Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax (26 page)

Water!

After ten minutes of being pushed by the cart, and another ten minutes of pulling it, Mrs. Pollifax had to concede that she was neither an ox nor young enough to imitate one. The ground was rough, and after thoughtfully slanting downhill it had begun to slant uphill, but what was most discouraging was the field of maize that lay ahead directly in their path. She could not pull such a broad cart through narrow corn rows, and the field stretched from left to right almost as far as the eye could see: the thought of walking around it utterly dismayed her. Mrs. Pollifax stopped and laid down the shafts, wiped the sweat from her brow with a sleeve and said aloud, in an anguished voice, “I just can’t pull you any more.”

It was the Genie who emerged first from the straw. “Quite so,” he said in his clipped British voice. “Farrell badly needs a rest too. I suggest we crawl into the corn and rest a few minutes.”

It was a very bad idea. Mrs. Pollifax knew it and the Genie must have known it too, for if the burning Rolls had confused and diverted General Perdido it would not be for long. Ashes would be sifted: for rings—her wedding ring, for instance—or teeth or gold fillings or bone fragments. Even if the general remained in doubt he would be compelled to assume they had
gotten away because he was not a man who could afford doubts; his reputation and his pride were too valuable and both would be at stake.

Yet Mrs. Pollifax conceded there was nothing else for them to do. Certainly she could not go on much longer in such an exhausted state, and what was worst of all her mind felt battered and senseless. It was a major effort even to weigh what the Genie was suggesting, and all of her instincts told her that a mind was needed to compete against the general’s cunning. “Yes,” she said simply, and stood back and let the Genie help Farrell out of the hay.

Farrell looked utterly ghastly but his mind at least was unaffected, for he took in the situation at a glance and said, “We’ll have to be careful not to break off any stalks as we enter. And the cart can’t be left here.”

The Genie’s eyes shone with their usual birdlike brightness, half mockery, half inquisitiveness. He bowed with his hands tucked into his sleeves and said, “I, too, have read your Leather-stocking tales. You go, I’ll move the cart and cover your trail as I join you.”

Together Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax tottered in among the cornstalks, each helping the other, but neither of them impressively secure. They did not stop until the rows of corn neared an end and then they fell apart and sank wordlessly to the ground. Here in the shade of the tall stalks there was at least shelter from the blazing sun and the illusion of a faint breeze as the stalks rustled and creaked and whispered. With a groan Farrell stretched out his damaged leg and studied it with bloodshot, menacing eyes. “Damn thing,” he growled. “Never gave it a thought before, but damned if legs aren’t pretty useful appendages. I’m hungry, by the way.”

Mrs. Pollifax roused enough to explore the capacious pocket of her first petticoat. She drew out the pistol, the map, the compass, and then one slice of stale bread and a small amount of cheese. “There isn’t much and we have to save some for later,” she reminded him.

“Later,” mused Farrell. “I can’t imagine anything more distant than ‘later.’ ”

They could hear the Genie looking for them, his footsteps stopping and then starting again as he peered into each aisle of corn without finding them. Mrs. Pollifax carefully put aside his portion of food, returned the remaining cheese and bread to her
pocket, picked up the pistol to put it away, and hearing the Genie’s footsteps virtually at their door she glanced up smiling.

But it was not the Genie standing there and looking down at them, it was the guard Stefan who had accompanied General Perdido. He was staring at them with his mouth half open, his eyes incredulous and a look of blank stupidity on his face. For just the fraction of a second Mrs. Pollifax shared his stupidity, and then she realized that she was holding the pistol in her hand and without thinking she lifted the pistol, aimed it as her cousin John had taught her years ago and squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening in the stillness of that hot, quiet, summer afternoon. The look of stupidity on Stefan’s face increased and Mrs. Pollifax realized with a feeling of nausea that she was going to have to shoot him again. She lifted the pistol but Farrell rolled over and clasped her wrist with his hand, deterring her, and that was when she saw the blood slowly spreading across Stefan’s chest. She watched with horrified fascination as he began to crumple, his knees carrying him steadily downward until they struck the earth and his hips and shoulders following. Farrell was already reaching for his crutch and struggling to get to his feet. Mrs. Pollifax said blankly, “I’ve killed him. I’ve killed a man.”

“He’d have gladly killed both of us in another minute,” gasped Farrell, standing upright. “For heaven’s sake, don’t just sit there, Duchess, they must have heard that shot for miles.”

Certainly the Genie had heard it. Mrs. Pollifax became aware that he was with them again; he was kneeling beside the dead guard removing his pistol and checking his pockets. She stuffed pistol, map and compass away and stood up, curious as to whether her knees would hold her or if she would slowly sink to the ground as Stefan had done; Stefan, the man she had killed—
she
, Emily Pollifax of New Brunswick, New Jersey. “Madness,” she muttered under her breath. “Madness, every bit of this.”

“They certainly know we’re alive now,” Farrell was saying grimly. “God how I wish I could run.”

