"Ask him his name," suggested Kathleen.
"Hello, orang-outang--God, what a thing to be!--Do you know your name?...He doesn't seem to know his name.... Listen, Lew. We're not making anything like King Kong, and there is no monkey in The Hairy Ape.... Of course I'm sure. I'm sorry, Lew, goodbye."
He was annoyed with Lew because he had thought it was the President and had changed his manner, acting as if it were. He felt a little ridiculous, but Kathleen felt sorry and liked him better because it had been an orang-outang.
They started back along the shore with the sun behind them. The house seemed kindlier when they left it, as if warmed by their visit--the hard glitter of the place was more endurable if they were not bound there like people on the shiny surface of a moon. Looking back from a curve of the shore, they saw the sky growing pink behind the indecisive structure, and the point of land seemed a friendly island, not without promise of fine hours on a further day.
Past Malibu with its gaudy shacks and fishing barges they came into the range of human kind again, the cars stacked and piled along the road, the beaches like ant hills without a pattern, save for the dark drowned heads that sprinkled the sea.
Goods from the city were increasing in sight--blankets, matting, umbrellas, cookstoves, reticules full of clothing--the prisoners had laid out their shackles beside them on this sand. It was Stahr's sea if he wanted it, or knew what to do with it--only by sufferance did these others wet their feet and fingers in the wild cool reservoirs of man's world.
Stahr turned off the road by the sea and up a canyon and along a hill road, and the people dropped away. The hill became the outskirts of the city. Stopping for gasoline, he stood beside the car.
"We could have dinner," he said almost anxiously.
"You have work you could do."
"No--I haven't planned anything. Couldn't we have dinner?"
He knew that she had nothing to do either--no planned evening or special place to go.
She compromised.
"Do you want to get something in that drug-store across the street?"
He looked at it tentatively.
"Is that really what you want?"
"I like to eat in American drug-stores. It seems so queer and strange."
They sat on high stools and had tomato broth and hot sandwiches. It was more intimate than anything they had done, and they both felt a dangerous sort of loneliness, and felt it in each other. They shared in varied scents of the drug-store, bitter and sweet and sour, and the mystery of the waitress, with only the outer part of her hair dyed and black beneath, and, when it was over, the still life of their empty plates--a sliver of potato, a sliced pickle and an olive stone.
It was dusk in the street, it seemed nothing to smile at him now when they got into the car.
"Thank you so much. It's been a nice afternoon."
It was not far from her house. They felt the beginning of the hill, and the louder sound of the car in second was the beginning of the end. Lights were on in the climbing bungalows--he turned on the headlights of the car. Stahr felt heavy in the pit of his stomach.
"We'll go out again."
"No," she said quickly, as if she had been expecting this. "I'll write you a letter. I'm sorry I've been so mysterious--it was really a compliment because I like you so much. You should try not to work so hard. You ought to marry again."
"Oh, that isn't what you should say," he broke out protestingly. "This has been you and me today. It may have meant nothing to you--it meant a lot to me. I'd like time to tell you about it."
But if he were to take time it must be in her house, for they were there and she was shaking her head as the car drew up to the door.
"I must go now. I do have an engagement. I didn't tell you."
"That's not true. But it's all right."
He walked to the door with her and stood in his own footsteps of that other night, while she felt in her bag for the key.
"Have you got it?"
"I've got it," she said.
That was the moment to go in, but she wanted to see him once more and she leaned her head to the left, then to the right, trying to catch his face against the last twilight. She leaned too far and too long, and it was natural when his hand touched the back of her upper arm and shoulder and pressed her forward into the darkness of his throat. She shut her eyes, feeling the bevel of the key in her tight-clutched hand. She said "Oh" in an expiring sigh, and then "Oh" again, as he pulled her in close and his chin pushed her cheek around gently. They were both smiling just faintly, and she was frowning, too, as the inch between them melted into darkness.
When they were apart, she shook her head still, but more in wonder than in denial. It came like this then, it was your own fault, now far back, when was the moment? It came like this, and every instant the burden of tearing herself away from them together, from it, was heavier and more unimaginable. He was exultant; she resented and could not blame him, but she would not be part of his exultation, for it was a defeat. So far it was a defeat. And then she thought that if she stopped it being a defeat, broke off and went inside, it was still not a victory. Then it was just nothing.
"This was not my idea," she said, "not at all my idea."
"Can I come in?"
"Oh, no--no."
"Then let's jump in the car and drive somewhere."
With relief, she caught at the exact phrasing--to get away from here immediately, that was accomplishment or sounded like it--as if she were fleeing from the spot of a crime. Then they were in the car, going down hill with the breeze cool in their faces, and she came slowly to herself. Now it was all clear in black and white.
"We'll go back to your house on the beach," she said.
"Back there?"
"Yes--we'll go back to your house. Don't let's talk. I just want to ride."
When they got to the coast again the sky was grey, and at Santa Monica a sudden gust of rain bounced over them. Stahr halted beside the road, put on a raincoat, and lifted the canvas top. "We've got a roof," he said.
