When the young people had gathered in various strange costumes about the door of the pop-top, with women from the village stopping on their way to the fountain to stare, Churchill said, ‘This is Detlev, from Düsseldorf. He has something most interesting to propose.’
‘How’d you get up here?’ Cato asked, and the German pointed with some pride to a large Mercedes-Benz station wagon, practically a truck, painted battleship-gray and parked under trees beyond the plaza. ‘That’s mine,’ he said. ‘Ours, if things work out well.’
‘What things?’ Cato asked.
Here Churchill became the entrepreneur. ‘Detlev’s done it three times, so it’s not problematical. When he says he’s going there, he goes.’
‘Where?’ Cato pressed.
‘Well, the dear fellow bought this—this van, you might call it—in Düsseldorf and he’s going to drive it to Nepal—Nepal, mind you—and sell it for a huge profit. That’s how he makes his living.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’
‘For only one hundred dollars each—just enough to pay for your food and the gasoline—Detlev will carry you to Nepal.’
The invitation was greeted with silence. It was too early in the morning for the group to bring into focus the possibility of a trip across Europe, the Near East and the heartland of Asia to the mountain kingdom of Nepal. Monica was the only one who spoke: ‘I hear the grass in Nepal is marvelous.’
‘It is!’ Detlev said with flashing excitement. He was a rugged, handsome fellow who looked like what a college in New Mexico would hire to play football. ‘In Katmandu you’ll find more swingers … The Russian’s hotel, you really must see it if you want to be in the scene.’
‘When are you leaving?’ Monica asked.
‘In two hours.’
‘There’s a fascinating group going with him,’ Churchill broke in. ‘I met them all last night.’ And he ticked them off on his long fingers: ‘There’s a boy from Australia, a boy from Texas, two girls from Belgium and two from Canada.’
‘Isn’t that a full load?’ Gretchen asked.
‘No,’ Detlev said. ‘We all carry camping gear. You sleep under the van, along the road, in old churches.’
‘Are you going?’ Gretchen asked Churchill.
‘No, no, darling girl. I’m interested solely as a friend. You see, Detlev brings down my supplies from Switzerland. And on his return from Nepal he brings me many interesting things.’
‘So if any of you are looking for a really great trip,’ Detlev said, ‘it’s only a hundred dollars. But we do leave from Albufeira in two hours … sharp.’ He went to Britta, who had not spoken during the discussion. ‘You interested?’
‘I’m Norwegian,’ she said, dismissing him.
‘You interested?’ he asked Yigal, who said, ‘I’m Jewish.’
Gretchen had the pop-top to care for; Joe was interested but had no money; Cato was interested but had to stay near Albufeira till his check arrived from Mister Wister. Monica was interested. ‘I’d like to see Nepal,’ she said.
‘Have you the money?’ Detlev asked.
‘I have.’ There was an electric silence, broken when she added with a nervous laugh, ‘But I’d rather stay with the gang.’
‘There are four girls with us,’ Detlev assured her.
‘There are two here. And they’re nicer,’ she replied. Detlev shrugged his shoulders, nodded crisply to each of the six and told them, ‘You’re missing a good trip.’
‘You’re also missing a good trip,’ Britta said, tapping the pop-top.
‘Of that I’m sure, my beautiful Norwegian.’ He blew her a kiss and strode back to his Mercedes.
I arrived at Alte two hours later to find the pop-top in confusion. ‘Oh, Uncle George!’ Gretchen cried as I appeared to make my farewells. ‘Monica’s run away. Did you see her along the road as you drove up?’
‘I came the back way … from Faro. Where’d she go?’
‘To Nepal.’ Before I could catch my breath, she handed me a slip of paper written in a schoolgirl scrawl: ‘I have the $100, so I’m off. Monica.’
‘What’s it mean?’ They told me, and I quickly said, ‘We must stop her.’ For I visualized her at age seventeen drifting across the roof of Asia, sleeping in the buginfested tearooms I had known in Afghanistan, and I repeated, with some force, ‘We must stop her.’
