Garden of Eden (19 page)

David
poured himself another glass of Tavel.

"Do
you want to try for just the factual content?" he asked.

"I
know the factual content," Catherine said. "It's that yesterday you
made siesta with me and then you went to Marita's room but today you can just
go there. But I've spoiled it now and what I wish is we could all just make
siesta together."

"Not
siesta," David heard himself say.

"I
suppose not," Catherine said. "Well I'm sorry I said it all wrong and
I couldn't help saying what I wished."

In
the room he said to Catherine, "To hell with her."

"No,
David. She wanted to do what I asked her. Maybe she can tell you."

"Fuck
her."

'Well
you have," she said. "That's not the point. Go and talk with her
David. And if you want to fuck her then fuck her good for me." "Don't
talk rough." "You used it. I just knocked it back. Like tennis.
"All right," David said. "What's she supposed to say to
me?" "My speech," Catherine said. "The one I forgot. Don't
look so serious or I won't let you go. You're awfully appealing when you're
serious. You'd better go before she forgets the speech." "The hell
with you too." "That's good. Now you're reacting better. I like you
when you are more careless. Kiss me goodbye. I mean good afternoon. You really
better go or she really will forget the speech. Don't you see how reasonable
and good I am?" "You're not reasonable and good." "You like
me though." "Sure." "Do you want me to tell you a
secret?" "A new one?" "An old one. "All right."
"You aren't very hard to corrupt and you're an awful lot of fun to
corrupt." "You ought to know." "It was just a joke secret.
There isn't any corruption. We just have fun. Go on in and have her make my
speech before she forgets it too. Go on and be a good boy David."

In
the room at the far end of the hotel David lay on the bed and said,
"What's it all about really?" "It's just what she said last
night," the girl said. "She really means it. You don't know how much
she means it. "Did you tell her we'd made love?" "No."

"She
knew it."

"Does
it matter?"

"It
didn't seem to."

"Take
a glass of wine, David, and be comfortable. I'm not indifferent," she
said. "I hope you know that."

"I'm
not either," he said.

Then
their lips were together and he felt her body against his and her breasts
against his chest and her lips tight against his and then open, her head moving
from side to side and her breathing and the feel of his belt buckle against his
belly and in his hands.

They
lay on the beach and David watched the sky and the movement of the clouds and
did not think at all. Thinking did no good and when he lay down he had thought
that if he did not think then everything that was wrong might go away. The
girls were talking but he did not listen to them. He lay and watched the
September sky and when the girls had fallen silent he started to think and
without looking at the girl he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing,"
she said.

"Ask
me," Catherine said.

"I
can guess what you're thinking."

"No
you can't. I was thinking about the Prado."

"Have
you been there?" David asked the girl.

"Not
yet," she said.

"We'll
go," Catherine said. "When can we go, David?"

"Anytime,"
David said. "I want to finish this story first."

"Will
you work hard on the story?"

"That's
what I'm doing. I can't work any harder."

"I
didn't mean to hurry it."

"I
won't," he said. "If you're getting bored here you two go on ahead
and I'll find you there."

"I
don't want to do that," Marita said.

"Don't
be silly," Catherine said. "He's just being noble." "No.
You can go. "It wouldn't be any fun without you," Catherine said.
"You know that. We two in Spain wouldn't be fun." "He's working,
Catherine," Marita said. "He could work in Spain," Catherine
said. "Plenty of Spanish writers must have worked in Spain. I'll bet I
could write well in Spain if I was a writer." "I can write in
Spain," David said. "When do you want to go?" "Damn you,
Catherine," Marita said. "He's in the middle of a story."
"He's been writing for over six weeks," Catherine said. "Why
can't we go to Madrid?" "I said we could," David said.
"Don't you dare do that," the girl said to Catherine. "Don't you
dare to try to do that. Haven't you any conscience at all?" "You're a
fine one to talk about conscience," Catherine said. "I have a
conscience about some things." "That's fine. I'm happy to know it.
Now will you try to be polite and not interfere when someone is trying to work
out what's best for everyone?" "I'm going to swim," David said.
The girl got up and followed him and outside the cove while they treaded water
she said, "She's crazy. "So don't blame her." "But what are
you going to do?" "Finish the story and start another." "So
what do you and I do?" "What we can.

HE
FINISHED THE STORY in four days. He had in it all the pressure that had built
while he was writing it and the modest part of him was afraid that it could not
possibly be as good as he believed it to be. The cold, hard part knew it was
better. "How was it today?" the girl asked him. "I
finished." "Can I read it?" "If you want "You wouldn't
mind truly?" "It's in those two cahiers in the top of the
suitcase." He handed her the key and then sat at the bar and drank a
whiskey and Perrier and read the morning paper. She came back and sat on a
stool a little way down from him and read the story. When she finished it she
started to read it over again and he made himself a second whiskey and soda and
watched her read. When she finished it the second time he said, "Do you
like it?" "It's not a thing you like or not like," she said.
"It's your father isn't it?" "Sure."

"Was
this when you stopped loving him?" "No. I always loved him. This was
when I got to know him." "It's a terrible story and it's
wonderful." "I'm glad you like it," he said. "I'll put it
back now," she said. "I like going in the room when the door is
locked." "We have that," David said.

