Carey caught herself insisting that this encounter was a joke which they must both share with the girl, whoever she was. She was afraid they would hear her footsteps and turn, and for some reason she wanted to choose her own time; she stopped therefore, partly to gain breath and partly in the sheer fascinatedness of being able to count now in seconds, after the minutes, hours, days, and weeks of waiting. She felt curiously elated. And the flowers and the girl’s hair and the blue seen through the green and the snow-capped mountains dazzling in the distance—it WAS all rather like an opera, or like that recurrent crisis in an opera when something silly but quite tuneful is about to happen. “PAUL!” she cried out abruptly. She had not known till then how silent everything was, except for the murmur of the waterfalls. Strange, she thought, that she had not heard them talking together. It was so odd of Paul to be walking, and even odder for him not to be talking.
He turned, stared, muttered something either to the girl or to himself, then began back along the trail, towards her, the girl following him. He was somewhat short-sighted and could not, she knew, recognize her at such a distance, but surely he must have known her voice. But then she realized that her voice had not sounded like her own voice at all.
“Hello,” she said conversationally, but projecting a little, as she would have done on the stage.
Then came, in a rush, the inevitable exclamations and counter- exclamations. “CAREY! For heaven’s sake! YOU? You didn’t tell me you were coming! Why on earth didn’t you write? Carey, I can’t BELIEVE it’s you…”
“Oh, Paul, I ought to have let you know, but I made up my mind so suddenly and I thought if you’d gone back to Germany I didn’t want to interfere with your plans—I mean, if you hadn’t been here it would have been all right—it’s such a glorious place and I needed a vacation—it was either here or Florida, and there’s no comparison, is there? And besides, YOU don’t tell ME everything, why should I tell you?—that’s fair, isn’t it?… My goodness, you’re looking well!”
It was true. His usually pale face was bronzed, and he had lost nearer twenty than ten pounds, she would have judged. She had never seen him in such condition and it was doubtless absurd of her to reflect that, in a certain sense, it didn’t suit him.
Then the girl came up, and Carey gasped, for she was a blond beauty, Wagnerian perhaps, but slim and exquisite, the flaxen hair framing the face like an ivory miniature.
Paul said: “This is Miss Wanda Hessely—she plays the lead in the picture.” He turned to the girl and said, in very bad German: “This is Carey Arundel.”
Carey smiled and the girl smiled back.
Paul said: “She doesn’t speak English and I still can’t manage much German, but I can tell you she’s a fine actress.”
“That’s wonderful. I hope I’m not interrupting your morning.”
Carey hadn’t intended that to be sarcastic, it was simply what she sincerely felt, but as soon as she said it she wished it had sounded differently. Already she was half-regretting the whole trip; to meet Paul was one thing, but to sneak up on two people gathering wild flowers in a wood was somehow too naďve. Besides, she knew Paul had his own ways of rehearsing privately with actors—perhaps there was a flower scene in the picture and they had been taking themselves off to some quiet spot where Paul would have her go through a part. But to think that was perhaps also naďve. Already she knew that any twinge of jealousy she felt had not come from seeing the girl, but from hearing Paul call her a fine actress.
Paul said: “Oh no, we were just out for a stroll. Nowhere special. Wanda loves flowers. Let’s go back to the hotel and have a drink… She talks French, if you can remember enough.”
They walked back together, Paul between them. The girl was not only lovely, she was charming and spoke enchantingly, with a quality of voice that Carey knew must set her high in Paul’s regard; and though Carey had not used her French for years, it began to ripple fast between them by the time they reached the hotel. Paul, indeed, was left rather out of things; he kept glancing first to one side and then to the other, as if uncertain whether what was happening was altogether what he wanted. He was a bad linguist, and could not follow the conversation. “So you DO remember your French,” he commented ruefully, as they chose a table on the terrace.
“Of course. And since she doesn’t know English I’ll tell you this much in front of her—she’s just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Is she well known?”
“She will be. She’s my discovery—she used to work in a department store. A natural actress. You should see some of the rushes.”
“I’d like to. May I?”
“They’re in Berlin.”
“But aren’t you making part of the picture here?”
“We were shooting a few mountain scenes, but that’s all done now. We’re just killing time for a while.”
“A nice place to do it. Everybody must be very happy.”
“No, the others have gone back to Germany till there’s more money. Mine turned out to be not nearly enough. You’ve no idea how costs run up. I sold out half my interest. I had to—we couldn’t have gone on without.”
“So you spent all your money and now you only own half the picture?”
“Maybe not even that, by the time we’re through. But if I’d kept it in stocks, what then?”
“Exactly. You were so right.”
“I didn’t know I was right. I just knew I wanted the money… And it’s a good picture, Carey, really it is.”
“Oh, Paul, I’m very happy about that.”
“Are you? You LOOK happy.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve owed myself a real vacation for years. Last summer at Mapledurham wasn’t much of one.”
“I know. Because you didn’t like Malcolm. Maybe you were right about him just as I was about the stocks.”
“You mean accidentally right?”
