The Painted Cage (14 page)

The sky was disapproving. Clouds gathered across Mississippi Bay in a darkening bruise. A breeze turned up the leaves, blowing petals from the cherry trees. They adhered in pale flakes to hats and lapels; Amy brushed one from her nose. Something daring in the weather suited her feelings. She willed it not to rain. They had thought they would get as far as Sugita, but near Honmoku Mabel turned in her saddle.

‘Henry says we should return when we reach the beach. The sky is quite black beyond Honmoku. There'll be a downpour soon.'

‘Those clouds are far away, I'm sure we'll be all right. Do let's go on,' Amy shouted. She glanced quickly at Guy; he smiled. She looked away and studied the
assurance
with which Mabel handled herself beside Douglas. Amy's body moved lightly to the rhythm of the horse; Guy le Ferrier watched her. The road dipped sharply to skirt a cluster of farmhouses, shaggy in thatch and
disrepair,
and then they were on the flat shore road that led to Honmoku beach. In front the others drew to a halt, looking anxiously at the sky.

‘Best go back now before it comes down,' said Henry Corodale. Rowly Bassett shook his plump cheeks in
agreement.
A sudden flurry of wind sliced off Henry's words. From the bank above a shower of petals rained down,
covering the road about the horses' hooves, and the
high-crowned
hats of the riders.

‘We will catch you up soon,' Guy said. ‘I've promised to show Mrs Redmore the view from the hill behind that temple. I know a short way from there to meet the road you are on. I cannot disappoint Mrs Redmore, when we are so near.' He spoke smoothly as if they had arranged it already. He leaned forward to steady Amy's pony as it danced about. She knew she should tell him, no.

‘Yes, I'm determined to see the view. We'll catch you up. We'll be with you before you've time to miss us,' Amy heard herself tell them instead.

He turned in his saddle when they were gone. ‘I hope you do not think badly of me for such impertinence? The view from the hill, it is really true. And I want a moment alone with you. You know that.' He smiled.

‘Well, I'm not sure this is all really quite proper. I might lose my reputation.' Amy laughed to keep her voice light; upon the reins her hands began to tremble. ‘We must not be long.' She ignored his question about being alone. She did not dare reply.

The ponies danced impatiently in the threat of rain, Guy laughed. She followed as he rode ahead, turning onto a narrow path winding steeply up the hill. She had pleased him, had taken the right step in the curious dance that now involved them both. If only she had experience, if only, like Mabel, she knew what to do, knew what was expected of her. None of it was
right.
None
of
it
was
right.
She must have left her senses. Her thoughts blew like the breeze about her, filling her with confusion. But in their midst, cool and unperturbed, that one thought was still within her.
He
desires
me.
He.
Me.

She was flustered, her hands still trembled, but inside something bold pushed her on. The horses climbed higher up the hill, stumbling, slipping. She was two people, she knew it now. She was in the possession of a woman as rapacious as any man. She had no defence against this person who directed her. Across that ballroom in Somerset, so long ago, Reggie had done no more than
show her to herself. But never again could she mistake for love what lay uncovered within her now.

He motioned her to pull the horses in. ‘Look back down there, is it not true what I said? Is it not good?'

The ground fell away to small cottages and vegetable gardens, patterned like a patchwork quilt. There was a copse of cherry trees and upon the sea a line of rusty, archaic junks, their sails ribbed like dragons' wings. The rain began suddenly, then spat viciously from the sky.

‘There is an old teahouse here. We can shelter,' said Guy. It was as if he had planned it. They tied the ponies beneath camellia trees, their thick, dark leaves like oiled paper. The teahouse was dilapidated and deserted; it smelled of cobwebs and rot. The rain fell beyond the eaves outside torn paper windows. Guy examined the place.

‘I'm sorry. We must remain, maybe some time. The rain is very heavy.' He looked like a giant in a doll's house.

‘Yes, I can see that,' she laughed. She tried to sound natural, even flirtatious.

He spread his jacket on the floor for her to sit upon. Everything seemed immediate yet unreal, as if she was locked into a dream. He sat down beside her, leaning back against a crumbling wall that revealed its straw insides. His hand hung limply over a raised knee. She waited for him to show her a way.

