Garden of Eden (16 page)

The
girl came back and when he saw her come in, her face happy, he knew how he felt
about her.

"She's
getting dressed," the girl said. "She feels fine. Isn't it
wonderful?"

"Yes,"
he said, loving Catherine too as always.

"What
happened to my drink?"

"I
drank it," he said. "Because it was yours.

"Truly,
David?" She blushed and was happy.

"That's
as well as I can put it," he said. "Here's a new one.

She
tasted it and passed her lips very lightly over the rim and then passed it to
him and he did the same and took a long sip. "You're very beautiful,"
he said. "And I love you.

HE
HEARD THE BUGATTI start and the noise came as a surprise and an intrusion
because there was no motor noise in the country where he was living. He was
completely detached from everything except the story he was writing and he was
living in it as he built it. The difficult parts he had dreaded he now faced
one after another and as he did the people, the country, the days and the
nights, and the weather were all there as he wrote. He went on working and he
felt as tired as if he had spent the night crossing the broken volcanic desert
and the sun had caught him and the others with the dry gray lakes still ahead.
He could feel the weight of the heavy double-barreled rifle carried over his
shoulder, his hand on the muzzle, and he tasted the pebble in his mouth. Across
the shimmer of the dry lakes he could see the distant blue of the escarpment.
Ahead of him there was no one, and behind was the long line of porters who knew
that they had reached this point three hours too late.

It
was not him, of course, who had stood there that morning, nor had he even worn
the patched corduroy jacket faded almost white now, the armpits rotted through
by sweat, that he took off then and handed to his Kamba servant and brother who
shared with him the guilt and knowledge of the delay, watching him smell the
sour, vinegary smell and shake his head in disgust and then grin as he swung
the jacket over his black shoulder holding it by the sleeves as they started
off across the dry-baked gray, the gun muzzles in their right hands, the barrels
balanced on their shoulders, the heavy stocks pointing back toward the line of
porters.

It
was not him, but as he wrote it was and when someone read it, finally, it would
be whoever read it and what they found when they should reach the escarpment,
if they reached it, and he would make them reach its base by noon of that day;
then whoever read it would find what there was there and have it always.

All
your father found he found for you too, he thought, the good, the wonderful,
the bad, the very bad, the really very bad, the truly bad and then the much
worse. It was a shame a man with such a talent for disaster and for delight
should have gone the way he went, he thought. It always made him happy to
remember his father and he knew his father would have liked this story.

It
was nearly noon when he came out of the room and walked barefoot on the stones
of the patio to the entrance of the hotel. In the big room workmen were putting
up a mirror on the wall behind the bar. Monsieur Aurol and the young waiter were
with them and he spoke to them and went out in the kitchen where he found
Madame.

"Have
you any beer, Madame?" he asked her.

"Mais
certainement, Monsieur Bourne," she said and brought a cold bottle from
the ice chest.

"I'll
drink it from the bottle," he said.

"As
Monsieur wishes," she said. "The ladies drove to Nice I believe.
Monsieur worked well?"

"Very
well."

"Monsieur
works too hard. It's not good not to take breakfast." "Is there any
of that caviar left in the tin?" "I'm sure there is. "I'll take
a couple of spoonsful." "Monsieur is odd," Madame said.
"Yesterday you ate it with champagne. Today with beer." "I'm
alone today," David said. "Do you know if my bicyclette is still in
the remise?" "It should be," Madame said. David took a spoonful
of the caviar and offered the tin to Madame. "Have some, Madame. It's very
good." "I shouldn't," she said. "Don't be silly," he
told her. "Take some. There's some toast. Take a glass of champagne.
There's some in the ice box." Madame took a spoonful of caviar and put it
on a piece of toast left from breakfast and poured herself a glass of rose.
"It is excellent," she said. "Now we must put it away. "Do
you feel any good effect?" David asked. "I'm going to have one more
spoon. "Ah, Monsieur. You mustn't joke like that." "Why
not?" David said. "My joking partners are away. If those two
beautiful women come back tell them I went for a swim will you?"
"Certainly. The little one is a beauty. Not as beautiful as Madame of
course." "I find her not too ugly," David said. "She's a
beauty, Monsieur, and very charming." "She'll do until something else
comes along," David said. "If you think she's pretty."
"Monsieur," she said in deepest reproof. "What are all the
architectural reforms?" David asked. "The new miroir for the bar?
It's such a charming gift to the maison."

"Everyone's
full of charm," David said. "Charm and sturgeon eggs. Ask the boy to
look at my tires while I put something on my feet and find a cap, will you
please?"

"Monsieur
likes to go barefoot. Me too in summer."

"We'll
go barefoot together sometime."

"Monsieur,"
she said giving it everything.

"Is
Aurol jealous?"

"Sans
blague," she said. "I'll tell the two beautiful ladies you've gone
swimming."

"Keep
the caviar away from Aurol," David said. "Á bientôt, chére
Madame."

"Á
tout á l'heure, Monsieur."