I told the two girls to wait in the plaza till we returned, and not to panic. Then I jumped into the pop-top with the three young men and we roared off down the mountain road to Albufeira. Hastily scanning the principal squares, we found nothing, so we stopped at Churchill’s bar, and he told us blandly, ‘Yes, the dear girl made the right decision.’ He looked at my watch, having none of his own, and said, ‘She’s forty minutes on her way to Nepal … with a swinging bunch of people … so don’t you worry.’
I wanted to push him in the face and demand which way they had gone, but Joe, who studied maps when he drove, said, ‘They’re bound to go through Loulé,’ so we jumped back into the pop-top and thundered off in that direction.
Ordinarily Joe was a careful driver, but now he whipped the Volkswagen around curves and up inclines at a violent pace, and none of us cautioned him to slow down, for we were determined to overtake the Mercedes and drag Monica back to sanity. ‘That German may prove tough,’ Yigal warned. ‘That is, if we ever catch up with him.’
‘He won’t be driving fast,’ Joe predicted, and he was right, for on the mountain road north of Loulé, we spotted the gray Mercedes far above us, making a turn with caution. ‘On the first day of a long trip you don’t drive too fast,’ Joe said.
It took us some time to overtake the Mercedes, and when we did, the occupants figured out who we were and Detlev swung the van in such a way as to prevent our passing him. We drove in this manner for some distance, and Yigal said, ‘This is going to get rough,’ and Joe said, ‘Let it.’
‘Don’t try to pass on those outside curves’ I warned, for there was a steep drop into the valley below. Joe reassured me by saying, ‘I’m willing to stay right here for the next fifty miles. The son-of-a-bitch has to stop sometime.’
Monica now appeared at the rear window, waving at us to go back, and I was shocked at how frail and small she seemed when seen from such a distance. The impression was heightened when the two men with her turned to glare at us, their faces looming large and menacing. ‘A Texan and an Australian,’ Cato muttered. ‘Just our luck.’ From the apparent size of these two passengers, and remembering how big Detlev was, the opposition in the Mercedes could prove formidable. I had a feeling that Cato wasn’t going to be much help in a rowdy affair, and Yigal was quite small. Joe, I supposed, was redoubtable. At least he showed no signs of turning back or any indication of fear when the men in the Mercedes made threatening gestures.
Suddenly, in a move which surprised those of us in the pop-top as much as it did the three men in the Mercedes, Joe swung out along the edge of the road, whipped past the startled German, and pulled the pop-top across the highway so that the Mercedes had to grind to a halt.
‘What the hell?’ came a roar from the Mercedes as a very tall Texan stormed out onto the road. ‘You trying to kill us all?’
‘Trying to stop you,’ Joe said, getting out of the car. ‘We’re taking the English girl back with us.’
‘You are like hell!’ the Australian cried, uncoiling a wiry frame and stepping onto the roadway. He had obviously been necking with Monica in the back, for his left cheek was covered with lipstick, and he had no intention of surrendering anything that promised so much pleasure on the long trip across Asia.
Joe remained calm and said, ‘She’d better come now.’
‘You touch her,’ the Australian said, ‘and down you go.’
‘Then here we go,’ Joe said, taking a swipe at the Australian. He only brushed the man’s jaw, but even this was enough to drive the thin fellow backward.
Before I knew what was happening, the mountain road was filled with fl
ying fists, knees aimed at groins, elbows cutting across throats. Each of the three men from the Mercedes was taller than any one on our side and it looked as if our three would quickly go down in a heap, but this did not happen, for Joe was a valiant man, Cato was more adept than I had expected, and Yigal was phenomenal. With a courage I would not have anticipated, even though I knew of his exploits at Qarash, he slipped in and out of the fray, landing as many sharp blows as he could. When Detlev turned to tackle him seriously, I expected Yigal to run. Instead he stood up to the big German and slugged it out for several exchanges before falling on one knee.
But it was obvious that the other side must win, for the Texan and the Australian were concentrating on Joe and giving him a real thrashing. At this moment I remembered the many movies I had seen in which, during a life-and-death struggle between two men, the girl stands immobile, helping neither. I had always been offended by such scenes, so now I felt obligated to behave otherwise. I therefore moved rapidly to Joe’s side to give him what help I could, but the Texan saw me coming, and to my astonishment, rammed his head into my belly, knocking me flat on my can. ‘Stay out of this, you old fool!’ he growled, giving me a departing kick in the side.
