I and My True Love (39 page)

Then she looked down at the small suitcase by her feet. “Where am I really going?” she asked aloud. She leaned her elbows on the rail and stared at the swirling currents of the deep water, as strong and relentless as life itself.

“Careful!” a man’s voice warned her. “You could fall over there.” He smiled as she turned to look at him, and then he saw her face and the smile vanished.

“Thank you,” she said. She picked up her suitcase and moved away.

* * *

She found a room in a hillside hotel that was small and cheap. As she looked at the narrow rectangle with its single window facing a busy street, she remembered for a moment the suite of rooms that Payton had engaged at the St. Francis on her last visit here. Then she crushed down the memory. That was gone, all of it. And for that, there wasn’t even the stirring of regret but a feeling of thankfulness.

She laid her handbag on the yellow oak dresser and stared at herself in the mirror. How could she look so normal? Her hair had been wind-blown on the ferry, the colour had been whipped to her cheeks by the salt air, and the blue eyes that returned her stare were seemingly calm. How could she look so normal? How could a face lie like that? Suddenly it twisted, as her heart twisted, and she turned away to throw herself on the narrow bed and smother the storm of weeping on its pillow.

When she rose, the wild fit of anguish had passed. But everything she did now had a feverish haste. She stripped herself, and bathed, and dressed in clean clothes. She tidied the room quickly, dropping the papers, which she had carried here so carefully, into the waste basket. Then she picked up the telephone. “I want to make a call to Washington.”

The girl at the telephone exchange in the little lobby downstairs seemed startled. She recovered enough to say that the hotel couldn’t put such a call on the bill.

“I’ll pay it now if you’ll send a boy up for the money,” Sylvia said. “But put the call through at once. It’s urgent. Here’s the number.” She gave it slowly, carefully. “Person to person,” she added. “I want to speak to Mr. Martin Clark.”

“Three minutes?”

“That will do,” Sylvia said. Half a minute, even ten seconds would be enough for Martin’s answer to her question.

But the girl had her doubts. “I’ll let you know when the three minutes are up,” she volunteered. “Clark. And what was that first name?”

“Martin,” Sylvia said. “Martin Clark.”

* * *

Then all she had to do was to wait, standing very still in the lonely room with the golden evening sky turning slowly to grey, deepening into night. What frightened her most was her blankness of mind: she could no longer think, no longer shape any reason or explanation. All she could do was to stand still, like this, alone, watching the darkening sky.

At last the call came through. “Martin,” she said, trembling with relief to hear his voice. “Martin...”

He said something she couldn’t understand.

“Martin, please tell me the truth. I’ve read the report that Jan has gone. Is it true, Martin? Is it true?”

He was silent.

“I want the truth,” she said desperately, and now the last hope in her heart was fading like the light outside the narrow window. She heard Martin say, “I think he was forced to go.”

“He’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Oh...” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, don’t worry. I’ll be all right. Did Jan see Kate before—before—”

“Yes. Bob Turner was there, too.”

“What did Jan say?”

“Kate’s written you a letter. He wanted you to know everything.”

“But—” she began. I know, she thought, I know all I need to know.

“Kate and Bob both believed him,” he said quickly. “I do, too.”

Did they all think she might doubt Jan—had Jan tortured himself about that, too? “I know,” she said. “His family—” She bit her lip cruelly. “I know,” she repeated. “He had to go back.”

“Czernik and Vlatov are leaving,” he said, his voice more cheerful. “We asked for them to be recalled:
personae non gratae.”
He talked on, but she scarcely listened.

They will blame Jan, she thought. Czernik and Vlatov will blame him. “He will never escape now,” she said, interrupting Martin. Then his last words forced their way into her mind. “Sorry—what was that you said?”

“You saw the news about Payton’s resignation?”

“No.”

“His name got into the papers. So he thought it best to resign.” She fell silent. Best? It completed the picture of a husband twice betrayed. “How very sorry everyone must be for him,” she said. She wanted to laugh, but the laugh turned to a gasp as she fought back her tears.

“Where are you, Sylvia?” Martin asked, suddenly worried. “Sylvia! Are you ’phoning from Santa Rosita?”

“No. I’m in San Francisco.” Her voice strengthened. “I’m going to find a job—give myself something to do.”

