come all this way, just to be with you again...."
Redmond drew back, puzzled. "Who is Arthur?" he asked.
The woman began to fade, like mist, like invisible ink, like melting snow....
I could hear footsteps coming down the gravel path, at a great distance, as though through layers of cotton wool. I was still half asleep; I struggled out of the chair and all the towels fell off. I snatched one up, retreating toward the door, but it was too late, Mr. Vitroni was coming around the corner, along the balcony. He had on all his felt pens; under his arm he carried a brown paper parcel.
I backed against the railing, holding the towel in front of me. His eye took in the line of dripping underwear. He gave his little bow.
"I wish I do not disturb?" he said.
"Not at all," I said, smiling.
"Your lightbulbs are shining?"
"Yes," I said, nodding.
"The water is coming out?"
"The house is just fine," I assured him, "I'm having a wonderful time. A wonderful vacation. The peace and quiet is marvelous." I wished very much that he would go away, but it looked as if he was going to sell me another painting. I would be powerless to resist it, I knew.
He looked over his shoulder, almost fearfully, as if he was afraid of being seen. "We will go inside," he said. Seeing me hesitate, he added, "There is something I must tell you."
I didn't want to sit at the table with him in a towel and my underwear; somehow it was more indecent inside than on the balcony. I asked him to wait, went into the bathroom, and put on one of my dresses.
When I came out he was sitting at the table with the paper parcel across his knees.
"You have been to Roma?" he asked. "You like it?"
I began to feel exasperated. Surely he hadn't come here to ask about tourist sites. "It's very nice," I told him.
"Your husband, he likes it as well?"
"Yes, I guess so," I said. "He did like it a lot."
"It is a city one must visit many times to know well, like a woman," Mr. Vitroni said. He took out some tobacco and began to roll himself a cigarette. "He will come soon?"
"I certainly hope so," I said with a hearty laugh.
"I as well wish that he will come soon. It is not good for a woman to be alone. Others will talk of it." He lit his cigarette, brushed the unused shreds of tobacco back into the packet, and replaced it in his pocket. He'd been watching me carefully.
"This is for you," he said. He handed me the package.
I was expecting another black velvet painting, but when I took off the string and unfolded the paper, there were my clothes, the jeans and T-shirt that I'd buried so carefully under the house. They were neatly washed and pressed.
"Where did you get these?" I asked. Maybe I could deny they were mine.
"My father, he has seen them in the earth, down there where are the carciofi. He has seen someone was digging. He thinks there is mistake, to bury such clothes, which are not old. He does not speak English, so he ask me to give them to you back. My wife washes them."
"Tell him thank you very much," I said. "Thank your wife also." There was no way I could explain, though he obviously wanted an explanation. He waited; we both looked at my folded clothes.
"People talk of this," he said finally. "They do not understand why you have put your clothes beneath the house. They know of this. They do not know why you have cut off your so beautiful hair, that everyone remembers from the time you are here before, with your husband; you wear always the dark glasses, like a bat, and you have taken another name. These are things nobody understands. They make the sign" - he extended two fingers - "so the evil eye which you have will not make them sick or give them bad luck as well. I myself do not believe this," he said apologetically, "but the older ones...."
So they knew me. Of course they knew me, they remembered everything for five thousand years. What stupidity, to have come back here.
"They ask me to tell you to leave," he went on. "They think your bad luck will come on me, my wife says that."
"I suppose they think I'm a witch," I said, laughing.
But Mr. Vitroni didn't laugh; he was warning me, it wasn't funny.
"It would be better if your husband also would come," he said gravely. "Also, a man is here this morning. He asks for you. He does not know the name you gave me, but he says, a lady, so tall, with red hair, and I know it is you."
"What?" I said, too quickly. "Who was it?"
He shrugged, studying my face. "I do not think it is your husband. Also he would know where you are living." He could tell I was upset. If he was right and it wasn't Arthur, who was it?
"What did he look like?" I said. "What did you tell him?"
"I think I should tell you first," he said slowly. "I tell him you are in Roma, you will come back after two days. At that time, I tell him, perhaps I can help him. But I say to him perhaps you are not the lady he searches."
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you very much."
After such kindness, I had to tell him something. I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. "Mr. Vitroni," I said, "I'm hiding. That's why I used a different name and cut off my hair. No one is supposed to know where I am. I think someone is trying to kill me."
Mr. Vitroni was not surprised. He nodded, as if he knew such things happened quite frequently. "What have you done?" he said.
"Nothing," I told him. "I haven't done anything at all. It's very complicated, but it has to do with money. I'm quite rich, that's why this person, these people, want to kill me, so they will get the money." He seemed to believe this, so I went on. "This man who came, he may be one of my friends, or perhaps he's an enemy. What did he look like?"
Mr. Vitroni spread his hands. "It is hard for me to say. He had a red car, like yours." He was holding out on me, what did he want? "Perhaps the police should arrest this man," he said.
