The Diamond Waterfall (18 page)

“I shall arrange myself. Us. I shall go home—every morning.”

And that was how it was.

A different life. A town life, to which she'd become quite unaccustomed. The weather not yet settled into winter: days of blue skies and high clear air. She was to amuse herself, meet people, and indeed she did take part in the comings and goings—drives out, calling on others returned to Bucharest from the country or abroad.

“What a pity that you don't ride …” But all the same there was driving down the Chaussée with its avenue of linden trees. Like Rotten Row, the Park, the Bois, this was the place to be seen.
Le tout Bucharest.
Clothes were from Paris and to be shown off. Smart victorias sped by, drawn by jet-black Russian horses with long flowing tails. Lily saw, and was seen. The drive back down the Chaussée was more leisurely—one could be seen, and see more closely. Some “painted ladies” were pointed out to Lily. They seemed to her the smartest of all.

Sophie and Teodor lived, as did Val, in the fashionable quarter. Lily loved to roam instead in the older parts of the town. Houses roofed with shingle and moss, roads and squares paved with round cobbles. Often neglected, already forgotten.

The town ended so abruptly. On the fringe there were gypsy camps. Toothless old women coming up to the carriage with cards, offering to tell her fortune (but I would rather not know,
dare
not know). A horde of children, naked or with only a few tattered rags, scrambling up the carriage, calling out for alms,
“Cinci parale, cinci parale. “

Val contrived to spend some part of each day with her. Each evening he either dined with them, if they were at home, or called late, often very late. By morning (oh, those cold early dawn partings) he was back in his home. He woke always in his own bed. She was happy, happy, and tried not to count the days, which were ticking away.

But, what was this—for she had not counted the days
at all
. … She noticed nothing, and it was not until one Sunday when together with Teo and Sophie she visited the metropolitan church. Its dim frescoed background, yellow-tinted walls. Against the nasal chanting, she prayed for Hal, and Alice. She thought then, suddenly, idly, How long I've been without a Visitor…. The last time was—when?

She had never been regular, less so since the birth. Could it be, could it be? Among the tapers, silver lamps swayed, the air incense-laden. And now? she thought. But it was already the middle half of November. She was to stay another four weeks. … In that first sudden flash of thought, she knew with certainty what had happened.
What was not meant to have happened.

During the next few days, she said nothing; pushed the thought to the back of her mind—it could wait for confirmation. It gave her a slight air of nervousness though, a subtle change of manner which Val noticed. And was concerned.

They visited the Bucharest Museum. He said to her:

“I know that you aren't happy about jewelry and precious stones, but here you must see our
Cloşcă cu Pui,
our Hen and Chicks—they are treasures that some quarrymen in Transylvania found maybe sixty years ago. They didn't know the worth of them—they were tricked later. But look—three gold brooches, they are work of the Goths, so thick with emeralds, and sapphires, and turquoise, and pearls.”

But she could not admire their beauty. Sick, doubly sick with the thought, feel, weight, texture of gold, of precious stones. For she knew already what was to become of her.

“You worry because we must part—leave each other?”

“No, no, it's nothing. A little tiredness.”

Because she didn't as yet feel sick (and I was so sick, so early, last time), she wondered still if perhaps … But those swollen breasts, the vague darting pains, what was she to make of those? Swollen breasts which cried out more, more, and more to be sucked, to be kissed, caressed.

She had begun to think, If I tell him, what will he do? At worst she imagined some resigned, cynical reaction: a suggestion perhaps that he knew a woman somewhere who … and that
he
would pay. It would be all right, he'd say. It had been so with Ana. These things happened every day….

I at least am a married woman…. But Vicky? For two days her mind was sickeningly full of images. Memories kept in hiding …

Then came the nausea—not so bad as before, but unmistakable. She made love more and more frantically in the faint hope of losing it naturally. While part of her didn't want to lose it at all.

