The Memory of Eva Ryker (23 page)

“I could have told you that,” she chortled.

“But I meant it literally.”

I unbuttoned my shirt to the waist. Eva turned my way and flinched.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “How did it happen?”

“You could call it a boating mishap, I guess.” I filled her in on the details.

Eva bleakly examined the distant sand dunes. “And you think my father deliberately arranged it?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's better for my peace of mind that I don't.”

She seemed lost in thought as we packed up and headed back for the jeep. We didn't exchange ten words on the return drive to Balerma.

The sun floated on the western edge of the Mediterranean as we headed down the last stretch to the beach house.

I pulled off onto the soft shoulder and put the stick in neutral. “Look at that.”

Eva's eyes followed my outstretched arm. About seven miles out an ocean liner furrowed through the choppy water, its superstructure orange against the slanting sunrays, heading for Gibraltar and the distant Atlantic.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

She didn't answer.

I peered out to sea. “Italian registry, I think. Maybe the
Cristoforo Colombo
, the sister ship of the
Andrea Doria
.”

“The one that sank.” Her voice was hollow. “People are such fools.”

“How's that?”

Eva's eyes clouded. “Like on board that ship. Wrapped up in their little worlds. And all the captain has to do is make the wrong slip, and those fine civilized folks would turn into rats before your eyes. Tearing at your face, gnawing at …”

Eva hunched low in the seat and trained both eyes on the tired red sun. “I'm cold. Let's head back. Please.”

She had nothing to add during our drive home.

The wind kept blowing off the sea even after a half moon rose from behind the cliffs.

Eva came in from the porch and watched me put away dinner dishes in the kitchen. “So you can cook, too. My, Mr. Hall, you are a man of surprises.”

“An old Army talent.” Drying my hands, I followed her into the living room.

“Well,” she said, “what now? We've ruled out sex. No
TV.
No records. What do you suggest—Parcheesi?”

I settled on the couch. “Want to talk?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” Standing, I headed for the closet. “Then you can watch my old movies.” I pulled out a 16-mm projector I'd rented in Madrid. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“Good God, Hall!” She sank to the floor. “You've got to be kidding! Let me guess. The kiddies on the front lawn? Your honeymoon at Niagara Falls? Aunt Sadie at Mount Rush-more?”

“Not quite.” I set the projector on the coffee table. “They're someone else's; not mine.”

Adjusting the elevation control, I plugged in the machine, then walked back to the closet, grabbed the film, and spooled it on the projector.

“What's it about?” Eva leaned forward in her chair.

“You'll see.”

I threaded the film onto the take-up reel, then got the lights. The projector flashed a solid white beam onto the cream-colored wall.

Leader clicked through the projector and the first scene flashed to life.

“God, Hall! How old is this film?”

“Over fifty years.”

“I believe it! Where were these train pictures taken, anyway?”

“England.”

The scene shifted.

“That looks like a dock. Some big ships there.”

The scene cut to the dock, panning up to the black bow of the ship.

“
Titanic
.” Eva's voice was low and threatening. “
Titanic!
Hall, if this is your idea of a joke …”

I didn't answer. The camera trained on the thirtyish brunette and the young girl.

I froze on the scene. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”

“No.” Her lips trembled. “No!”

“That's you, Eva.” I pointed. “And that's your mother.”

“You're lying! You're just trying to trick me!”

“No, Eva.” I flipped the projector forward.

In the shadowy light of the projector lamp I watched Eva's fingernails dig into the fabric of her chair.

Cut to the young blonde girl in her twenties out on deck. Eva's eyes blinked furiously as she stared at the image, as if forcing herself not to see.

Cut to Eva and her mother.

“It's a fake!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her voice was curiously whiny, like a child's.

“No.”

“Yes it is! It is! It is! You're lying!”

The film showed Eva and Clair with the young girl.

“It's a fake! A fake!”

The final scene flickered on the wall. All four people. Eva and Clair Ryker with Albert and Martha Klein.

