The Lower Deep (11 page)

What would he say if it became known that Nadine and he were lovers? Especially what would he say to old Tom Driscoll, a lifelong bachelor who looked upon women as creatures to be kept at arm's length?

He finished his story. "What do you think?"

"I think I want to be made love to." She was touching him in a way that guaranteed she would get her wish, too.

To hell with Henninger's midnight swim, Steve decided. He was even more in love with this woman now than before his blackout at La Souvenance. But as their bodies became one, the memory of their other life together, with its unanswered questions—all those questions Nadine seemed so determined never to answer—suddenly intervened in a rush of nightmare, as though the door of the room had suddenly been flung wide and
some hideous nightmare monster had bored in to crowd between them and punish him.

"Are you saying you mean to stop me from open
ing that gate and walking out of here, compère?"

"It will not be I, m'sié. It will be the loa."

"They will stop me?"

"Yes, m'sié. Or punish you."

Punish him how?

"You have no right to be doing this with this woman, Stephen Spence! Stop it!"

But the command from the past came too late. They had both already stopped, for the good and simple reason that both, at the same instant, had reached a shuddering climax. Withdrawing, Steve turned over and lay on his back to stare wild-eyed at the ceiling.

Slowly the nightmare intruder dissolved, and he turned his head to look at the woman beside him. "Nadine?"

"Yes?"

"There's so damned much I don't remember about that last week at the Brightman. All I know is that you spent most of your time working on me, then wouldn't even let me say good-bye. Why? Why did you make me mumble a good-bye through a locked door?"

"Steve, please. Not now."

"I have to know, love! You're a nurse, for Christ's sake. You work in psychiatry. Can't you see what this is doing to me?"

"Steve, I need time to think about it."

"Think about what? I wrote you letters. They were love letters. But you never answered them, and I didn't know what had happened, even where you were, until Tom Driscoll finally returned one with the news that you'd left the Brightman. 'A very unhappy woman,' Tom called you, but didn't even tell me where you'd gone. When I phoned him, he said he didn't know." Steve's voice became a whisper. "Why, hon? Why?"

"I can't tell you, darling."

"What did I do in those five lost days besides lie there in a coma while you looked after me? Tell me!"

"Some other time, Steve. Not now."

"I hurt you somehow, didn't I?"

She silenced him by putting her mouth against his.

Yes, he must have hurt her somehow. Obviously. And obviously she had forgiven him or he would not now be in her bed. But why wouldn't she tell him what he had done?

Had it been that terrible?

She was in his arms again now, wanting him again. This time when they relaxed, he put the unanswered questions of the past behind him and focused on present problems.

"Tell me, love—how do you feel about Paul Henninger? Is he up to something shady?"

"I don't know what to think about him, Steve."

"Should I urge Tom to find a new manager?"

It was strange. Twice in the past ten minutes they had been locked in a passionate embrace, cut off completely from the everyday world. Now in deep thought Nadine silently frowned at him for what seemed a long time.

"You're not going to like this, Steve. But I think
if anyone is up to something, it's more likely to be Juan Mendoza."

"Juan?" He really was astonished. "Why?"

"Twice he's propositioned me."

"Well, we can't fault him for that. He's young, and you're a lovely woman."

"It wasn't that kind of proposition. He didn't invite me to bed. He wanted to take me swimming."

"But that's a hobby of his—swimming, reef exploring, whatever you want to call it."

"Maybe so," Nadine said quietly. "But he wanted to take me at night."

T
he door of George Benson's bedroom slowly opened—seemed to float open, as in a dream—and his wife Alice came gliding in. Without a sound except for the faint whispering of her pink nightgown, she approached the bed and stood there gazing down at him.

George was awake, with his eyes half open. She must have known he was awake. But she said nothing.

She was still an alluring woman, George had to admit, especially misty and pretty tonight. All the sensuous words came to mind when he looked at her. But what did she want, coming into his room in the middle of the night?

As though performing a ritual of some kind, she raised one arm and held it over him, the hand turned palm down and making slow, circular motions above his face. Ritual or no, it was pleasant and soothing.

He lay there looking up at her, noting the dark swelling of her breasts revealed by her low-cut gown. He was tempted to reach up and caress them but knew she would be fiercely angry if he did. Even when their marriage had been halfway decent she had hated to have her breasts touched. It was some kind of phobia with her, he supposed. Or maybe they were unusually sensitive.

"Sleep, George," she intoned. "Sleep . . . sleep and dream again, George. Dream the lovely dream again. Are you hearing me, George?"

"I hear you."

The hand stopped its hypnotic movements and she leaned closer to look at him. He thought she might even be going to touch her lips to his, but of course she didn't. After peering into his face for a moment she straightened again, turned away, and glided like a ghost from the room.

George felt himself drifting off to sleep and could not prevent it.

What time this happened, or if it happened at all, George did not know when he awoke. He exploded out of sleep with a yell that was still reverberating from the walls when he found himself sitting rigidly upright in bed with his mouth full of pain and blood.

The night was over. Objects in the room—bureau, chairs, the charts of St. Joe's north coast that he had thumbtacked to the walls—were just becoming distinct in the first faint light from the windows.