‘Amy.' He held his hand out to her; the palm was narrow and clearly lined. He spoke her name softly. ‘Amy.' He said it again as if coaxing a hesitant animal. Slowly, she put out a hand and laid it on his palm. She felt his fingers close about her. ‘I did not think it would rain, it is the truth. But perhaps it is fate, do you not agree? Do you believe in fate?' he asked.

‘I don't know. I've never thought about it,' she
answered.
Her mind reeled with confusion.

‘So many thoughts, each one blowing against the other.' He teased, he still held her hand. ‘That is why you try but cannot be like the others. You are different. I noticed it that first day at the races; it attracted me to you. I felt it was our fate then to come to know each other. Will you meet me sometimes here, like this, alone?'
He spoke smoothly. His face was lean, the blond moustache curved above a smile. His green eyes were those of a cat, never forgetting himself for a moment. ‘You have not met anyone before like this, alone? Your husband I am not counting, of course?' he inquired, like a doctor making a diagnosis, firm but kind.

She shook her head, feeling foolish, hearing him laugh to himself. She wished she had lied. He knew his way, had walked this path many times before with other women. As had her own husband, who, with different words far away in time, had brought her to a similar place of choice within herself. And Reggie too made the same arrangements, even as she sat here, persuasive in a similar manner to women who complied. As she now complied. Already, coming here alone with Guy, she had proved something to herself. There was no turning back, she had made her decision.

‘Will you meet me again, here, like this? We shall talk, we shall be friends.' His voice was near her ear, his breath covered her face. He bent and kissed her lips, lightly, without passion. She did not move. He smiled and drew away.

‘That is, how do you say it in English, to seal our friendship. Trust me, please, I will not harm you. We shall enjoy much from knowing each other.'

She nodded, silent. He stood and held out his hand to pull her up. The rain had lessened, they could leave.

They left the hut and rode upon a narrow path across uneven ground. When it widened enough to ride together, Amy urged her pony into a gallop, as if the speed with which she covered the earth was a simulation of the new purpose in her life. Guy le Ferrier kept pace with her; sometimes beside her, sometimes in front, never falling back. A life that had been all bone had suddenly put on flesh. She laughed at the sheer madness of all she would do, free as the crow who winged above and cawed loudly from the sky. The path narrowed again and they slowed to a trot.

‘If you would like to think more about fate, I know a man they say can see the future. We must go to him, all of
us. I shall suggest it to Mabel today,' Guy said, breathless beside her. Amy nodded, pleased. Soon they saw the others riding parallel on a converging path, depressed in sodden wraps and dripping leather, caught by rain upon the road, while she was warm and dry. She laughed and rode up to Mabel.

‘You see,' said Amy. ‘It was just as I told you. We didn't even keep you waiting.'

That night, against her inclination, Amy accompanied Reggie to the Gaiety Theatre where Elsa Bolithero was performing. Amy watched her with resentment. Upon the stage Mrs Bolithero, in lavish costumes of quick change and constant décolleté, was caught by her own exaggerations. Her little feet stamped and strode about, she postured and connived, her white, ample and
well-exposed
breast followed by men's eyes. Looking at Reggie's rapt attention, Amy was suddenly furious. She clenched her fists and did not understand why she should feel such anger. Why should she be jealous of a loose woman, deserving of no one's respect? She had the thought of Guy le Ferrier now to hold onto in herself. It gave her a feeling of self-respect, and a comforting,
well-rounded
sense of revenge as Reggie applauded Elsa Bolithero's songs. She let the thought of Guy flood her mind. Tomorrow she would see him. He was taking them all to a fortune teller in the Native Town.

Mabel's group piled into
rikishas
the next afternoon to ride down from the Bluff to the Native Town. Mabel objected to the smell and the crowds. She had brought a lavender bag to see her through the worst. The fortune teller lived beyond Isezakicho-dori, the street of Japanese theatres. Mabel's group urged their runners past the rickety exteriors of Kabuki theatres covered with bunting and Japanese script, past garish merry-go-rounds and
catchpenny
games. There were restaurants and secondhand clothes bazaars and one-man kitchens trundled on wheels or slung from poles upon shoulders. At every corner were vendors of ice cream, grilled squid and bean cakes. There
were magicians and jugglers and acrobats, knife
swallowers
and performing dogs. Music wailed about them. It was a road to jumble up the senses – ears, eyes and noses assailed simultaneously; an oriental fairyland gone, thought Amy, completely mad. She wanted to stop and look.

