She reached the corner where the mountain road joined the main highway; from there the driving was much safer, with easier curves and fewer cliffs; the sky, too, was lightening a little. All at once she felt uncontrollably sleepy. She pinched herself to keep her eyes open till she came to a roadside space behind some trees. There she parked and put the top up, intending to take no more than a short nap, but when she woke there was bright sunshine and it was 10 A.M. by her wrist-watch.
Dismayed by having lost so much time she drove on, listening to the radio for more news about Paul. But there was nothing except a mention that the case would come up that morning—might possibly, she surmised, be in progress at that very moment. Some of the more important bulletins ignored the matter altogether, and this reminded her that it was not, after all, an earth-shaking event. That was the trouble with this movie world; its own belief that it tremendously mattered was more infectious than one realized.
Suddenly she laughed aloud as she had laughed on the way down the mountain in darkness, but this time at something that occurred to her. Mr. Hare had asked about Paul threatening her with a gun, and she had found the question completely mystifying, till now she recalled that studio lunch-hour when, in her dressing-room, Paul had rehearsed the shooting scene from his old German picture, taking the man’s part himself and picking up one of the metal tubes that his cigars came in. Someone must have seen and heard all that from a distance… how absurd! She wished she had thought of the explanation in time to tell Mr. Hare. And that reminded her of several appointments that morning —publicity at the studio, lunch with Mr. Hare… of course she could not keep either of them, she must see Paul first. It came to her quite naturally now that she must see him as soon as she could, just to say she was not particularly angry (as everyone would assure him she was). And because everyone would assure her she ought to be, she did not want to see or talk to anyone else before seeing him. She would let him know she had been a little upset at the time, but after all… did it matter? What DID matter? Did ANYTHING matter? Poor little Fitzpomp had probably taken his own life because he thought that nothing mattered. On the other hand it was possible to think so quite happily if there were only the merest loophole, one’s own private SOMETHING tucked away in mind—like Bach, or even the square roots of telephone numbers…
* * * * *
When she reached the streets she stopped at a drug store for coffee and also to telephone Paul at his apartment. She hardly expected him to be back there yet, but it was just possible. She did not leave her name, and the desk clerk (meaningfully, she thought) said he had not been in since the previous day. She drove on through the suburbs. The noon news on the radio told her that the case had ended in a fifty dollar fine. Not so bad. She telephoned his apartment again from quite close; still he was out. Then she parked across the street and waited. If he did not come within an hour or two she would try some other way.
He came within half an hour, driving up in a taxi, alone. She made a U-turn, meeting the kerb behind the taxi; the man saw her manœuvre and was about to drive off again when Paul also saw her and made some wild gesture. “Here—HERE!” she called out, holding open the door of her car while Paul fumbled with money on the pavement. Why on earth doesn’t he give the man a five or a ten quickly? she thought; but that too was like Paul —a big tip, which came from him often, was an expression of his mood, not of any need to get special service. At last he had counted it out and was clambering into the seat next to her. “I thought at first you were someone from a paper,” he began breathlessly, with no hello or greeting and no seeming surprise that she was there. “But I guess they’ve had all they can use.”
“Sure,” she said, making a fast gear change. “You’ve given them all they can use.”
But then, as she turned the car round the block and headed west along the coast highway, she eyed him sideways and thought he looked rather ill as well as tired and unkempt; and that made her continue, less severely: “The best way to talk is to drive—that is, if you want to talk. I don’t know what you want, but I didn’t think you’d get much peace today at your apartment. But it’ll all die down soon, don’t worry. You’re not that important.”
“You’d have thought so this morning—from the crowd. The judge got mad at them.” There was just the faintest twinkle of pride as he said that, and it annoyed her.
“Did you count the house?” she asked, and that annoyed him. As so often when they met they had to go through this phase of mutual annoyance. She went on: “Tell me what happened.”
He gave her what she expected, and had thought she might as well get over, once and for all—a vivid description of an innocent man’s martyrdom. She could judge that from the moment the police arrested him he had made things as unpleasant for himself as possible—refusing to call a lawyer or post a bond. “I thought I might as well get the full value of an experience out of it,” he said. “And I did, and it was interesting. Quite HORRIBLY interesting, Carey. It gave me an idea for a modern Inferno— the purely visual degradation—”
He went on with the details and she wished she hadn’t started the subject; a modern Inferno was just an idea for him to forget, if only because he was always personally influenced by the current enthusiasm of his mind. She interrupted him to say: “You’d like a wash and a shave and a good long rest, I imagine.”
“No, don’t stop yet. I’m glad you met me like this. And you’re right about the apartment—I wouldn’t get any peace there. They don’t like me. They’d let anybody up to disturb me.”
“You don’t look very well.”
“My God, did you expect me to BLOOM after a night in a tank with a lot of drunks and perverts? Sorry—I didn’t mean to snap at you. To tell you the truth, the whole thing EXCITED me—gave me a headache too. One of those bad ones. Of course, not from drinking.”