The windshield wiper ticked domestically as a grandfather's clock. Sullen cars were leaving the wet beaches and starting back into the city. Further on they ran into fog--the road lost its boundaries on either side, and the lights of cars coming toward them were stationary until just before they flared past.
They had left a part of themselves behind, and they felt light and free in the car. Fog fizzed in at a chink, and Kathleen took off the rose-and-blue hat in a calm, slow way that made him watch tensely, and put it under a strip of canvas in the back seat. She shook out her hair and, when she saw that Stahr was looking at her, she smiled.
The trained seal's restaurant was only a sheen of light off toward the ocean. Stahr cranked down a window and looked for landmarks, but after a few more miles the fog fell away, and just ahead of them the road turned off that led to his house. Out here a moon showed behind the clouds. There was still a shifting light over the sea.
The house had dissolved a little back into its elements. They found the dripping beams of a doorway and groped over mysterious waist-high obstacles to the single finished room, odorous of sawdust and wet wood. When he took her in his arms, they could just see each other's eyes in the half darkness. Presently his raincoat dropped to the floor.
"Wait," she said.
She needed a minute. She did not see how any good could come from this, and though this did not prevent her from being happy and desirous, she needed a minute to think how it was, to go back an hour and know how it had happened. She waited in his arms, moving her head a little from side to side as she had before, only more slowly, and never taking her eyes from his. Then she discovered that he was trembling.
He discovered it at the same time, and his arms relaxed. Immediately she spoke to him coarsely and provocatively, and pulled his face down to hers. Then, with her knees she struggled out of something, still standing up and holding him with one arm, and kicked it off beside the coat. He was not trembling now and he held her again, as the
y knelt down together and slid to the raincoat on the floor.
Afterwards they lay without speaking, and then he was full of such tender love for her that he held her tight till a stitch tore in her dress. The small sound brought them to reality.
"I'll help you up," he said, taking her hands.
"Not just yet. I was thinking of something."
She lay in the darkness, thinking irrationally that it would be such a bright indefatigable baby, but presently she let him help her up.... When she came back into the room, it was lit from a single electric fixture.
"A one-bulb lighting system," he said. "Shall I turn it off?"
"No. It's very nice. I want to see you."
They sat in the wooden frame of the window seat, with the soles of their shoes touching.
"You seem far away," she said.
"So do you."
"Are you surprised?"
"At what?"
"That we're two people again. Don't you always think--hope that you'll be one person, and then find you're still two?"
"I feel very close to you."
"So do I to you," she said.
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
They laughed.
"Is this what you wanted?" she asked. "I mean last night."
"Not consciously."
"I wonder when it was settled," she brooded. "There's a moment when you needn't, and then there's another moment when you know nothing in the world could keep it from happening."
This had an experienced ring, and to his surprise he liked her even more. In his mood, which was passionately to repeat yet not recapitulate the past, it was right that it should be that way.
"I am rather a trollop," she said, following his thoughts. "I suppose that's why I didn't get on to Edna."
"Who is Edna?"
"The girl you thought was me. The one you phoned to--who lived across the road. She's moved to Santa Barbara."
"You mean she was a tart?"
"So it seems. She went to what you call call-houses."
"That's funny."
"If she had been English, I'd have known right away. But she seemed like everyone else. She only told me just before she went away."
He saw her shiver and got up, putting the raincoat around her shoulders. He opened a closet, and a pile of pillows and beach mattresses fell out on the floor. There was a box of candles, and he lit them around the room, attaching the electric heater where the bulb had been.
"Why was Edna afraid of me?" he asked suddenly.
"Because you were a producer. She had some awful experience or a friend of hers did. Also, I think she was extremely stupid."
"How did you happen to know her?"
"She came over. Maybe she thought I was a fallen sister. She seemed quite pleasant. She said 'Call me Edna' all the time--'Please call me Edna,' so finally I called her Edna and we were friends."
She got off the window seat so he could lay pillows along it and behind her.
"What can I do?" she said. "I'm a parasite."
"No, you're not." He put his arms around her. "Be still. Get warm."
They sat for awhile quiet.
"I know why you liked me at first," she said. "Edna told me."
"What did she tell you?"
"That I looked like--Minna Davis. Several people have told me that."
He leaned away from her and nodded.
"It's here," she said, putting her hands on her cheekbones and distorting her cheeks slightly. "Here and here."
"Yes," said Stahr. "It was very strange. You look more like she actually looked than how she was on the screen."
She got up, changing the subject with her gesture as if she were afraid of it.
"I'm warm now," she said. She went to the closet and peered in, came back wearing a little apron with a crystalline pattern like a snowfall. She stared around critically.
"Of course we've just moved in," she said, "--and there's a sort of echo."
She opened the door of the veranda and pulled in two wicker chairs, drying them off. He watched her move, intently, yet half afraid that her body would fail somewhere and break the spell. He had watched women in screen tests and seen their beauty vanish second by second, as if a lovely statue had begun to walk with the meagre joints of a paper doll. But Kathleen was ruggedly set on the balls of her feet--the fragility was, as it should be, an illusion.