"That's very good of you," I said, "but I couldn't do that. I'm still not sure who this man is, and besides I have no proof. What did he look like?"
"He was wearing a coat," said Mr. Vitroni helpfully. "A dark coat, American. He was tall, yes, a young man, not old."
"Did he have a beard?" I asked.
"No beard. A moustache, yes."
None of this was any help. It didn't sound like Fraser Buchanan, though. "He says he is a reporter, from a newspaper," Mr. Vitroni said. "I do not think he is a reporter. You are sure you do not wish him arrested? It could be arranged, I could arrange it with them."
Was he asking for a bribe? It occurred to me that his visit was no friendly one. It was a negotiation, and no doubt a similar negotiation had gone on with the man. If I would pay, he would help me. Otherwise he would tell this man how to find me. Unfortunately I didn't have enough money. I decided quickly that I'd have to leave that evening, I'd drive to Rome.
"No, really," I said. "I'll handle it in my own way."
I stood up and held out my hand to Mr. Vitroni. "Thank you very much," I said, "it was very kind of you to tell me all this."
He was puzzled; he must have been expecting me to make a deal with him. "I could help yo
u," he said. "There is a house, farther back, away from the town. You could stay there until this man goes away, we would bring you some food."
"Thank you," I said, "perhaps I'll do that."
As he left, he patted my shoulder.
"Do not worry," he said, "all will be happy."
In the evening I packed my suitcase and carried it up to the car. But when I went to start it, the tank was empty. Stupidity, I thought, remembering it had been low on the trip back from Rome. But then I thought: It's been drained.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I never should have told him I had money. I could see it all now, the plot was clear. They'd always intended it, from the very first. The old man of the artichokes was a spy, he was Mr. Vitroni's father, he'd been sent to watch me, and as soon as he'd seen me without my disguise they'd conspired. If I agreed to hide in the secluded house I would become a prisoner. It would be folly to go to anyone and ask for gasoline. They would know then that I meant to leave. Also, no one in the town sold it, they would have to send out for it, and then Mr. Vitroni would be sure to hear of it. He would come and tell me none could be had. I would beg, and he would say, "Gasoline, that is very expensive."
The soldiers or police were in on it, too, they would help him, and there would be no one to stop them. I'd virtually told him that no one knew where I was; it was an open invitation. When Arthur arrived they would tell him I'd gone away, they had no idea where. Meanwhile I'd be roped and helpless, they'd want me to send away for money, and when none arrived, what would they do then? Would they kill me and bury me in a gravelly grave among the olives? Or would they keep me in a cage and fatten me up as was done among primitive tribes in Africa, but with huge plates of pasta, would they make me wear black satin underwear like the kind advertised at the back of the fotoromanzi, would they charge admission to the men of the town, would I become one of those Fellini whores, gigantic and shapeless?
This is serious, I told myself. Pull yourself together. Perhaps I was becoming hysterical. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in a cage, as a fat whore, a captive Earth Mother for whom somebody else collected the admission tickets. I would have to think of some plan. I had two days though, so I went to bed. There was no use trying to run away in pitch darkness, I'd only get lost. Or caught: doubtless I was being watched.
I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear footsteps outside my window, on the terrace down below. Now there was a scraping noise: someone was climbing the trellis! Had I locked the window or not? I didn't want to get out of bed to see. I backed against the wall, staring at the window where the outline of a head, then the shoulders, was looming into view.... By the light of the moon I could see who it was, and I relaxed.
It was only my mother. She was dressed in her trim navy-blue suit with the tight waist and shoulder pads, and her white hat and gloves. Her face was made up, she'd drawn a bigger mouth around her mouth with lipstick, but the shape of her own mouth showed through. She was crying soundlessly, she pressed her face against the glass like a child, mascara ran from her eyes in black tears.
"What do you want?" I said, but she didn't answer. She stretched out her arms to me, she wanted me to come with her; she wanted us to be together.
I began to walk towards the door. She was smiling at me now, with her smudged face, could she see I loved her? I loved her but the glass was between us, I would have to go through it. I longed to console her. Together we would go down the corridor into the darkness. I would do what she wanted.
The door was locked. I shook at it and shook until it came open.
I was standing on the terrace in my torn nightgown, shivering in the wind. It was dark, there was no moon at all. I was awake now; my teeth were chattering, with fear as well as with cold. I went back into the flat and got into bed.
She'd come very close that time, she'd almost done it. She'd never really let go of me because I had never let her go. It had been she standing behind me in the mirror, she was the one who was waiting around each turn, her voice whispered the words. She had been the lady in the boat, the death barge, the tragic lady with flowing hair and stricken eyes, the lady in the tower. She couldn't stand the view from the window, life was her curse. How could I renounce her? She needed her freedom also; she had been my reflection too long. What was the charm, what would set her free?
If someone had to come back from the Other Side to haunt me, I thought, why couldn't it be Aunt Lou? I trusted her, we could have a good talk, she could give me some advice and tell me what to do. But I couldn't imagine Aunt Lou doing this. "You can handle it," she'd say, no matter how much I protested that I couldn't. She would refuse to see my life as the disaster it was.