On
the shiny black road that mounted through the pines as he left the hotel he
felt the pull in his arms and his shoulders and the rounding thrust of his feet
against the pedals as he climbed in the hot sun with the smell of the pines and
the light breeze that came from the sea. He bent his back forward and pulled
lightly against his hands and felt the cadence that had been ragged as he first
mounted begin to smooth out as he passed the hundred-meter stones and then the
first red-topped kilometer marker and then the second. At the headland the road
dipped to border the sea and he braked and dismounted and put the bicycle over
his shoulder and walked down with it along the trail to the beach. He propped
it against a pine tree that gave off the resin smell of the hot day and he
dropped down to the rocks, stripped and put his espadrilles on his shorts,
shirt and cap and he dove from the rocks into the deep clear cold sea. He came
up through the varying light and when his head came out he shook it to clear
his ears and then swam out to sea. He lay on his back and floated and watched
the sky and the first white clouds that were coming with the breeze.

He
swam back in to the cove finally and climbed up on the dark red rocks and sat
there in the sun looking down into the sea.

He
was happy to be alone and to have finished his work for the day. Then the
loneliness he always had after work started and he began to think about the
girls and to miss them; not to miss the one nor the other at first, but to miss
them both. Then he thought of them, not critically, not as any problem of love
or fondness, nor of obligation nor of what had happened or would happen, nor of
any problem of conduct now or to come, but simply of how he missed them. He was
lonely for them both, alone and together, and he wanted them both.

Sitting
in the sun on the rock looking down into the sea, he knew it was wrong to want
them both but he did. Nothing with either of those two can end well and neither
can you now, he told himself. But do not start blaming who you love nor apportioning
blame. It will all be apportioned in due time and not by you.

He
looked down into the sea and tried to think clearly what the situation was and
it did not work out. The worst was what had happened to Catherine. The next
worse was that he had begun to care for the other girl. He did not have to
examine his conscience to know that he loved Catherine nor that it was wrong to
love two women and that no good could ever come of it. He did not yet know how
terrible it could be. He only knew that it had started. The three of you are
already enmeshed like three gears that turn a wheel, he told himself and also
told himself one gear had been stripped or, at least, badly damaged. He dove
deep down into the clear cold water where he missed no one and then came up and
shook his head and swam out further and then turned to swim back to the beach.

He
dressed, still wet from the sea and put his cap in his pocket, then climbed up
to the road with his bicycle and mounted, driving the machine up the short hill
feeling the lack of training in his thighs as he pressed the balls of his feet
on the pedals with the steady climbing thrust that carried him up the black
road as though he and the racing bike were some wheeled animal. Then he coasted
down, his hands fingering the brakes, taking the curves fast, dropping down the
shiny dark road through the pines, to the turnoff at the back court of the
hotel where the sea shone summer blue beyond the trees.

The
girls were not back yet and he went into the room and took a shower, changed to
a fresh shirt and shorts and came out to the bar with its new and handsome
mirror. He called the boy and asked him to bring a lemon, a knife and some ice
and showed him how to make a Tom Collins. Then he sat on the bar stool and
looked into the mirror as he lifted the tall drink. I do not know if I'd have a
drink with you or not if I'd met you four months ago, he thought. The boy
brought him the Éclaireur de Nice and he read it while he waited. He had been
disappointed not to find the girls returned and he missed them and began to worry.

When
they came in, finally, Catherine was very gay and excited and the girl was
contrite and very quiet.

"Hello
darling," Catherine said to David. "Oh look at the mirror. They did
get it up. It's a very good one too. It's awfully critical though. I'll go in
and clean up for lunch. I'm sorry we're late."

"We
stopped in town and had a drink," the girl said to David. "I'm sorry
to have kept you waiting."

"A
drink?" David said.

The
girl held up two fingers. She put her face up and kissed him and was gone.
David went back to reading the paper.

When
Catherine came out she was wearing the dark blue linen shirt that David liked
and slacks and she said, "Darling I hope you're not cross. It wasn't
really our fault. I saw Jean and I asked him to have a drink with us and he did
and was so nice.

"The
coiffeur?"

"Jean.
Of course. What other Jean would I know in Cannes?

He
was so nice and he asked about you. Can I have a martini, darling? I've only
had one." "Lunch must be ready by now." "Just one, darling.
They only have us for lunch." David made two martinis taking his time and
the girl came in. She was wearing a white sharkskin dress and she looked fresh
and cool. "May I have one too, David? It was a very hot day. how was it
here?" "You should have stayed home and looked after him,"
Catherine said. "I got along all right," David said. "The sea
was very good." "You use such interesting adjectives," Catherine
said. "They make everything so vivid." "Sorry," David said.
"That's another dandy word," Catherine said. "Explain what dandy
means to your new girl. It's an Americanism." "I think I know
it," the girl said. "It's the third word in 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.'
Don't please be cross Catherine." "I'm not cross," Catherine
said. "But two days ago when you made passes at me it was simply dandy but
today if I felt that way the slightest bit you had to act as though I was an I
don't know what." "I'm sorry, Catherine," the girl said.
"Another sorry sorry," Catherine said. "As though you hadn't taught
me what little I know." "Should we have lunch?" David said.
"It's been a hot day Devil, and you're tired." "I'm tired of
everybody," Catherine said. "Please forgive me. "There's nothing
to forgive," the girl said. "I'm sorry I was stuffy. I didn't come
here to be that way." She walked over to Catherine and kissed her very
gently and lightly. "Now be a good girl," she said. "Should we
go to the table?" "Didn't we have lunch?" Catherine asked.