"It's stopped raining," she said. "It rained the day I came. Such an awful rain--so loud--like horses weeing."
He laughed.
"You'll like it. Especially if you've got to stay here. Are you going to stay here? Can't you tell me now? What's the mystery?"
She shook her head.
"Not now--it's not worth telling."
"Come here then."
She came over and stood near him, and he pressed his cheek against the cool fabric of the apron.
"You're a tired man," she said, putting her hand in his hair.
"Not that way."
"I didn't mean that way," she said hastily. "I meant you'll work yourself sick."
"Don't be a mother," he said.
"All right. What shall I be?"
Be a trollop, he thought. He wanted the pattern of his life broken. If he was going to die soon, like the two doctors said, he wanted to stop being Stahr for awhile and hunt for love like men who had no gifts to give, like young nameless men who looked along the streets in the dark.
"You've taken off my apron," she said gently.
"Yes."
"Would anyone be passing along the beach? Shall we put out the candles?"
"No, don't put out the candles."
Afterwards she lay half on a white cushion and smiled up at him.
"I feel like Venus on the half shell," she said.
"What made you think of that?"
"Look at me--isn't it Botticelli?"
"I don't know," he said smiling. "It is if you say so."
She yawned.
"I've had such a good time. And I'm very fond of you."
"You know a lot, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, from little things you've said. Or perhaps the way you say them."
She deliberated.
"Not much," she said. "I never went to a university, if that's what you mean. But the man I told you about knew everything and he had a passion for educating me. He made out schedules and made me take courses at the Sorbonne and go to museums. I picked up a little."
"What was he?"
"He was a painter of sorts and a hell-cat. And a lot besides. He wanted me to read Spengler--everything was for that. All the history and philosophy and harmony was all so I could read Spengler, and then I left him before we got to Spengler. At the end I think that was the chief reason he didn't want me to go."
"Who was Spengler?"
"I tell you we didn't get to him," she laughed, "and now I'm forgetting everything very patiently, because it isn't likely I'll ever meet anyone like him again."
"Oh, but you shouldn't forget," said Stahr, shocked. He had an intense respect for learning, a racial memory of the old schules. "You shouldn't forget."
"It was just in place of babies."
"You could teach your babies," he said.
"Could I?"
"Sure you could. You could give it to them while they were young. When I want to know anything, I've got to ask some drunken writer. Don't throw it away."
"All right," she said, getting up. "I'll tell it to my children. But it's so endless--the more you know, the more there is just beyond, and it keeps on coming. This man could have been anything if he hadn't been a coward and a fool."
"But you were in love with him."
"Oh, yes--with all my heart." She looked through the window, shading her eyes. "It's light out there. Let's go down to the beach."
He jumped up, exclaiming:
"Why, I think it's the grunion!"
"What?"
"It's tonight. It's in all the papers." He hurried
out the door, and she heard him open the door of the car. Presently he returned with a newspaper.
"It's at ten-sixteen. That's five minutes."
"An eclipse or something?"
"Very punctual fish," he said. "Leave your shoes and stockings and come with me."
It was a fine blue night. The tide was at the turn, and the little silver fish rocked off shore waiting for 10.16. A few seconds after the time they came swarming in with the tide, and Stahr and Kathleen stepped over them barefoot as they flicked slip-slop on the sand. A negro man came along the shore toward them, collecting the grunion quickly, like twigs, into two pails. They came in twos and threes and platoons and companies, relentless and exalted and scornful, around the great bare feet of the intruders, as they had come before Sir Francis Drake had nailed his plaque to the boulder on the shore.
"I wish for another pail," the negro man said, resting a moment.
"You've come a long way out," said Stahr.
"I used to go to Malibu, but they don't like it, those moving picture people."
A wave came in and forced them back, receded swiftly, leaving the sand alive again.
"Is it worth the trip?" Stahr asked.
"I don't figure it that way. I really come out to read some Emerson. Have you ever read him?"
"I have," said Kathleen. "Some."
"I've got him inside my shirt. I got some Rosicrucian literature with me, too, but I'm fed up with them."
The wind had changed a little--the waves were stronger further down, and they walked along the foaming edge of the water.
"What's your work," the negro asked Stahr.
"I work for the pictures."
"Oh." After a moment he added, "I never go to movies."
"Why not?" asked Stahr sharply.
"There's no profit. I never let my children go."
Stahr watched him, and Kathleen watched Stahr protectively.
"Some of them are good," she said, against a wave of spray; but he did not hear her. She felt she could contradict him and said it again, and this time he looked at her indifferently.
"Are the Rosicrucian brotherhood against pictures?" asked Stahr.
"Seems as if they don't know what they are for. One week they for one thing and next week for another."
Only the little fish were certain. Half an hour had gone, and still they came. The negro's two pails were full, and finally he went off over the beach toward the road, unaware that he had rocked an industry.
Stahr and Kathleen walked back to the house, and she thought how to drive his momentary blues away.