‘Can't we go slower, can't we look?' she shouted to Mabel when their
rikishas
drew level. Mabel held the lavender bag to her nose.

‘Look? My darling, are you mad? What is there to see? And that terrible fishy smell of squid, I simply cannot stand it.' She was jerked smartly ahead by her runner. Amy saw her laugh, repeating to Guy le Ferrier the impossible suggestion.

‘Stop. She wanted to stop and smell and see.' They teased her when they reached their destination.

‘Darling, if it intrigues you so, we can call some of the jugglers to the Bluff. We can have a garden party. They can perform in the comfort of our homes, instead of us standing on that filthy road like a lot of common tourists.' Mabel laughed and they all joined in, enjoying Amy's confusion.

They left the
rikishas
and filed up a narrow path between two houses. Mabel held her nose before the open gutters. She lent her lavender bag to Ada, who feared she would faint at the smell of the drains.

‘Where on earth have we come to?' Enid wondered, tripping on a stone. ‘We must be quite mad. Guy, you persuade us to do the craziest things. It's a good thing poor Rowly didn't come – he would have been wedged so tight in this lane we could never have pulled him out.' They all had to stop because they were laughing so much at the thought of fat Rowly Bassett stuck in the lane.

Eventually they reached a door in a ramshackled wall. Behind the gate was a short, neat path; the house was poor but clean. An old woman led them inside. There was a bother about leaving their shoes, and much complaining from Ada and Enid.

‘Come along,' ordered Mabel loudly. ‘Where's your spirit of adventure?'

Amy followed the old woman along a narrow, polished corridor. Her stockinged feet slid about; she felt ashamed of Ada and Enid. The old woman knelt to pull back a sliding door and bowed for them to enter. The room was small with a floor of rush mats. It was like no room Amy had seen. She had not been inside a Japanese house before; they had appeared dirty and dull. She looked about now, surprised at the dignity of the small room, bare of all adornment but a low table, cushions and a blue china brazier. One wall opened onto a tiny garden and a brilliant flowering bush. An old man with horn-rimmed spectacles knelt beside the table, frail as a piece of antique china, wrapped in a dark kimono. The bones of his eye sockets, nose and chin showed through the gleam of old, stretched skin. The others burst in and the place was suddenly a cupboard into which they must all squeeze. Ada and Enid were still complaining. The old woman knelt. Guy le Ferrier sat beside her, awkward with his long, stiff legs, to interpret for them. Amy stood nearest the table, and the old man called her first. She sat down, arranging her skirts so as not to take up too much room.

The man's eyes were not the cloudy eyes of age but sharp as polished seeds; they settled and germinated in her. She could not look away. He began mumbling
incoherently.
Amy felt apprehensive and looked at Guy, who pulled a face. The old man picked up a bundle of wooden rods, lifting them to his forehead, bending low over the table, groaning and muttering. Then he was silent, his eyes upon Amy again. He asked her birthday, reasoning her sign in the Japanese zodíac, parting the divining rods into two bundles. He picked up a huge magnifying glass to examine the lines of her face. Behind it his own eye grew until it filled the glass like the red-rimmed eye of a monstrous cyclops. Soon he seemed satisfied and counted the reeds in each bundle. Through Guy le Ferrier he began to speak.

He told her facts about her past that were astonishing in accuracy, but of the future he spoke in incomprehensible riddles. He stared at her from cunning eyes she had now begun to hate. They were the eyes of a lizard or a snake.
There was something about him, something in the room that pressed tightly about her. Guy urged the man on; he continued in sentences without meanings or ends.

‘In the crowd you are different. Many people but always alone…. I cannot say, I cannot see. A tunnel, darkness and a bare room. Among many people you are alone.'