And then she told him, after he'd asked again and again, “What's
wrong?
Qu'as tu? qu'as tu?”
At once his face, it was like a little boy's. Panic. Emotions racing over it. Panic.

“Darling. But I have been so very, very careful…. Always. What do I … You are really sure?”

“Some signs—yes. Almost certain, now.”

He changed suddenly then, saying, his arms about her, “I am proud. I can say only I am so proud. Of you, of me, of
us …”

He cried. She cried. They clung to each other. Words of love:

“No, no,” he protested, “it's not ‘I love you' like I say when I'm wanting your
trou
—really, please, this is quite different, this is
I love you.”

“I must go home, as soon as possible. So that it may appear natural—”

“Your husband—Robert?” But no more was said. She didn't want to remember, neither of them must mention it, what must be done to make it “all right.” She had thought of it already when he showed her the
Cloşcă cu Pui.

Her departure. She had been going in three weeks' time—but this was not the same. This was undue haste, agony of mind, rush of practical arrangements, the decision to tell Sophie and Teodor only that someone was not well at home. The sudden wild notions
(his
usually) that she should stay after all, she should somehow become his wife—for he could not get over the delighted discovery of his love, his
real
love. She listened, sick at heart, with loving patience to elaborate fantasies of honorable divorce, of the three of them (and somehow Hal, too) living happily ever after, here in Romania. But then, realizing the absurdity, he would grow angry, sometimes with her, sometimes with life. Once again they would both cry. It seemed, those last five or six days of her stay, a fount of tears, as if one supplied the other. And love, they made love now with such care. “We must not hurt our baby, our own dear little baby.”

The last hours were the worst. She did not think she would ever want to remember them again. She who could see no future, he who had put aside now all the wild ideas—who was just simply, desperately, unhappy.

Arrangements of how to write each other—it would be through a friend in Paris, the letters in new outer envelopes, some story to be concocted. She too would write to Mme. Billaud in Paris. The false cheerfulness, protestations to Teodor and Sophie that it had been the most
wonderful
visit (and had it not?). That she was so very much the better for it…. Yes, yes, of course she would return.

(“How ever, how ever are we to see each other again?”)

A difficult future. A hopeless one. Images of jewels, of precious stones, crowding into her dreams. … As she woke in the morning of her last day she hallucinated, seeing in all its hateful beauty the shimmering, priceless, many-colored Diamond Waterfall.

Their last night. His head between her breasts. “Lily, lily of the valley. So much more pretty than
muguet des bois.
My Lily.
My
valley … Lily, Lily …”

She thought she would never forget the misery of the journey back. The weather had turned very cold and, although she was supplied with hot water bottles, she felt chilled through and could not seem to get warm. She'd hoped at first there would be someone to travel with at least as far as Paris, but in the rush that had not been possible. She was lent a German maid, but as she didn't speak German …

There were delays, late starts: her luggage was opened, presumably with false keys, between Budapest and Vienna. Three summer dresses were stolen, she lost also two hatboxes and their contents. Still there, though, was the shirt of Val's that she had begged from him (he had lifted it over his head at once, surprised: “But it's not clean—I've worn it already three hours.”). I shall keep it, she thought foolishly, and never wash it. Hide it at the back of a clothes drawer—no, tie it up in brown paper—a secret parcel.

And the ring he had given her? A lover's opal and plaited gold. Traditional joining of hands and pledging of troth. Misfortune to come to the faithless one…. That too must be hidden away.

The train was dirty, gritty, and after leaving the Romanian side of Predeal there was no food. Hungry, heartsick, she sat in the cold carriage and felt as if she had been torn apart. It had not been necessary to fall in love. It was to have been
fun.
It had not been necessary to make a child.

And now this terrible hurrying back. She could see only black ahead. She was to produce a seven months' child, but before that … As she drew nearer to England, the dread of
everything
clutched at her. Why not just tell Robert the truth? But this child must live in his home, call him father. If he were to give it only hate …

“You don't look much better. You don't have the appearance of one
rested.”

