Laughter in the Dark (16 page)

“Well, how are you getting on, Margot?”

“Splendidly,” she laughed. “And what about you?”

“Oh, just rubbing along. Did you know that your people have moved? They’re living in North Berlin now. You should pay them a visit one day, Margot. Your father won’t hold out much longer.”

“And where’s my dear brother?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s gone away. I fancy he’s working at Bielefeld.”

“You know yourself how much they loved me at home,” she said, frowning at her feet, as she walked on the very edge of the curb. “And did they bother about me afterward? Did they care what became of me?”

Kaspar coughed and said:

“All the same, they’re your people, Margot. Your mother got the sack here and she doesn’t like the new place.”

“And what do people say about me here?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Oh, a lot of rubbish. Back-biting. The usual thing. I’ve always said that a girl has the right
to do as she likes with her own life. And are you getting on well with your friend?”

“Oh, yes, more or less. He’s going to marry me soon.”

“Fine,” said Kaspar. “I’m very glad for your sake. Only it’s a pity that it’s impossible to have any fun with you, like in the old days. A great pity.”

“Haven’t you got a sweetheart?” she asked, smiling.

“No, not at the moment. Life’s very hard sometimes, Margot. I’m working in a confectioner’s. I should like to have a confectioner’s shop of my own some day.”

“Yes, life can be hard,” said Margot pensively, and after a little pause she called a taxi.

“Perhaps one day we might—” Kaspar began; but no—they would never again bathe in that lake.

“She’s going to the dogs,” he thought as he watched her seat herself in the cab. “Ought to marry some good, simple man. I wouldn’t take her, though. A fellow would never know where he was …”

He swung himself onto the bicycle and rode rapidly after the taxi to the next street corner. Margot waved to him as he swerved gracefully into a side street.

R
OADS
bordered with apple trees, and then roads with plum trees, were lapped up by the front tires—endlessly. The weather was fine, and toward night the steel cells of the radiator were crammed with dead bees, and dragon-flies, and meadow-browns. Rex drove wonderfully, reclining lazily on the very low seat and manipulating the steering wheel with a tender and almost dreamy touch. In the back-window hung a plush monkey, gazing toward the North from which they were speeding away.

Then, in France, there were poplars along the roads; the maids in the hotels did not understand Margot, and this made her wild. It was proposed that they should spend the spring on the Riviera, and then push on to the Italian lakes. Shortly before reaching the coast, their last stopping place was at Rouginard.

They arrived there at sunset. An orange-flushed
cloud curled in wisps across the pale green sky, above the dark mountains; lights glowed in the squatting cafés; the plane trees on the boulevard were already shrouded in darkness.

Margot was tired and irritable, as she always was toward night. Since their departure—that is to say, for almost three weeks (for they had not hurried, stopping in a number of picturesque little places with the same old church in the same old square), she had not once been alone with Rex. When they drove into Rouginard, and Albinus was going into ecstasies over the outlines of the purpling hills, Margot muttered through her clenched teeth: “Oh, gush away, gush away.” She was on the brink of tears. They drove up to a big hotel, and Albinus went to ask about rooms.

“I shall go mad if this goes on much longer,” said Margot, without looking at Rex.

“Give him a sleeping draught,” suggested Rex. “I’ll get one from the chemist.”

“I’ve tried already,” answered Margot, “but it doesn’t act.”

Albinus returned a little upset.

“No good,” he said. “It’s very tiresome. I’m sorry, darling.”

They drove to three hotels in succession, and they were all full up. Margot flatly refused to go
on to the next town, as she said that the curves of the road made her sick. She was in such a temper that Albinus was afraid to look at her. At last, in the fifth hotel, they were asked to enter the lift in order to go up and see the only two rooms available. An olive-skinned lift-boy who took them up stood with his handsome profile toward them.

“Look at those eyelashes,” said Rex, nudging Albinus gently.

“Stop that damfoolery,” exclaimed Margot suddenly.

The room with the double bed was not at all bad, but Margot kept tapping her heel gently on the floor and repeating in a low sulky voice: “I won’t stay here, I won’t stay here.”

“But really, it’s quite nice for one night,” said Albinus entreatingly.