I was outraged. I had expected at least the honor of a fist to the jaw. To be butted and kicked was humiliating. I felt the blood rush to my head, and in my fury I looked for some stone with which I might clout him, but I found none—and he was already back at his job of pummeling Joe.
I then saw in the grove that edged the highway a large and rather lethal branch which had been pruned from an old olive tree. It was hardly an ideal weapon, for it was too big, but I knew that if I could get it swinging I could avenge myself. Wincing with pain from the kick, I scrambled down into the orchard, grabbed the branch, and returned to the battle.
Wielding it with all the force I could command, I brought it around in a circle and caught the unsuspecting Texan in the soft corner where his neck joined his shoulder. He went down in a lump, and Cato jumped on him, straddling him like a fallen steer and thumping him until he passed out.
I now turned to where the Australian was giving Yigal a bad time, and with a wide sweep of my branch, held a few feet off the ground, caught him in the back of the knees and quite deflated him, whereupon I clubbed him again while he was down, and Yigal finished him off.
Detlev, seeing me approach with my shillelagh and aware that Joe, though battered, was far from finished, surrendered. ‘Take the tramp,’ he growled.
‘That’s what we intended to do,’ Cato said grimly, climbing into the Mercedes and grabbing Monica by the arm.
‘Some heroes,’ the German said. ‘Using an old man with a club.’
‘Anything to finish the job,’ Cato said, jerking Monica toward the pop-top.
‘What about him?’ Detlev asked, indicating the Texan, who was still unconscious.
Joe replied, and the prudence of his answer surprised me: ‘He’s not dead, so he’s your pigeon. And I wouldn’t go to the police, because so help me, if you do, I’ll tell them you kidnapped a girl seventeen …’
‘She came of her own will. Churchill will testify.’
‘And I’ll add that you smuggle LSD and heroin into Portugal … regularly.’ As Joe said this he stood toe to toe with the German. When there was no reply, Joe quietly raised his right hand and gently brushed his adversary aside. ‘I’m going to turn around and go back to Alte. And no interference from any of you. Get in your car and drive to Nepal.’
He swung the pop-top into a tight arc, and with the outer wheels almost dropping off into the valley below, headed back toward where Gretchen and Britta were waiting.
As we approached Alte an embarrassing thing happened. When we first started back, we had sounded like a bunch of junior-high basketball players returning from their first game on an unfamiliar court.
‘Wow, did you clobber that Texan!’ Cato kept saying to Joe.
Joe told Yigal, ‘You’re not afraid to mix it up. I thought that Australian would break you in half.’
‘He would have,’ Cato shouted, ‘except the old man cut him down with that club. I doubt if his knees ever work again.’
Through the warriors’ discussion, Monica sat like Helen of Troy, bemused by the whole affair. ‘I thought I was on my way to Nepal,’ she said.
‘With those apes?’ Cato asked. ‘They’d have ditched you in Turkey.’
I participated in the self-congratulation, and was expressing my admiration for Joe’s performance, when everything snapped. The tension of the morning overtook me and I became an elderly man, appalled in retrospect by the brawling in which I had been involved. It would be disgraceful under any circumstances to clobber an unsuspecting opponent over the head with a cudgel, but to do so at my age was unforgivable. My side hurt and I began to tremble. I folded my hands tightly across my stomach, but I could not halt the quivering.
Monica was the first to see it. Leaning over and giving me a kiss, she said, ‘Don’t take it so hard, Uncle George.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Cato asked.
‘Look. He’s shaking.’
‘Were you hurt?’ Yigal asked. ‘I saw him give you one hell of a kick.’
‘I’m scared,’ I said. ‘Scared at what might have happened.’ This they understood. They were scared, too, but as young men they could control their fears. I couldn’t
When we rejoined the girls, everyone insisted that I put off flying to Geneva, and when Britta made me take off my shirt and saw the large blue spot where the Texan had kicked me, she put me to bed and from a neighboring house borrowed some hot water. A Portuguese woman, hearing that someone was ill, came with knowing hands and fixed a poultice for me, and I am ashamed to say that I fell asleep and remained that way for some hours.