Eva stood, staring at herself perched on the shoulders of the handsome young man.

“No!” The scream was a little girl's—a scream of mindless maniacal terror.

Eva ran through the open door and into the darkness.

The film was flopping in the take-up reel as I ran after her. Standing on the balcony, I searched the moonlit beach.

A figure fleeing across the sand. Heading for the breakers.

I kicked off my shoes and tore after her. The wind blew sand into my eyes, blinding me, but I kept on running.

Left? Right? Straight ahead? Which way? I blinked at the obscuring grit.

A splash of white as a body plunged into the surf.

My legs waded through the sand-quagmire. Blood pounded through my temples.

A face broke surface, then went under.

I hit the water without breaking stride. A wave crashed over me. I tumbled to the bottom, scraping my arms and knees.

My face broke surface, choking in air. Eva was just ahead, thrashing to get away from me.

Diving under, I grabbed her legs. She hit me in the side of the head. My skull rang as I grabbed her by the shoulders. She fought me with a tiger's strength. I felt myself losing my grip on her, but clamped my arms around her waist. Her elbow smashed into my mouth, loosening teeth. Going under, I clenched my jaw against the salt water burning down my throat.

I backstroked and held onto her like a sack of gold. Rough pebbles suddenly brushed beneath my toes and I stood, hauling Eva up on the sand.

My chest heaving, I sank to my knees beside her.

Wherever she was, she wasn't here with me.

The eyes trembled blindly back and forth. Her tongue hung loose in her mouth.

“No, no!” she cried in a high childlike voice. “Don't hurt me! I don't know! I don't know anything!”

“Eva!” I shook her shoulders. “You're all right! You're safe with me!”

“No!” She screamed at terrible visions up in the night sky. “Leave me alone! I don't know anything! Mommy! Mommy! Please! Take me away!”

I slapped her across the face. “Eva!”

“Mommy!”

I hit her again.

“Take me away!”

And again.

“Leave me alone!”

And again.

Along silence. She watched me as if she'd never seen me before.

“Come on, Eva,” I whispered. “I'll take you back to the house.”

Without a word she crumpled into my arms.

20

May 7, 1962

Dr. Margaret Sanford's Tokyo office is on Nakasando Avenue, not far from the Koishkawa Botanical Gardens. Her chauffeur wheeled Eva and me into an underground garage, then up an elevator, and down a lush carpeted corridor to the third door on the right.

Implanted behind a desk stacked with disheveled files and reports, Margaret glanced up over the top of her reading glasses and rose to greet us.

“Norman!” She pecked me somewhere behind the left ear. “How are you?”

“Coping.”

“And Janice?”

“Fine. She indulges me shamelessly.”

“Everyone does, my dear.” She patted my hand, turning her attention to Eva.

I made introductions and tried to interpret Eva's reaction to Dr. Sanford. Most people initially see her in a well-meaning, befuddled light. Good-hearted but not terribly bright. But it didn't take long to taste gristle beneath the Eleanor Roosevelt mush.

She shuffled behind the desk and shut drapes across the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, then picked forlornly at the clutter on the desk top. “You must forgive all this,” she muttered. “People ask me for a psychological definition of
Homo sapiens
, and I sometimes think ‘a paper-wasting animal' would be as good as any.” She settled into the chair and folded both hands in front of her. “Now, Eva, what has Norman said about me? Or perhaps, knowing his talent for gossip, I should ask what he left
out?
”

“Well …”

“… Freudian Wonder Woman, adept at untying all the knots that bind, etc., etc …?”

Eva blushed, smiling wanly. “Something like that.”

“Yes, Norman was always full of testimonials.” She leaned back with a deep sigh. “But I may be a little rusty for this sort of thing. One of the hazards of specialization is that it constipates you when something new turns up. I've spent nearly ten years in Japan, up to here in the problems of these people. First the Etas, and later studying the impulses behind their dreadful suicide mystique.” She gestured at the files and shook her head. “Page after page of learned conclusions backed up by years of meticulous research. And I sometimes still have the feeling I'm talking through my hat.”