Whereas my mother.... Why did I have to dream about my mother, have nightmares about her, sleepwalk out to meet her? My mother was a vortex, a dark vacuum, I would never be able to make her happy. Or anyone else. Maybe it was time for me to stop trying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
In the morning I had several cups of tea, to give me energy and calm me down. The trick was to be as calm as possible. I would act as though everything was normal, all was well, I would be unhurried; I'd do my shopping and visit the post office as usual, so they'd think I was cooperating. I might even seek out Mr. Vitroni and ask about the house, so they'd think I was going along with everything. I would wait until the afternoon, when there were people around. Then I would simply stroll down the hill, carrying my handbag but not my suitcase, and hitch a ride to Rome. I wouldn't be able to take much with me, but I could get quite a lot into my handbag.
I went through the bureau drawers, deciding what I would have to leave behind. I packed three pairs of underpants. Nightgowns were not necessary; Fraser Buchanan's black notebook was. The typewriter would have to stay, but Stalked by Love I would take with me.
I picked up the manuscript, intending to roll it into a cylinder for easy packing. Then I sat down and started leafing through it. I saw now what was wrong, what I would have to do. Charlotte would have to go into the maze, there was no way out of it. She'd wanted to go in ever since reaching Redmond Grange, and nothing anyone could say, not all the hair-raising tales of the servants, not all the sneering hints of Felicia had been able to deter her. But her feelings were ambiguous: did the maze mean certain death, or did it contain the answer to a riddle, an answer she must learn in order to live? More important: would she marry Redmond only if she stayed out of the maze, or only if she went in? Possibly she would be able to win his love only by risking her life and allowing him to rescue her. He would unclench the hands from around her throat (whose hands would they be?) and tell her she was a silly little fool, though brave. She would become Mrs. Redmond, the fourth one.
Don't go into the maze, Charlotte, you'll be entering at your own risk, I told her. I've always got you out of it before but now I'm no longer dependable. She paid no attention to me, she never did; she stood up, put away her embroidery, and prepared to go outside. Don't say I didn't warn you, I told her. But I couldn't stop, I had to see it through to the end. I closed my eyes....
It was noon when Charlotte entered the maze. She took the precaution of fastening one end of a ball of knitting wool, borrowed from Mrs. Ryerson on the pretext of mending her shawl, at the entrance; she did not intend to lose her way.
The walls of the maze, which were of some prickly evergreen shrub, were indeed sadly overgrown. Surely no one had been here for many years, Charlotte thought, as she pushed her way through the straggling branches, which caught on her gown as if to hold her back. She turned to the left, then to the right, unwinding her ball of wool as she went.
Outside, the sky had been overcast and a cold February wind had been blowing; but here, sheltered by the thick walls of leaves and branches, Charlotte felt quite warm. The sun had come out and the sky was clearing; nearby, a bird sang. She was losing track of time; it seemed as if hours had passed while she walked along the gravel path between the green, thorny walls. Was it her imagination, or h
ad the maze become trimmer; better kept ... and flowers had begun to appear. Surely it was too early for flowers. She had an odd sensation, though unseen eyes were watching her. She remembered Mrs. Ryerson's stories about the Little Folk; then she laughed at herself for giving in, even momentarily, to superstition. It was just an ordinary maze, there was nothing unusual about it. Surely the two previous Lady Redmonds had met their fate in some other way.
She must be getting near the center of the maze. She turned another corner, and sure enough it was there before her, an open graveled oblong with a border of flowers, the daffodils already in bloom. Disappointingly, it was empty. Charlotte peered about looking for some clue to its evil reputation, but there was none. She started to walk back the way she had come. Suddenly it was frightening, she wanted to get out before it was too late. She didn't want to know any more, she'd been a fool ever to have come here. She began to run, but she made the mistake of trying to wind up the ball of knitting wool as she ran, and her feet became hopelessly entangled. As she fell, iron fingers closed around her throat ... she tried to scream, she struggled, her eyes bulged, she looked wildly around for Redmond.
From behind her came a mocking laugh - Felicia's! "There wasn't room for both of us," she said, "one of us had to die."
Just as Charlotte was sinking into unconsciousness, Felicia was flung aside like a bundle of old clothes, and Charlotte was gazing up into the dark eyes of Redmond. "My darling," he breathed hoarsely. Strong arms lifted her, his warm lips pressed her own....
That was the way it was supposed to go, that was the way it had always gone before, but somehow it no longer felt right. I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere; there was something, some fact or clue, that I had overlooked. I would have to walk it through, I would have to find a suitable locale and go through the motions. I thought of the Cardinal's garden in Tivoli, with its sphinxes and fountains and its many-breasted goddess. That would do, it had a lot of paths. I would go there this afternoon....
But I was forgetting about the man, my car with its empty tank; I would have to leave the book for later and concentrate on my escape.