She spoke sharply in reply. “After a journey such as I've just suffered? Whatever did you expect?”

What indeed? Not, oh
not,
this secret. Bad news, which must be forever kept hidden.

But here at home again, all was not bad news. Even Alice came to greet her and was not too churlish. Best of all was Hal. Four months had altered him completely. She
hoped
he recognized her but had to admit he didn't. It was as a friendly stranger, nothing else, that he greeted her. A great wide smile. Teeth now, to be counted. He stood up in the iron cot and shook the bars. She marveled at the rounded knees beneath the full skirts.

Letters, too, awaited her. All good happy news from America. But from her brother, Harry, a disturbing note.

She had taken little account of what had been going on in the world outside. Before she left there had been rumors of war. Letters from home mentioned “the conflict in South Africa.” But no one in Sinaia or Bucharest had spoken of this argument between Dutch settlers and the British, a continent away. On the journey back, some people in a French railway carriage spoke critically of the British (so arrogant, and their
mauvais comportement
in this unjust war …). Lily had kept quiet.

Unreal, irrelevant, it had seemed, this Boer War. But now, with Harry's letter, how different. He who was so soon to have left for America and a new life. Telling her now:

You'll expect to hear that I'm off to New York and Daisy—well, the States will have to wait, because I've enlisted! For Queen and Country. So it's the West Yorks Regt, and following the Flag. We sail in early December….

Death at sea. She thought of everything. Already the letter was old. She could do nothing now but wait.

So long had she been away that she thought it would be only natural Robert would want to go through the dreaded ritual. She had resigned herself beforehand, wondering only how much of the jewelry she would have to wear.

Perhaps she could plead exhaustion from the journey? True enough, God knew. But that was only to postpone the horror. Worse would be if he didn't approach her at all.

“You were long enough away,” he said, “perhaps you missed us after all, that you have come hurrying back before the date given.” He stood there in his dark red dressing gown. “I hope at least you have some zest for life again.” He paused. “Did you miss me, a little?”

“Yes, of course …”

He talked idly for a few moments, then in brisk tones, “Undress, please —the nightgown off.”

Why, why, so spirited usually, do I obey? Head hanging, waiting to be draped with gold. But tonight it was to be just the Waterfall—that should
have been so beautiful. The fire in the bedroom was quiet, glowing red. She thought that she could smell fear. Her own.

Before she had not liked him to see her body, had hated as much as anything this standing naked before him—to be hung with trophies. The diamonds were cool against her flesh. Cruel against her skin. Facets caught the light. She felt suddenly a wave of sick misery, a longing quite desperate for Val,
for it to be as it had been.
… All evening she had kept it at bay, telling herself, I shall feel again when it's all over. Only then would it be safe to feel.

He had taken off the gown. Underneath he was naked. She saw with horror that, as he gazed at her, he grew—what was once unattractive now appeared obscene.

“Lily, my dear …” The deep voice. He was walking toward her.

I cannot, she thought, cannot, cannot.
Shall
not.

She said, in a dull but loud voice, “Don't. Please do
not.
I'm with child.”

“What?”

Then a moment later:
“What?”

She still didn't answer. But began to tremble. Looked behind her for a chair, sofa. Weak-kneed, she sat down. What have I done?

“You must be mad…. You mean to tell me … Dear God, is that the truth? Say now—”

“Yes, it's the truth.” What good to lie now? There was a bitter taste in her mouth. The taste of fear.

He dragged his dressing gown on angrily. “My God, it surpasses all—an actress, yes, dear God a cheap
actress
…” As he came near her, she flinched. “Give it to me, the Waterfall, give it to me. I want it
off
you.” He pulled impatiently at the clasps, cursed as they would not open fast enough. “I want it off you. Off!”

He let it fall over the head of the chair. “And now, if you dare—tell me
who,
eh? Dare to tell me—”