He knew what had waked him. No mystery about that. He had bitten his tongue again. But later, in the bathroom, when the pain had begun to subside and he recalled Alice's nocturnal visit, he was confused. Had she really come into his room, or had he only dreamed it?

He kept rinsing his mouth with cold water until at last, when he spat the water out, there was no red stain in the basin. It still hurt, of course. The pain would give him hell for a while, then would diminish to a dreary ache that would annoy him most of the day. After looking at his tongue in the bathroom mirror, and watching it swell where he had clamped down on it, he returned to his bedroom and stood scowling at the clock on the bureau.

Quarter to seven.

That visit from Alice in the night . . . had it been a dream? If so, it had been a damned vivid one. He could even recall her
telling
him to sleep and dream.

Dream the dream, she had said. What was that supposed to mean?

Wanting an answer even if it meant disturbing her, he stepped into his slippers and went scuffling down the hall. Her door was closed, as usual. After a brief hesitation, he resolutely grasped the knob and pushed it open.

Her bed was empty. From the looks of it—the spread flawlessly in place, covering the pillow—it had not been slept in.

George walked into the room and stopped, turning a slow circle as he frowned about him. With his mouth still full of pain he found it hard to fit his scattered thoughts together, but after a moment or two of concentration he succeeded.

He had gone to bed about ten-thirty last night after working at the dining table on a report for the government of his progress with the fishermen. Among the many things he was working on, he clearly remembered writing, was a campaign to convince them they ought to stop using bait fish for food.

It made no sense to eat every small thing they caught in their cast nets while hoping to hook the big stuff with lures crudely made of chicken feathers and such stuff. They should use bait fish for bait, for Christ's sake, trading little ones for big ones.

It was beginning to pay off, he had written. A few fishermen had begun using pogies for bait and were impressed with the results. It would take time, though, in this country where almost all fish were looked upon as food, and all food was in short supply.

While he was writing this, Alice had sat at the opposite end of the table, doing something for her English class at the school. When he said good night and got up to go to his room, she was still working there. "Good night, George," she had answered absently, not looking up from her papers. "Sleep well, George."

Sleep well. Maybe that was the source of the "sleep . . . sleep . . . sleep" in the dream? A lingering echo of her last remark? At least, it was more likely than her paying him a visit in the middle of the night to do what she seemed to have done.

Come to think of it, he hadn't actually heard her go to bed as he nearly always did when she turned in late. She was usually long and noisy in the bathroom. That beautiful face required a lot of pampering. On the other hand, he hadn't heard her go out, either, had he?

But she had gone out, obviously. And not for the first time. She had a woman teacher friend, Germaine Doret, whom she visited, or claimed to visit, quite often. Germaine lived at the other end of town, yet Alice never wanted to be driven there; that would be an imposition, she insisted, on a man who worked as hard as he did to teach a lot of stupid peasants something they'd never remember. Besides, the walking was good for her figure. But he was not to worry if she was a bit late getting home sometimes.

"Germaine and I get to talking, mostly about what a miserable town this is, and I forget to keep an eye on the time."

There actually was a teacher named Germaine Doret, George knew. He had checked her out. But he had a hunch Alice didn't really go there that often. Some of her evenings out were spent with a different kind of friend, he was pretty sure.

Leaving his wife's room now, George returned to his own and got dressed. Should he drive across town to Doret's house and try to find out what was going on?

No. To hell with it, he thought with a mental shrug as he set about fixing himself a breakfast of poached eggs, toast, and coffee. Why should he care?

In his tiny midtown office, George had one of the few telephones in Dame Marie, reluctantly supplied by the government ministry that had hired him as a "fishing instructor." Phones in the coun
try towns almost never worked, they had truthfully told him, so why bother? But George had insisted, and this morning, when he picked up the phone to call Dr. Louis Clermont's office, hallelujah, it worked.

What time, he asked Clermont's receptionist, would the doctor be able to see him?

Simone Valcin suggested ten o'clock, and arriving a few minutes early, George greeted her with a cheerful "Hi there!"

Simone beamed at him. There was a rumor going the rounds that George and his wife did not get along too well and he was friendly with Danielle André, who taught at the school. Good for Danielle, Simone thought. George Benson was a handsome, friendly, intelligent man, devoted to his work and very much admired by the fishermen he had come here to help.

One thing almost everyone in town was talking about was the different kinds of fish you could buy in Dame Marie now. Before, it had been a good day if the fishermen's wives or the
marchandes
had a few jacks or Spanish mackerel for sale, along with trash fish that nobody really wanted. Now, for goodness sake, it was a poor day if you couldn't find grouper and weakfish and mango snapper and sometimes even pompano as well, along with what old-timers still called
poisson rouge
and
Poisson noir
—and
even the herring sprats her mother was so crazy about.

George Benson must be doing something right, for sure.

"Doctor will be with you in a minute, Mr. Ben
son," Simone said with a sympathetic shake of her head. "Does it hurt?"

George resisted an impulse to stick his tongue out and show her how much it had to be hurting. "I feel like an idiot."

"Oh, but you shouldn't. This sort of thing can happen to anyone."

"Well, it had better stop happening to me, or I'll be climbing the wall. Believe me."