“What are you trying to say?” Eva asked.

“I think Margaret is trying to scale herself down from Olympian heights.”

“Nicely, if sarcastically put, Norman.” She removed the glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I myself prefer the allusion of cards on the table.” She polished the lenses with a stray Kleenex. “Now, Norman explained your background in some detail, including the events in Spain. I'm afraid his … stratagem of showing you that old film was unorthodox, brutal, perhaps, but it certainly jarred the mental defenses you've set up against your experiences aboard the
Titanic
.” Margaret resettled the glasses on her nose. “Do you remember anything about the ship?”

Eva shook her head.

“You recall the film, don't you?”

She squirmed in the chair. “I remember watching it. Then I blanked out, I guess. Next thing I knew, Norman was slapping me.”

Margaret made a face as she stood and paced slowly behind the desk. “I understand that you want to undergo hypnosis. To try and recover your memories?”

Conscious of our appraisal, Eva's head lifted firmly. “That's right.”

Margaret switched on a desk lamp that filled the room with a low amber glow. “Well, there's a number of approaches we can use. Scopolamine, Pentothal, straight hypnosis, hallucinogens. But whether it's advisable or beneficial to you is another question. Forcing your brain to explore a past experience it's tried to obliterate for fifty years. I've seen people who've placed themselves at the disposal of … incompetents. Some are mumbling vegetables in hospital wards.”

I watched her resolve begin to wilt.

“Eva,” I said, “don't do this as some sort of obligation to me. You're the only person you've got to please.”

She smiled thanks and tightened the grip on my hand.

Eight o'clock the following morning I walked with Eva into Margaret's inner office.

It was a small, square windowless room. A low modern lamp hung above a long leather couch, an expensive Sony tape recorder on a rolling stand, and two chairs.

I sat in an unobtrusive corner while Margaret took charge.

“Now, Eva, the first thing I want to do this morning is called a suggestibility test. It'll give us some idea how receptive you are to a light trance state and a simple capacity to relax. Would you come over here please?”

Dumbfounded, Eva obeyed.

“Fine. Now, dear, just stand facing this wall. That's perfect. Now, look straight up at the little black circle painted on the ceiling. Right over your head. Okay, Eva, please stand straight, with your feet together and your arms at your sides. Don't take your eyes off the circle. You're doing fine, dear.”

Margaret quietly moved behind her. “All right, Eva. Now I want you to keep very still, and don't move. The only thing I want you to do is close your eyes. Keep your head facing toward the ceiling, but close your eyes. That's wonderful. Don't be tense, dear. Try to relax. I am now going to place both my hands on your shoulder blades. Gently, very gently. You will feel a force pulling you back toward me. Don't worry and don't resist. We'll catch you when you fall. You are falling, falling, falling. Drawing back …”

Eva began swaying like a skyscraper near collapse.

“You are falling back,” Margaret said, “back, back, all the way. We'll catch you, dear; falling back … back …”

Feather-light, she began to topple. I bolted upright to help Margaret cushion her fall.

“Wow.” Eva grinned sheepishly and shook herself upright. “Are my heels round enough?”

“That's putting it mildly, my dear. I think we'll make good progress.”

Late that afternoon I joined Margaret in her outer office. We had gone through three reels of tape. Eva lay asleep in the other room.

Margaret opened the drapes behind her desk. Tokyo was turning into a neon firecracker in the fading light. Winking Kanji and Hirigana signs blinked their unfathomable sales pitches our way.

She lit a cigarette, then waved the pack. “Smoke?”

“No thanks. You got me to quit, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I wasn't enticing you.”

“Sometimes I resent it. The tobacco cure, I mean. There are times when it gives you … something to hold on to.”

“I thought you were beyond crutches, Norman.”

“Not yet. Probably never.”

We watched a high silver plane searching through the smog for Haneda Airport.