“I know. I knew it couldn’t really be that. Why did the police think it was?”
“Ach… those fellows. I couldn’t walk in a straight line. And it’s a fact, I couldn’t. Any more than I could park the car. I never was good at that, anyhow.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, but I’d like some coffee.”
“We’ll stop somewhere.”
“We’ll be recognized.”
“I doubt it. And what if we are? Who cares?”
“I’ll pull my hat down.”
“It isn’t you they’re likely to recognize.”
“No? After all the photographs in the papers? You know how they do it, Carey? The man with the camera squats on his heels and shoots upwards through the bars, so that the nostrils gape and the eyebrow shadows reach half-way across the forehead. And then, God help them, they say the camera can’t lie. Of course it can lie. Because the Eye can lie. In the beginning was the Eye. Long before the Word. The Eye can tell no more truth than the brain behind it —the Eye lied when the first caveman saw a shape one night and hurled a spear and found he’d killed his wife instead of a sabre-toothed tiger!”
“Perhaps they were rather hard to tell apart,” she said, and then went on: “Oh, Paul, I must tell you something I heard on the radio this morning. Apparently there was a big wind blowing in Washington and the news announcer said ‘Mother Nature went on a rampage in our nation’s capital’. I thought you’d enjoy that.”
He did, as she had guessed, but then seemed abruptly deflated. “Rampage, rampage,” he muttered. “You think that’s a good word for something I go on at times?”
“Yes, I do.”
They stopped at a roadside place where there was as good a chance of being unrecognized as anywhere, and she persuaded him to have a bowl of soup as well as coffee. The heat and stuffiness of the place made him instantly drowsy; his eyes kept closing and she noticed that in bringing the spoon to his mouth he often touched his cheek first, as if his hand was not in perfect co-ordination. She remarked on this, as casually as she could. “Do you know you do that, Paul?”
He replied rather crossly: “No, a
nd what of it?” Then he smiled in apology. “Reminds me of the only time I tried to play golf. Greg took me round at Carmel. I simply couldn’t hit the ball. Not once.”
That didn’t astonish her so much as the fact that Greg had ever succeeded in putting a club in his hand and getting him on to a course. And then she remembered Interlaken: Paul in shorts, gathering wild flowers in a wood. The things he would do under stress of a personal enthusiasm—for Wanda then, for Greg recently. She said: “Anyhow, I’m glad Greg made you take some physical exercise.”
He said gloomily: He won’t again. I’m through with him.”
“WHAT? With GREG?”
“After last night you bet I am. For him to talk to ME like that— just because I made a speech he hadn’t either the brains or the guts to swallow! What would he be without me, I’d like to know?”
“Pretty much what he is now, darling—a successful movie actor.”
“But Morning Journey’s given him a new reputation—the first picture he’s ever got an award for—the nearest he ever came in his life to a real acting performance—”
“And the worst picture you ever made, don’t forget. You really are a bit inconsistent, Paul. Does this mean, then, that you’re not going abroad with Greg as you planned?”
“That’s all out of the question now.”
“So what will you do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered heavily. “I only know I want to get away some place.”
“There’s one thing I’d like you to do,” she went on, with as much and as little emphasis as she dared. “Have a checkup with a doctor. The one who saw you at the studio said you ought, but you never did. I wish you would, Paul. You’re not young any more.” She added quickly: “Neither am I.”
She paid the bill and they left the restaurant. There had been no mention so far of where they were driving to, or for how long. They were some twenty or thirty miles out, she wasn’t quite sure where. She drove on, as the only alternative to turning back, and after another few miles during which he was silent she saw that his head had slumped forward. This was not unusual when he was being driven, but now for some reason she stopped the car and looked at him intently. That made him wake up.
“You were asleep,” she said.
“I guess I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“Neither did I—till early this morning. Then I slept in the car by the roadside. I can have adventures too, can’t I? I’ll tell you all about it if… Or no; sleep if you’d rather.” Then she felt, still watching him, a sudden tightness in her voice. He looked so worn, so shop-soiled; maybe it was the late sunlight, shining in his face as they drove west— spotlight on Lear in a not too good production. “Oh, Paul, anything you like if only you don’t get ill. Will you do what I ask and see a doctor?”
Weakly, surprisingly, he nodded.
“When, darling?”
“Any time.”
“Now?”
He half nodded, and she drove on to the next doctor as if it had been to the next gas station. It was beginning to be dusk.
* * * * *
The doctor was intelligent, exact, and considerably interested in his two chance visitors. Also he was clearly not a movie fan. She entered his unpretentious office first, leaving Paul in the waiting-room, dozing off. There were no other patients waiting and she rather gathered she had found him in by chance at such an hour. Paul’s general appearance and need of sleep were not unnatural after the kind of night he had spent, but of course she had to think of some other explanation to tell the doctor. “We’re touring,” she said, “and I think it’s been too much for him. He has a bad headache. Perhaps it’s the heat… but I’m a little worried and I thought…”
“And the name?” he said, pulling a pad towards him.