“Well, you couldn’t have KNOWN.”
“Couldn’t have known what?”
“Oh, well, let’s not hold a post-mortem.”
“He told me he hadn’t seen eye to eye with you—that was the phrase. I suppose you had a big row.”
“An IMPOSSIBLE row, Carey.”
“You’re pretty hard to collaborate with.”
“Oh, it hadn’t anything to do with that.”
“So he said, too.”
The waiter came and Paul, without consultation, ordered three double Amer Picons, which Carey thought rather massive for that time of the day, but she was too preoccupied to ask for anything else.
“What was the row about, then?”
“Wanda, mainly. He didn’t like her.”
“You mean, in the part?”
“That as well.”
“As well as what?”
“Oh, it was all rather personal.”
“Perhaps he was jealous.”
“Not in the way you’d expect.”
She laughed. “Darling, how do you know what I’d expect?”
“That’s enough in English. Say something to her in French.”
She spoke across him to the girl; she said: “My husband tells me you’re very wonderful in the picture.”
She watched the girl’s response, and saw shock (if there were any) mingle with pleasure at the compliment into a cool shyness, half disconcerted, half serene. The more Carey studied her the more she found her utterly delightful. They talked on till the drinks came, less and less importantly; by that time Paul looked forlorn again and was itching for a chance to interrupt.
“You two seem to be hitting it off together,” he said, at the first opportunity. “Hitting it off” was his favourite phrase for success in any and all human contacts.
“Paul, I think she’s adorable.”
“How do you like the Amer Picon?”
“I’m not used to drinks at all, so early, but it’s no more unusual than my being here, is it? I left my luggage in Interlaken, by the way.”
“The hotel people can send over f
or it.”
“As a matter of fact I booked a room there at the Splendide—I wasn’t certain you’d be here, and Interlaken looked very nice.”
“Sure, but you can cancel it now. Let me go to the desk and fix things.”
She talked with Wanda till he came back a few moments later. “They’ve put you in the room across from me for tonight,” he said, “but tomorrow we can switch to the royal suite—it’s probably that—two bedrooms with a real bathroom in between—quite sensational for these parts. And I asked them to telephone the Splendide to cancel your room and send over the stuff. It won’t arrive till tomorrow, but I don’t suppose that matters.”
She could not help thinking how strange it was for him to have made all these businesslike arrangements. Usually when they travelled it was she who did everything at hotel desks, booking and inspecting rooms, checking luggage, and so on. It was certainly strange of him to be rushing to handle such details himself, and courtesy seemed laughable as a possible explanation. Perhaps, though, it was no stranger than the walking in the woods, and the flowers, and the shorts. As for the arrangements themselves, they were quite normal. For years he had been apt to sit up half the night reading and smoking cigars, and for this reason separate rooms had become a habit, and in hotels whenever possible they had always tried to fix up a two-bedroomed suite.
Then, in the swiftly gathering dusk, she noticed a small group of people at the end of the terrace staring in a certain direction, some with binoculars. Paul explained that it was the Alpine glow transfiguring the snow peaks, evidently a much-esteemed local spectacle. They moved over to join the group. It appeared often in clear weather, Paul went on, with something of a chamber-of-commerce pridefulness, but this evening’s show was the most colourful he had yet seen. “That INCREDIBLE saffron…” he remarked, adding quickly: “And no joke intended.”
“That makes it a better one,” she laughed, feeling the drink in her head and legs simultaneously. “Because you ARE that incredible Saffron, and I only wish I could translate it into French for Wanda… Anyhow, it’s pretty —the colour, I mean. Just like slabs of pink blancmange… I think I’ll find where my room is now and get myself freshened up.”
“Sure, I’ll take you.”
They entered the hotel, leaving Wanda on the terrace, and climbed the staircase to the second floor. Everywhere looked rather empty, and Paul explained that it was in between seasons, the snow being now too soft for skiing and the yearly influx of vacationers having not yet begun. He talked with a satisfied air of proprietorship, as if the hotel as well as the girl had been his own discovery. “It’s just the spot to rest and relax,” he said, amazingly when she recollected all the other country places which with her he had found just the spots to get bored in. He unlocked the doors of both their rooms, then strode across hers to fling open the windows. “No screens, of course, they never have them out here, but there aren’t insects either.” Screens were his fetish; it was the one feature she had to look for first when she was booking at an American hotel, and how often they had passed up a good one for lack of them. “I think you’ll like it here,” he went on. Both rooms were bare-boarded, cheerful, spotless, but austere by American standards; Paul’s was smaller than hers, with a single bed and not much of a view. He said he had taken it because it was cheap, which she could well believe. She was wondering how much tact she need employ to offer him a loan (probably none at all if he needed the money) when he said with a grin: “Carey, what really made you come here?”
“An idea I got suddenly. I just wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Malcolm scared me.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. That’s what scared me. I got so that I had to find out for myself.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“That’s nice. I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Well, I mean it, Carey. I DON’T blame you.”
“And I don’t blame you either.”
