The Drifters (12 page)

Always when she stood drying herself people came up to converse with her, but never did anyone arrive in whom she detected that flash of interest which she might care to pursue and develop. On Friday afternoon, the twelfth day of her vacation, she slipped into her robe, recovered her sandals and walked disconsolately back to the Northern Lights, flicking at imaginary ghosts with her towel. ‘Are you having a good time?’ the hotel manager asked her. She forced a smile, drew her pouting lip back from her white teeth, and said, ‘Wonderful.’ Alone in the elevator she growled, ‘I could kick this damned building down stone by stone.’ When she reached her room, Mette was preparing to join her Americans, and suggested, ‘Remember, this is Friday, so maybe there’ll be some new men coming down from the base. You want to come along?’

Britta did, desperately, and said, ‘Well, if there were only someone new …’ By the time the girls reached the Americans’ apartment the men were already drunk; there was nobody new; Mette’s friend insisted upon going to bed with her immediately; and ten minutes after Britta had arrived at the party she was walking back to her hotel, alone.

Saturday was the worst day of her vacation, one that she would often recall with a sense of terror. It was the thirteenth day, an ominous fact which she noted when she arose. At lunch she realized that she had memorized the menu; the food was good, but here it came marching at her in established order. She looked about her at the sturdy Scandinavian families, solid middle-class women and their honest husbands, and she thought of them saving their money throughout the year for this one glorious vacation in Spain, with the regiments of food coming at them, and she could visualize herself in this room twenty years from now.

On the beach that Saturday she was so terribly lonely that she allowed a German to talk with her for twenty minutes. He was a most handsome man, blond and well muscled, and he proposed that they have a drink, but she could see him only as an officer on the great battleship that lay sunk off her island, and he became a ghost in a beribboned uniform and she felt sorry for him and sent him away.

She could not go in to supper, but went into the center of town and with her own money bought a Chinese dinner,
and as she was eating, a Spanish businessman down from Madrid sat at her table, speaking excellent English. He volunteered to pay for her dinner, assuring her that he came often to Torremolinos and would be happy to know that someone as attractive as Britta was waiting for him. She studied him as if he were an applicant for a job and was tempted to pursue the matter, but she knew intuitively that this was not what she wanted. She was intended for something better than the weekend mistress of a Madrid businessman, no matter how charming, so she said, ‘Sorry, I’m waiting for my fiancé.’ He knew she was lying; he was sure no young man was going to appear, but he appreciated her courtesy in offering him a plausible excuse, so he nodded and withdrew. After a decent interval she left.

It was Saturday night and she was stricken with loneliness, made no less oppressive by the fact that she had brought it upon herself: she could have stayed with the drunken Americans or she could have picked up the Spaniard, but she felt that these were not honest options, and she would not delude herself with them. Slowly she walked toward the sounds coming from the Arc de Triomphe, bought a ticket and went in. The music was exciting, reminding her of how much she had enjoyed it on her first visit, but as the night wore on, nothing happened. She met no one and decided to go back to her hotel, but as she left the discotheque she felt someone take her arm. It was the Spanish businessman.

‘Your fiancé failed to appear?’ he asked graciously.

‘Had to work in Málaga,’ she replied.

‘Then there is nothing to impede you.’

She allowed herself to be led away from the street and toward a public park with many obscure areas. Adroitly and with charm, the Spaniard took her to a protected corner and within two highly proficient minutes had her practically undressed. With lightning speed his trousers were down and he was about to mount her when she came to her senses and pushed him away.

He had anticipated this and covered her with kisses, pulling away her remaining clothes, but now she rebelled. Shoving him so hard he fell to one knee, she recovered her clothing and began adjusting it, but he would have none of this, for he interpreted her hesitancy as natural modesty on the first night and he intended to respect it on the one hand but to override it on the other.

He therefore began kissing her violently as he tugged for her clothes, whispering as he did so, ‘What is your name, beloved? Will you stay in Torremolinos if I find you a flat?’

His speech was so ridiculous that she began to laugh, but this infuriated him and he gave her two sharp blows to the head. That did it. With violent thrusts and slaps she drove the poor fellow back, more than a match for him if he cared to pursue the fight. He struck at her ineffectually while she fought to recover her skirt from his left hand. ‘Get yourself dressed,’ she said contemptuously.