The servant opened an inside door to the bathroom; went through and opened a second door, disclosing a second bedroom.

Rex and Margot suddenly exchanged glances.

“I don’t know if you’ll mind sharing the bathroom with us, Rex?” said Albinus. “Margot is rather splashy and long about it.”

“Good,” laughed Rex. “We’ll manage somehow.”

“Are you quite sure you haven’t got another
single room?” asked Albinus, turning to the servant, but here Margot hurriedly intervened:

“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s all right. I refuse to traipse around any longer.”

She walked to the window while the baggage was being brought in. There was a big star in the plum-colored sky, the black tree-tops were perfectly still, crickets chirped … but she saw and heard nothing.

Albinus began to unpack the toilet-things.

“I’m going to have a bath first,” she said, undressing hurriedly.

“Go ahead,” he answered cheerily. “I’ll be shaving. But don’t be too long—we must get some dinner.”

In the mirror he saw Margot’s jumper, skirt, a couple of light undergarments, one stocking and then the other, fly swiftly through the air.

“Little slattern,” he said thickly, as he lathered his chin.

He heard the door shut, the bolts rattle and the water pour in noisily.

“You needn’t lock yourself in, I’m not going to turn you out,” he called out laughingly, as he stretched his cheek with his finger.

There was a loud and steady rush of water behind the locked door. Albinus carefully scraped his cheek with a heavily plated Gillette. He wondered
whether they had lobsters à l’Américaine here.

The water went on rushing—and grew louder and louder. He had turned the corner, so to speak, and was about to return to his Adam’s apple, where a few little bristles were always reluctant to go, when suddenly he noticed with a shock that a stream of water was trickling from beneath the door of the bathroom. The roar of the taps had now taken on a triumphant note.

“Surely she can’t be drowned,” he muttered, running to the door and knocking.

“Darling, are you all right? You’re flooding the room!”

No answer.

“Margot, Margot!” he shouted, rattling the handle (and quite unconscious of the queer part doors played in his and her life).

Margot slipped back into the bathroom. It was full of steam and hot water. She swiftly turned off the taps.

“I went to sleep in the bath,” she called out plaintively through the door.

“You’re crazy,” said Albinus. “How you frightened me!”

The rivulets blackening the pale gray carpet weakened and stopped. Albinus walked back to the mirror and lathered his throat once more.

In a few minutes Margot emerged fresh and radiant, and began to smother herself with talc-powder. Albinus, in his turn, went to have a bath. The place was reeking with moisture. He knocked at Rex’s door.

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he cried. “The bath’ll be free in a moment.”

“Oh, take your time, take your time!” shouted Rex happily.

At supper Margot was in splendid spirits. They sat on the terrace. A white moth fluttered round the lamp and fell down on the tablecloth.

“We’ll stay here a long, long time,” said Margot. “I like this place tremendously.”

A
WEEK
passed, and a second. The days were cloudless. There were lots of flowers and foreigners. An hour’s drive took one to a beautiful sand beach set in dark red rocks against the dark blue sea. Pine-clad hills surrounded their hotel, a fine building as such buildings go, in a sickening Moorish style that would have made Albinus’ flesh creep had he not been so happy. Margot was happy too; so was Rex.

She was much admired: by a silk manufacturer from Lyons; by a quiet Englishman who collected beetles; by the youths who played tennis with her. But no matter who stared at her or danced with her, Albinus felt no jealousy. It quite surprised him to recall the pangs he had suffered at Solfi: why had everything made him uneasy then and why did he feel so sure of her at present? He did not notice one little thing: that she no longer had any wish to please others; she needed
only one man—Rex. And Rex was Albinus’ shadow.

One day the three of them went for a long ramble in the mountains, got lost, and finally came down by a difficult stony path that took them the wrong way. Margot, who was not used to walking, blistered her foot badly, and the two men carried her by turns, well-nigh crashing down with their burden, as neither was very robust. At about two in the afternoon they reached a sun-drenched little village, and found the Rouginard bus ready to start from a cobbly square where some men were playing bowls. Margot and Rex got inside, Albinus was about to do the same, but then, observing that the driver had not yet seated himself and would be some time yet helping an old farmer to get his two large crates in, he tapped on the half-open pane at which Margot was sitting and said he would make a dash for a drink. He made the dash and entered a small bar on the corner of the square. As he was reaching for his beer, he jostled against a delicate little man in white flannels who was hurriedly paying. They looked at each other.