He did not reply, but went on grinning, and after a pause she continued: “Anyhow, you look so well and happy… and why shouldn’t you be, with a good picture nearly finished?”
“Yes, it IS good. I wasn’t certain at first, but I know now I can do a great job for the screen just as for the stage.”
“I’m glad you haven’t changed, Paul.”
“Don’t you think I have? I’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“I meant that if I ever found you modest I really WOULD think something had happened.”
He laughed, “You know me pretty well, don’t you?”
She laughed with him. “Does Wanda think you’re going to make her a great actress?”
He became suddenly serious. “She nearly is already. You’d agree if you saw the rushes.”
“But I can’t, can I? She’s a better actress than me, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“When you say so, as solemnly as that, I know how true it must be.”
“It’s also true that I’ve missed you, Carey.”
“You HAVE? Really? I wouldn’t put it past you, as they say in Dublin.”
“There’s one thing Wanda hasn’t got.”
“That makes her human, anyhow.”
“But it’s something I miss—though perhaps it’s only due to the language barrier… A sense of humour, Carey—the kind you have.”
“And the kind I need, too, darling. When do we get dinner?”
“Six. We’ll drink champagne.”
“Provided you let me buy it.”
“Thanks, and since we’re on that subject, do you think you could lend me a little cash? I’m a bit short till we get some more out of Germany.”
She began to open her purse. “Anything you want, Paul—within limits. We’re neither of us as well-heeled as we used to be. Matter of fact, this room suits me perfectly—why bother making any change tomorrow? We don’t need a suite when the hotel’s so empty—it’s no hardship to walk down the corridor to a bathroom.”
* * * * *
The dinner was good, and in a somewhat under-populated dining-room the explosion of champagne corks seemed a ceremony to announce the season yet unborn. The hotel manager smiled his approval and sent them cognac on the house. Carey talked a good deal to Wanda, and Paul offered his constant interruptions, irrelevantly but not without a sort of bizarre harmony. In the rays of the table lamp Wanda was an Alpine glow herself, something to be stared at like a natural phenomenon. Her beauty was of a kind, Carey thought, that would make anything she did forgivable, while the beauty itself remained unforgivable—because in an imperfect world nobody had a right to such flawlessness. Even the flaw Paul had mentioned was more likely to be his own than hers, for Carey guessed that Wanda did have a sense of humour; it was Paul who had failed to discover it because he hadn’t nearly so much himself, as his stress on the language barrier showed; for it was wit, of which he had plenty, that required speech; humour could pass wordlessly from eye to eye, as Wanda’s did to hers, even when their chatter in French was quite ordinary and serious. And they need not tell each other much about Paul, Carey thought, because they could LOOK at each other about him; and this they had been doing all the time so far, with Paul presiding between them with an air of performing a conjuring trick that nobody was interested in.
It was during the later stages of dinner that Carey realized how impossible it would be to find out anything that could be called the absolute truth. She knew Paul well enough to know how rarely he could be attracted sexually; she knew, too, that there was nothing in the outward appearance of his attitude to make it certain that Wanda was, or had been, his mistress. He adored beautiful women, extravagantly and romantically, and a beautiful woman combined with a fine actress would surely drive him to every kind of distraction—with only one possible but not quite guaranteeable exception. It might well, for instance, expend itself in an ecstasy of gathering wild flowers, wearing shorts, and losing twenty pounds of superfluous weight. During the seven years Carey had lived
with Paul she had witnessed the strangest manifestations of his enthusiasms for other women, yet she had never really believed him to be unfaithful, and had only very occasionally wondered about it. For she had the best of reasons for knowing how hazardous he found the relationship of man and woman, a problem worth solving once in a lifetime, if at all, and then to be given up not so much in despair as in thankful disregard.
And yet, looking at Wanda, Carey could not be sure. From the girl’s angle a liaison with Paul might easily seem desirable as a means of keeping him interested in her till he had given what he had to give—and if she were a good actress, let alone a great one, she would know how much that was. There was a composure about her that Carey could not interpret, but admired because she knew from stage experience how hard it was to simulate if it were not felt; so that in Wanda it must either be sincere or else a piece of acting equally to be envied. She wished she could see the rushes of the picture, not because she doubted Paul’s word about their merit, but to reach in her own heart that point at which envy must spill over into hate or love; for she had never hated anyone yet, and wondered if she could.
She decided then that she was not jealous, but mainly curious, with a curiosity disciplined by her own surmise as to what would happen if she were to ask Paul a plain question. Because, whatever his answer, she wouldn’t know whether to believe it. She could imagine him, in pride that was a sort of self-defence, assuring her that of course he and Wanda had had an affair —what did she think he was made of? (Once or twice in the past he had hinted at conquests which later she had found to be mere boasting.) Or she could imagine him answering no, with much indignation, merely to spare what he would assume to be her feelings—such an assumption being often no more than a reflection of his own high opinion of himself. “I didn’t want you to be hurt,” he would say when he would be hurt himself if she ever told him she hadn’t been.