“Mrs. Bond.”
“Well, we’ll have a look at him.” He left his desk and opened the door to the waiting-room. Carey went past him towards Paul. She touched Paul’s shoulder but he did not move; he was breathing heavily, snoring a little, the head sagging on the chest. The doctor walked across. “I guess your father’s taking a real nap,” he said, stooping over Paul with a smile.
“He’s not my father.” She had spoken before she could check herself.
“Oh?”
“He’s…” She had to say something now. “He’s my husband.”
The doctor was already shaking Paul more vigorously. At last Paul wakened, blinked to find where he was, then with a sharp shift to gentleness and courtesy, apologized to the doctor. The latter kept on smiling. “That’s all right, Mr. Bond.” Still only half awake as he staggered into the office on the doctor’s arm, Paul did not seem to notice.
* * * * *
He went out to the car afterwards, while she talked to the doctor.
“Quite a sick man you’ve got, Mrs. Bond,” he began, and her heart fell through the guard-rail into some abyss of its own.
“He is?” she stammered foolishly. “He… he really IS?”
“I’d advise you to call off your holiday and get him home. Then put him in the care of his regular doctor. Maybe you should take the train if you’ve come a long way.”
“Oh no, not far—just from… inside the state.”
He looked as if he expected her to say more. “Well, don’t do any more travelling today. Take him to some hotel—the Bristol up the road isn’t so bad—and let him have a good long sleep. He said he didn’t get any last night. Were you driving late?”
“No… no…”
“He seems quite exhausted.”
“Yes… but… it’s not… is it, I mean… is it anything VERY serious?”
“If he doesn’t get rest it could be.”
“But with rest… he’ll be all right?”
“There’s a very good chance of it… What does he do for a living?”
“He’s—he’s in business.”
“For himself?”
“Oh yes.” Even at such a moment she could not help thinking wryly how well the phrase suited all Paul’s activities since he was born.
“That’s fortunate—he can take things easily, then, if he wants to. Men like him at his age are a problem—if they were working men they’d be glad enough to retire, but because they have their own businesses to run they—”
“He’s not so old,” she interrupted.
“He told me sixty-three.”
It was on her tongue to exclaim: “WHAT? Why, he’s only FIFTY-three!” —but then she thought there was little point in developing the issue. She said: “Well, that’s not so very old”—and all the time she was wondering why on earth Paul had added ten years to his age. Was it because of some twisted vanity that made him want to hear the comment: “You certainly don’t look it”? But the tragic thing was that he DID look it; to be sure of the pleasing answer he should have added twenty years.
“Has he been under any particular strain lately?” the doctor was asking.
“Well, yes, he…” She managed to check herself this time. “His life’s more or less all strain—the way he works.”
He was clearly puzzled by her reticences, but as they continued to talk she felt that his own were at least as great. She said at last: “You haven’t really told me what’s the matter with him, have you?”
“I’d rather your own doctor do that when there’s been a chance to make a complete examination.”
“That… sounds… rather frightening. I wish you could give me some idea.”
He scrutinized her.
“I’d rather know, whatever it is,” she went on. “I’m that kind of person.”
“Well… if you won’t let the word scare you, it looks to me he may have had a slight stroke recently.”
“Is that… possible?”
“Without knowing it, you mean? Yes, if it was only very slight. Certain symptoms… but there again, your own doctor…”
She paid the fee, thanked him, heard his final words of advice (“take it easy on the trip”), then went out t
o the car. It was dark by then. Paul was fast asleep and she drove on till she saw the hotel. When she stopped and he wakened she could see he was unaware they had travelled further. He said, as if she had just come out of the doctor’s office: “Over-work and high blood pressure. That’s all he told me. He tell you anything else?”
“About the same.”
“And how much was the bill for all that?”
“Ten dollars.”
“He must have seen the car.” It was always his contention since she had rented a Cadillac that everyone would overcharge her. “Nice fellow, though. I like Mexicans. He told me this town is a third Mexican.”
“He told me you must rest, Paul.”
“I know, I know.”
“Then you start resting… now.”
He let her take him into the hotel and book rooms and sign the register as she had always done when they had travelled together, and when he entered the bedroom he went straight to the window and pulled the curtains, ready to fulminate if there were no screens. But there were screens. Then he strode through the bathroom to her bedroom and came back and lay on the bed in his own room and lit a cigar. “I asked if I could smoke and he said two a day. I’ll bet he didn’t know how big these are.”
She pulled a chair close to where his arm would swing down, and put an ash-tray on it.
“So this is the Bristol,” he said, contemplating the ceiling. “Remember the Bristol in Vienna? No, you weren’t with me then… But this is another kind of Bristol. Spittoons in the lobby polished every morning. My ideal of cleanliness… Oh dear, I’m sorry I’m so sleepy. I’ll be all right tomorrow. What do we do then?”