‘You a lesbian?’ he growled. ‘You don’t like sex?’

The question was so preposterous that she gave no answer. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said grudgingly. ‘It was your idea.’

‘You think of yourself as some cold goddess from the north?’ he asked from the shadows.

‘Oh, quit it!’ she said. A dozen clever comments came to her mind, but she offered none because she knew they would hurt him; other responsible observations occurred to her which would allow him to preserve his dignity, but she was too distracted to bother with them. It had been a mistake, a regrettable accident, and she wanted it to end. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, resuming her walk to the hotel.

She was not proud of herself. If she had not been so obviously looking for companionship in the Chinese resturant, the Spaniard would not have approached her; and if she had not lied to him, he would not have accosted her at the discotheque. ‘It’s time I got out of this town,’ she said grimly to herself as she walked through the darkened streets, but no sooner had she said these words than their consequences overwhelmed her: to leave Spain, to surrender her glimpse of another life. In desperation she ran through, the streets, and as she did so she came upon a small bar she had not noticed before. From the noise issuing through its open door it had to be American, and when she looked at the sign she recognized the name from a John Wayne movie she had seen in Tromsø, T
HE
A
LAMO
; it was printed in crude letters along the barrel of a huge wooden revolver. For a moment she listened to the screaming music, the sound of high-pitched voices, and she thought: This is the kind of place you need on lonely Saturday nights.

Hesitantly she entered and slipped into a seat in the corner. The bartender, a tall, slim American with long hair
and a beard, waited for her to get settled, then casually walked over to ask what she wished, and she said, ‘How about a beer?’

‘It’s lousy. Refrigerator broke down. But we do have some cold orange.’

He brought her one and stood by her chair for a moment. ‘You just in?’

‘Yes. Norway.’ She said nothing more, so he made some general comment and returned to his work at the bar. He did not come her way again for about an hour, during which time he was quite busy both tending the bar and serving the tables. When he did return he was as noncommittal as before. She asked what part of America he came from, but before he could answer he was called back to the bar.

At two in the morning she was taken in tow by three American sailors from the navy base at Rota, a noisy, generous lot. Since she was blond and Scandinavian, they insisted she was Swedish and wanted to know what she thought about President Eisenhower’s famous accusation that Sweden was a degenerate, socialistic, immoral nation where suicide was rampant. ‘I’m not Swedish,’ she said, ‘but I don’t believe a foreign statesman in President Eisenhower’s position would make such a charge.’

‘But you are socialistic, aren’t you?’ one of the sailors pressed.

‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ she replied. And when the sailors became abusive about the Swedes, accusing them of encouraging American military to desert, she tried to counter their arguments, then blurted out, ‘What about Vietnam?’ The sailors had various answers, and the discussion continued till about four in the morning. They liked the free manner in which she spoke and wanted to know where they could see her the next day, and she said, ‘On the beach. Where else?’ and they asked in astonishment, ‘You mean you go swimming? In February?’ and she told them, ‘Norwegians are real sea people. Not little boys in sailor suits,’ whereupon one of the Americans caught her by the shoulders and gave her a goodbye kiss, crying, ‘You’re the little Viking I’ve been looking for.’

Once more she had managed to get through the night.

On the final Sunday afternoon Britta had to admit that her bright dream of Spain had disintegrated. Putting on her bikini, she threw her robe about her shoulders and went down to the beach for the last time. She noticed that the wind was a little less cold, the sun a bit warmer, and she thought: How utterly rotten! On my last day they make things better. After a sunbath that was actually relaxing and imparted a finishing touch of tan, she ran into the icy waters, swam vigorously for twenty minutes, and dashed back to find a visitor standing by her robe.

It was a Scandinavian girl, about twenty, who had come purposely across the beach to speak with her. ‘You’re a real mermaid,’ she said as Britta dressed. ‘Stockholm?’

‘Norway.’

‘I’ve seen you the last four days … from our apartment. I admire the way you take the water.’

They had talked for only a few minutes when Britta voiced her usual question: ‘How can a girl find a job here?’

‘Not easy. It took me three months.’

‘But you did find one?’

‘Yes. So do most of the kids who stick it out.’

‘How do you live?’