When
they came back from the beach they found Catherine in the garden. "So you
got back," she said. "Yes," David said. "We had a good
swim. I wish you'd been there." "Well, I wasn't," she said.
"If it's of any interest to you. "Where did you go?" David
asked. "I was in Cannes on my own business," she said. "You're
both late for lunch." "I'm sorry," David said. "Do you want
to have anything before lunch?" "Please excuse me, Catherine,"
Marita said. "I'll be back in a moment." "You're still drinking
before lunch?" Catherine asked David. "Yes," he said. "I
don't think it matters if you're getting a lot of exercise." "There
was an empty whiskey glass on the bar when I came

"Yes,"
said David. "I had two whiskeys actually." "Actually," she
mimicked him. "You're very British today." "Really?" he
said. "I didn't feel very British. I felt sort of half-assed
Tahitian." "It's just your way of speaking that irritates me, she
said. "Your choice of words." "I see," he said. "Did
you want a shot before they bring the chow?" "You don't have to be a
clown." "The best clowns don't talk," he said. "Nobody
accused you of being the best of clowns," she said. "Yes. I'd like a
drink if it isn't too much work for you to make it." He made three
martinis, measuring them each out separately and pouring them into the pitcher
where there was a big chunk of ice and then stirring. "Who is the third drink
for?" "Marita." "Your paramour?" "My what?"
"Your paramour. "You really said it," David told her. "I'd
never heard that word pronounced and I had absolutely no hope of ever hearing
it in this life. You're really wonderful." "It's a perfectly common
word." "It is at that," David said. "But to have the sheer,
naked courage to use it in conversation. Devil, be good now. Couldn't you say
'your dusky paramour'?" Catherine looked away as she raised her glass.
"And I used to find this type of banter amusing," she said. "Do
you want to try to be decent?" David asked. "Both of us decent?"
"No," she said. "Here comes your whatever you call her looking
sweet and innocent as ever. I must say I'm glad I had her before you did. Dear
Marita—tell me, did David work before he started drinking today?"
"Did you David?" Marita asked. "I finished a story," David
said. "And I suppose Marita's already read it?" "Yes, I
did."

"You
know, I've never read a story of David's. I never interfere. I've only tried to
make it economically possible for him to do the best work of which he is
capable."

David
took a sip of his drink and looked at her. She was the same wonderful dark and
beautiful girl as ever and the ivory white hair was like a scar across her
forehead. Only her eyes had changed and her lips that were saying things they
were incapable of saying.

"I
thought it was a very good story," Marita said. "It was strange and
how do you say pastorale. Then it became terrible in a way I could not explain.
I thought it was magnifique."

"Well—,"
Catherine said. "We all speak French you know. You might have made the
whole emotional outburst in French."

"I
was deeply moved by the story," Marita said.

"Because
David wrote it or because it really is first rate?"

"Both,"
the girl said.

"Well,"
Catherine said, "is there any reason then why I can't read this
extraordinary story? I did put up the money for it."

"You
did what?" David asked.

"Perhaps
not exactly. You did have fifteen hundred dollars when you married me and that
book about all the mad fliers has sold, hasn't it? You never tell me how much.
But I did put up a substantial sum and you must admit you've lived more comfortably
than you did before you married me."

The
girl did not say anything and David watched the waiter setting the table on the
terrace. He looked at his watch. It was about twenty minutes before the time
they usually had lunch. "I'd like to go in and clean up if I may," he
said.

"Don't
be so bloody false polite," Catherine said. "Why can't I read the
story?"

"It's
just written in pencil. It hasn't even been copied. You wouldn't want to read
it that way."

"Marita
read it that way.

"Read
it after lunch then." "I want to read it now, David." "I
really wouldn't read it before lunch." "Is it disgusting?"
"It's a story about Africa back before the 1914 War. In the time of the
Maji-Maji War. The native rebellion of 1905 in Tanganyika." "I didn't
know you wrote historical novels." "I wish you'd leave it
alone," David said. "It's a story that happens in Africa when I was
about eight years old." "I want to read it."

David
had gone to the far end of the bar and was shaking dice out of a leather cup.
The girl sat on a stool next to Catherine. He watched her watching Catherine as
she read. "It starts very well," she said. "Though your
handwriting is atrocious. The country is superb. The passage. What Marita
miscalled the pastorale part." She put down the first notebook and the girl
picked it up and held it on her lap, her eyes still watching Catherine.
Catherine read on and said nothing now. She was halfway through the second
part. Then she tore the cahier in two and threw it on the floor. "It's
horrible," she said. "It's bestial. So that was what your father was
like." "No," said David. "But that was one way he was. You
didn't finish it." "Nothing would make me finish it. "I didn't
want you to read it at all." "No. You both conspired to make me read
it." "May I have the key, David, to lock it up?" the girl asked.
She had retrieved the torn halves of the notebook from the floor. It was just
ripped apart. It was not torn across. David gave her his key. "It's even
more horrible written in that child's notebook," Catherine said. "You're
a monster." "It was a very odd rebellion," David said.
"You're a very odd person to write about it," she said. "I asked
you not to read the story." She was crying now. "I hate you,"
she said.