“You here, Udo?” exclaimed Albinus. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Very unexpected,” said Udo Conrad. “You’ve
grown a little balder, old man. Are you here with your family?”

“Well, no … You see, I’m staying at Rouginard and—”

“Good,” said Conrad. “I’m living at Rouginard too. Heavens, the bus is starting. Hurry up.”

“I’m coming,” said Albinus, and swilled down his beer.

Conrad trotted toward the bus and boarded it. The horn tooted. Albinus fumbled with elusive French coins.

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” said the bartender, a melancholy man with a black drooping moustache. “It’ll first go round the village and then stop again at this corner before going on.”

“Ah, well,” said Albinus. “Then I’ll have another drink.”

Through the bright doorway he saw the long, low, yellow bus speed away through a speckled maze of plane-tree shadow which seemed to mingle with it and dissolve it.

“Funny, meeting Udo,” Albinus mused. “He’s grown a little blond beard, as if to compensate for my loss of hair. When did we last see each other? Six years ago. Am I thrilled to see him? Not at all. I thought he lived in San Remo. A quaint, frail, rather eerie and not very happy
man. Celibacy, hay-fever, hates cats and the ticking of clocks. A fine writer. A delightful writer. Funny that he hasn’t the faintest idea that my life has changed. Funny, my standing here in this hot, drowsy little place where I’ve never been before and shall probably never come again. I wonder what Elisabeth is doing now? Black dress, idle hands. Better not think of it.”

“How long does the bus take to go round the village?” he asked in his slow, careful French.

“A couple of minutes,” said the bartender sadly.

“Not quite clear what they do with those wooden balls. Wooden? Or is it some metal? First cupped in the palm, then launched forward … rolling, stopping. Awkward if he happens to get into conversation with the little girl on the way and she blurts it all out before I tell him. Will she? I wonder. Not much chance of their talking though. She was unhappy, poor child, and will sit quite still.”

“It seems to be quite a big village, judging by the time it takes to go round,” he remarked.

“It doesn’t go round,” said an old man with a clay pipe who was sitting at a table behind him.

“It does,” said the gloomy bartender.

“It did up to last Sunday,” said the old man. “Now it goes straight on.”

“Well,” said the bartender, “that’s no fault of mine, is it?”

“But what shall I do now?” cried Albinus in dismay.

“Take the next one,” said the old man judiciously.

He got home at last and found Margot in a deck chair on the terrace, eating cherries, with Rex sitting on the white parapet in bathing shorts, his long hairy brown back turned to the sun. A quiet happy picture.

“I missed the blessed thing,” said Albinus, grinning.

“You would,” said Margot.

“Tell me, did you notice a small man in white with a goldenish beard?”

“I did,” said Rex. “Sat behind us. What about him?”

“Nothing—just a man I used to know once.”

T
HE
next morning. Albinus made conscientious inquiries at the Tourist Office and then at a German boarding house, but no one could tell him Udo Conrad’s address. “After all, we’ve nothing much to say to each other,” he thought. “Probably I’ll run into him again, if we stay here any longer. And if I don’t, it doesn’t much matter.”

A few days later he woke up earlier than usual, threw open the shutters, smiled at the tender blue sky and at the soft green slopes, luminous yet hazy, as if it were all a bright frontispiece under tissue paper, and he felt a strong longing to climb and wander, and to breathe the thyme-scented air.

Margot awoke. “It’s still so early,” she said drowsily.

He suggested they should dress quickly and go out for the whole day—just the two of them …

“Go by yourself,” she murmured, turning over to the other side.

“Oh, you lazybones,” said Albinus sadly.

It was about eight. At a good pace, he got out of the narrow streets, cut longitudinally in two by the morning shade and sunshine, and began the ascent.

As he was passing a tiny villa, painted a warm pink, he heard the click of shears, and saw Udo Conrad pruning something in the small, rocky garden. Yes, he had always had a green thumb.