‘A very sweet guy let me sleep in his room. He had his own girl. Every night when I went to bed I prayed. I don’t know what for, but I prayed. And one day a Belgian businessman came to him and said, “I own a bar here but I have to go back to Antwerp. ‘I’ll sell it for what it cost.” And it was in that bar that I got my job.’

‘Is it … decent work?’

‘It’s not a living but it’s better than Stockholm in winter.’ She suggested that when Britta was dressed she might want to stop by the apartment for a drink, and Britta said, ‘My clothes are up there,’ and the Swedish girl looked at the hotel and said. ‘That’s how I got started. On the tenth floor of the Northern Lights. It seems so long ago.’

‘Was it worth it?’

‘Every minute. Now I’m going home to get married.’

Britta froze into position, like a Greek statue, one knee bent, sandal in the right hand. Very cautiously she asked, ‘But if you’re going home …’

‘I am.’

‘Then your job at the bar …’

‘That’s what I came here to speak about.’

Britta went all limp. Her leg dropped and the sandal fell to earth. ‘God bless you,’ she said. Neither girl spoke, then finally Britta asked, ‘What kind of bar is it?’

‘Like the rest. Small, dirty, noisy. I’ll be content if I never hear a note of music the rest of my life. If my husband comes home with a hi-fi set, ‘I’ll throw it in the Baltic.’

Recovering her sandal, Britta experienced a moment of panic and asked abruptly, ‘It’s not a German bar?’

‘Worse. It’s American. A joint they call the Alamo.’

‘Oh!’ Britta cried. ‘I know it! I was there last night!’ She paused. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Some Swedes gave me a farewell party …’

‘This sounds ridiculous,’ Britta whispered, ‘but when I was in your bar last night, watching that man run back and forth—tend the bar, wait on tables—I said, “He ought to have a helper,” and tonight I was going to go back for one last effort to tell him, “You need a waitress to help you.” You really think I might get the job?’

‘Yes. My name’s Ingrid. Let’s go along and fetch your clothes.’

The remainder of that Sunday, the fourteenth day of her vacation, was one that Britta would never forget, a compound of hope and anxiety. Her hope stemmed from the fact that Ingrid felt sure she could pass her job along to Britta; the anxiety came when the two girls got to the apartment where Ingrid was staying, and found nobody. There were two large beds, and since each was covered with men’s and women’s clothes intermixed, it was obvious that two couples were occupying the room.

‘They’ll be back,’ Ingrid said reassuringly. ‘Probably went somewhere for a drink.’

Britta pointed to one of the beds and asked, ‘Is this part of the job?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Indicating one bed, Ingrid explained, ‘The owner has his girl. He’s very nice. An Italian boy from Lugano. This bed is mine. The tall bartender you saw used to sleep in a bag on the floor. After a while I asked him to join me, so we put the bag away. If you prefer to use it, I’m sure they won’t mind.’

‘You mean I can sleep here? On the floor?’

‘Everybody else does. But you may also want to take over the bed … when I’m gone. He’s a very sweet guy … gentle … confused … not like an American at all.’

They waited for the better part of an hour, talking about Spain and Scandinavia, and Ingrid said that the young Swede she was marrying was an architect, and a good one. ‘I think we’ll be happy. This vacation in Spain …’

‘How long were you here?’

‘Eight months. I tried a Spanish businessman once, but it didn’t work out. They have such silly conventions … such ridiculous ideas about courtship … I was worn out trying to understand what his various tricks meant. All I wanted was a place to stay and enough money to feed myself from Monday through Thursday, but he had this complicated routine and I finally said to hell with it. I hadn’t a coin in my purse, but Jean-Victor met me in a bar … he’s the one who owns the place …’ She sighed and said, ‘It’s been a good eight months and I think I’m ready to go home.’

‘When are they coming?’ Britta pleaded. ‘My plane leaves at two tomorrow.’

‘They’ll be here,’ Ingrid reassured her, but night fell and no one came. A real panic overtook Britta and for the first time in many years she actually started to cry. ‘I’m sure it’ll come to nothing … this lovely dream.’ She sat on the bed for some time, holding her face in her hands. Then she said with conviction, ‘If he won’t hire me at the bar I’m going to proposition the first man I see. I will not fly back to Norway.’ She grabbed her topcoat and walked resolutely out the door, and Ingrid followed her, saying, ‘We’ll go to the bar. They’ll have to be there.’