I was awakened by the same words that had greeted my arrival at Alte that morning: ‘Monica’s run away.’ A village boy had seen her catching a ride in to Albufeira, and as soon as I heard that name, I understood what had happened. And I knew exactly where she would be.
We drove into town and I deposited the others at the bar while I went off alone to Churchill’s room. The door was locked, but I kicked it open, hurting my side again as I did so, and there inside was what I knew I would find: Monica in bed with Churchill.
‘Get dressed and we’ll go,’ I said.
‘Old blabbermouth,’ she muttered from the bed.
‘I figured this out by myself. I’ll keep it to myself.’
‘She’s a free woman …’ Churchill began.
‘Shut up,’ I barked, ‘or I’ll kick the living shit out of you. And she knows I can do it.’
He started to say something, and for the second time that day, blood rushed to my head. Even though my side ached, I said, ‘One more word, Churchill, and I will really …’ I had no idea how to end the threat, but said no more.
Monica dressed, slowly and insolently, walking close to me several times while she was still naked, and as I led her down the stairs, she asked, ‘How did you know I would be here?’
‘Because you wanted to hurt us … not only Cato … all of us. By rescuing you from the German, we proved how much we loved you … and you wanted to hurt us.’
‘You’re stupid,’ she said, ‘but you aren’t dumb. Did you tell the others?’
‘No need to. Each of them interprets your absence in his own way … because they too love you.’
She took my arm for the last flight and said, ‘You really were scared coming home, weren’t you?’
‘Aren’t you ever scared?’
‘Never.’
Why did I bother with Monica? Her behavior in Algarve had been so incorrigible that I would have been justified in dropping her. I refrained for two reasons. She was, in a sense, my daughter. She had no mother, and at various crucial times in her life her father had abandoned her, leaving her guidance to me, and would probably do so again. I had worked hard to bring her to some kind of stability, and in doing so, had come to love her
as my child. I appreciated the rare qualities she possessed and believed that if I could help her past the chaotic teens and into the more responsible twenties, she might attain some kind of balance to serve for the remainder of her life. I was encouraged to persist because of my failure with my own son.
My second reason was quite different. I remembered that unbroken chain of eccentric women which proper England had presented the world for its entertainment and, at times, enlightenment. There has been no nation so strict in its proprieties as England, nor so calculated to produce outrageous women. There was a good chance that Monica, if she gained control of herself, would find a place in that difficult company.
At seventeen she was no worse than Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who had set Europe on its ear with her flagrant behavior and salty tongue. And her willingness to set out for Nepal did not begin to match the similar propensity of Isabel Burton, a proper young lady who conceived a grand passion for the translator of the Arabian Nights, following him wherever his exotic fancy beckoned. Isabel was a strange woman; for thirty years she watched her husband patiently writing his masterpiece, The Scented Garden, intended as an evocation of all that was erudite and pornographic in the east; when he died on the eve of publishing his great book, she sat alone in a room and burned the only copy of the manuscript, page after page, through more than two thousand, convinced that she was doing a righteous act, since the writing contained passages which she considered ‘not nice.’
They were a doughty tribe, the female eccentrics of England, and if Monica lived long enough, perhaps she would take her place among them. I was even able to overlook her sexual escapades when I compared them to the notable records set by Jane Digby.
Jane was a handsome young lady born in 1807, granddaughter of an earl. At sixteen she was married off to an English lord. At twenty she took her first official lover, a clerk in the British Museum. At twenty-one she negotiated a passionate affair with a cousin, who was promptly displaced by an Austrian prince, with whom she eloped to Paris, bearing him a child. At twenty-four, discarded by the prince, she served briefly as Honoré de Balzac’s mistress, abandoning him to become the kept lady of the King of Bavaria, and before long, of his son as well. In order to keep so handy a young woman available to his court, the king married her off to a Bavarian baron, who unfortunately took her to Sicily, where she met an adventurous Greek count who made her his mistress on sight. She had now borne five children to a variety of gentlemen, but at the age of thirty-four she decided to settle down. Accordingly, she divorced her Bavarian and married the Greek, with whom she started a happy domestic life.