“That’s best.”

“Yes.” She spoke confidently now. “It’s the only thing to do. How’s Amy?”

“But I told you—first thing! Twins. Boys.”

“Already?”

“This afternoon. And Amy’s fine, too.”

“Oh, Martin—my love to all of you.” Then she said very clearly, “Tell Amy I’ll write soon—as soon as I’m settled. And tell Kate, too, will you?”

“Send us your address right away.”

“I’ll do that,” she promised. “As soon as—”

The strange voice broke in. “Your time is up, sorry!” it told her briskly.

“Thank you.” She almost smiled. And then, to Martin, “I’ll be all right,” she said quickly, calmly.

She listened to his last goodbye. He seemed reassured.

* * *

Now, the thoughts in her mind were clear, as clear and cold and precise as the shapes and shadows of a brightly lit street.

Jan had gone back. He had never promised to stay unless he was free to stay. It was the chance they had taken, and they had always known it as that and no more. If they hadn’t taken it, there would have been no happiness. And she had had happiness. A month of happiness. There had been pain with it, too, but perhaps pain was the emphasis that intensified the joy you felt, distilled your happiness until it was crystal clear and pure, a bitter sweet essence that couldn’t be measured by length of time.

He had gone back, his mission uncompleted, never attempted. She, alone, knew that. Perhaps the men who had sent him to Washington guessed it. What happened to those who failed when it ought to have been easy to succeed? What happened to those who had let their mission be discovered?

He would never be able to escape. The realists who had chosen him for their mission would now mark him as a traitor. They would gather the evidence, fit it into the pattern they needed. He would be arrested, tried, sentenced to death. As a warning to others, as a proof that the realists couldn’t fail— that their ideas had been right and the mission would have succeeded if he hadn’t drawn it into publicity. What was the word they used—saboteur? Saboteur and spy.

He had known all that. But he had gone back to keep the first part of the bargain with his family. He had known all that, and he had gone back.

She took a deep breath, and her pain and love cut through her heart with the sharpness of a sword.

“Oh, Jan,” she cried, sharing now the agony of his decision. “Oh, Jan, did you ever think that I would doubt you?”

* * *

Her movements became as clear as her thoughts. She sat down at the rickety table, switching on the meagre light, and found a few sheets of writing paper in its drawer. She rationed them carefully.

The first letter was to her father and mother, a serious yet confident note, reassuring them as she had reassured Martin Clark. She spoke briefly of a violent quarrel with Payton, her flight from the house in Georgetown, and the help that the Clarks had given her. She had come west, to a strange part of the country where she was unknown, because that, at least, might spare Whitecraigs additional publicity.

She stopped writing for a moment. Whitecraigs, she thought, with its green meadows and rounded trees; and its empty paddock and paint-spattered porch; and its littered hall and shadowed rooms where even the furniture seemed lost in memories. And Jennifer’s sharp voice in the kitchen and Annabel’s mirthless laugh. And her mother, turning in bewilderment from the heap of letters on her desk, saying sadly, “Poor Payton, how terrible for him! I must write him a note. How could Sylvia be so
rash?”
Then she’d sigh and wipe her glasses and add comfortingly, “Still, it was her problem after all, I suppose.” Upstairs, withdrawn into his room, forgetting the day, avoiding the others’ voices, her father would push aside the newspapers that Jennifer would bring him. “Later, later!” he would say, angrily perhaps. Or coldly? Or with no emotion left in his voice?

She covered her eyes with her hand for a minute. Then she went on writing dutifully. She sent her love to the children, and a cheerful greeting for Ben and Rose, and she finished with a promise to write again as soon as she had found a permanent address.

The second letter was to Kate, and once more she spoke of finding a job, something to keep her mind occupied, something to lead her over this bad gulf into the future.

She sent a brief note to Amy, telling her that everything was under control.

And she drafted a business-like telegram to Santa Rosita.

By the time she pushed the creaking chair away from the table, it was dark. She had a headache, and she felt sick, but she could blame that partly on hunger. She powdered her face carefully—how could it look almost normal? she wondered again—and arranged her hair and added colour to her lips. She slipped her coat over the fresh dress. She remembered her ear-rings and the heavy bracelet she always wore on her left wrist. She arranged her brush and comb and powder and face cream and mirror on the dressing-table, as if she had settled in the room for a few days’ visit. She unpacked the rest of her belongings and placed them neatly in a drawer. And she even remembered to lay her nightdress on the pillow.

At the door, she hesitated. Then she remembered the papers in the waste basket. She took them with her. So many papers there might attract attention. She left them on a littered tray outside another bedroom door.

* * *

In the lobby, the reception clerk looked at her with pleasure and approval.

Certainly, he said to all her requests for help and fulfilled them quickly, delighted with his own efficiency and her smile of thanks. Airmail stamps? Certainly. Telegrams? He’d attend to that right away. She wanted to leave some money in his safe? But of course, didn’t pay to carry extra money around these days, better to take with you what you needed and no more, that was his opinion, and here was the receipt.

Could he recommend a restaurant near by? Sure, San Francisco had plenty of restaurants in almost any street. Did she like sea-food? Italian restaurants were down on the wharves, right on the water with the fishing boats moored in hundreds beside them. Pity he was on duty or he could show her the way there. Or what about a Chinese restaurant? You just walked up California, then you’d see the dragon lamp-posts, and the statue of Sun Yat-Sen, couldn’t miss them, and Grant Street that stretched along to your right was full of eating places and tourists. He gave her the name of his favourite restaurant there, and seemed pleased when she memorised it.

“Thank you,” Sylvia said at last, breaking away as he came to the end of a paragraph describing the best things to order, “thank you very much.” She gave him a last smile and walked briskly out of the hotel.

“Helpful Harry,” the telephone operator said, watching him bitterly. “What about giving me some help for a change?” As if he would!

“Keep your eyes on that switchboard,” he told her sharply, frowning to restore order and his normal expression.

“And all I wanted was a cup of coffee.”

“Get Western Union and send this telegram.” He looked with distaste at the girl’s mocking eyes. Some people make you feel good, he thought; just to talk to them for a moment, just to listen to their voice and watch their face makes you feel good. And some people make you feel you’d like to kick them. Not that you could kick a woman. Still, with all this talk of equal rights, why not? Just once in a while to keep things good and even?

“Certainly,” she said, imitating his voice. “Certainly, I’ll attend to that right away, madam. Any airmail stamps I can lick for you?”

“Drop dead.” The trouble was, she wouldn’t. She’d live to ninety, spreading frustration around her. And she knew it, too. She was smiling as she plugged in the telephone wire. Her voice became sweet as syrup dosed with saccharine. “Hallo, Patty. Still on duty? How’s the new perm? Uh uh... If you hear any growls over my right shoulder pay no attention to Mr. Waldorf Astoria. His draft board caught up with him this morning. Uh uh... Well, here’s a telegram you’re to send out. To Santa Rosita.”

* * *

Outside, the sky was dark and heavy with low clouds that had swept suddenly in from the Pacific. There was white mist in the streets, a fine mist that dampened her coat and fell coldly on her face. Underfoot, the steep sidewalk was wet and slippery. The lights overhead were dimmed and softened. It seemed a different city from the one she had reached in the golden hours of early sunset, with its bright blue sky and clearly etched buildings. Now it was grey and shadowed, vaguely retreating. Its hills had disappeared into the clouds, taking with them the houses and all the people who lived there. Telegraph Hill and its tall thin tower was blotted out of existence. Russian Hill with its tiers of apartment buildings had vanished. And even as Sylvia stood on California, looking up to Nob Hill, the mist thickened there too into a cloud, and the lights and the tall hotels were drawn into a world of their own, a world of silence and mystery.

She turned away, down towards the street that skirted the bottom of the hill, walking quickly, almost eagerly.

There, the sidewalks were crowded, the movie houses and stores were brightly lit, the heavy traffic hissed over the damp pavement. In a few moments she halted again, watching the cable car swinging on a turntable to face its journey back uphill. Then she walked on, slowly now, noticing the buses, the stream of automobiles, the quickly darting taxicabs winding their way impatiently through the traffic. And as she watched them, the fine damp mist turned to a soft white veil bringing its world of half light and half shapes, threatening obliteration for the whole street.