“I saw him and had to hide,” the Genie said in a stunned voice. “There wasn’t a chance of warning you.” He was tugging at Mrs. Pollifax’s arm to get her moving, and Mrs. Pollifax automatically took a few steps, then turned to look back at the dead man, but Farrell reached over and forced her face to the west. “Don’t ever look back,” he told her harshly.

So he understood in his rough, compassionate way. With an
effort Mrs. Pollifax pulled herself together, lightheaded enough by now to see the three of them, blood-smeared, exhausted and harassed, as absurdities pitted against the whims of fate. They entered the forest of pines that lay beyond the cornfield but the shadows brought only meager relief and this was from the sun rather than the heat. Yet it was lovely among the pines, the earth soft and springy with layer after layer of pine needles, some old and brown, others freshly green. It seemed very peaceful and Mrs. Pollifax yearned to forget General Perdido and sink to the ground to rest.

The Genie said suddenly, “I smell water,” and he began hobbling stiffly ahead, leaving Mrs. Pollifax to wonder how anybody could smell water. She stayed with Farrell, whose pallor alarmed her; he looked already dead, she thought, like someone embalmed and strung up on wires by a fiendish mortician. Then she realized that she, too, smelled water, except that smell was not quite the word, it was a change in the air, a freshness new to her nostrils. “Something’s ahead,” she gasped to Farrell, but he only grunted, not lifting his head. If it was the lake—and it could be nothing else from the look of the map—they must be very near Yugoslavia and very near to freedom. “Bless Tito and foreign aid,” she thought reverently, hope rising in her. The Genie was ahead of them waving his arms, but it seemed an eternity before they reached him. “Look,” he said.

Mrs. Pollifax lifted her head to see water glittering in the sunshine, water to bathe in, water to drink, water to cool overheated flesh and relax parched dry throats. Water—she wanted to stumble through the scrub to the shore and bury herself in it, but as she started forward the Genie clutched her arm and she heard the sound of the plane again. “This way,” he said, and led them back in among the pines to head north along the shore of the lake.

Lake Scutari, she remembered from the book … two hundred square miles in size, a large lake, half of it in Yugoslavia.… The plane roared over the lake at low altitude and it gave her a queer sense of panic to realize that it must be looking for them. Of course—she had shot a guard and advertised their aliveness. In this quiet, pastoral countryside the sound of a gunshot would be heard for miles. Not many natives would own guns, the country was too poor, too barren of life to supply money for such a luxury. There would be no explaining away such a provocative noise.

The plane disappeared to the north and the Genie stopped, one finger on his lips, one hand on Mrs. Pollifax’s arm. She and Farrell halted. The floor of the forest had been sloping upward so that it was higher than the water on their left, causing a drop that made it less accessible from land. Apparently the Genie had thought of something, for removing his shoes and tying them around his neck he began retracing their steps. Mrs. Pollifax waited. She wanted to sit, she wanted to fall to the ground, but she knew instinctively that Farrell couldn’t sit down—mustn’t, in fact, lest he never get up again—and an innate courtesy kept her upright. Presently, much to her surprise, she saw the Genie wading toward them along the shallows of the lake. He appeared to be searching for something and she looked away without interest, all curiosity deadened by the stupor of her body. Minutes or hours later the Genie was touching her arm, and she and Farrell followed him to the bank. He gestured toward the water, directing them to sit down on the bank and then jump into the shallows. Mrs. Pollifax did so, obediently and humbly. Then he was guiding them back a few yards toward an old tree that hung over the lake, its roots exposed and rotting. There was no beach here; the water lapped the eroded banking and over the years had brought to it an accumulation of debris. The Genie parted the branches of a sumac that had grown from the gnarled roots and said in a low voice, “It’s not particularly dry but there’s room here for three people.”

“There is?” and then, “Will they think of it too?” Mrs. Pollifax asked anxiously, and then was sorry she had said this, for there was no safety anywhere in life, except as illusion, and she was surprised at herself for wanting a guarantee from the Genie. Perhaps it was her American blood, Americans were so very security-minded, or perhaps she was just too tired and stiff and afraid. But the Genie did not reply and she was grateful that he didn’t. Instead he pushed aside a stout log that had been caught in the flotsam and helped Farrell to kneel and crawl into the tiny cave under the bank. She followed, and the Genie squeezed in after her, taking care to bend back the branches of the sumac and to pull the log back to its original position.

The little cave was not dry. The earth was wet but at least there were no puddles. The ceiling was too low for sitting; they had to lie on their stomachs, Farrell pressed against the earth, Mrs. Pollifax in the middle and the Genie nearest the
outside. It was a curiously womblike place: dark, quiet and blessedly cool. Mrs. Pollifax felt her eyes closing. She knew there were questions unasked and things undone and yet her eyes simply would not remain open. Fatigue won and Mrs. Pollifax slept, not deeply and certainly not comfortably, but with a fitful, twitching, feverish need from exhaustion.

She was awakened not so much by sound as by the awareness of danger that emanated from Farrell and the Genie, a stiffening of their bodies and a lifting of heads. She, too, stiffened and lifted her head from her arms to hear the roar of a motor nearby. Straining, she realized it wasn’t a plane but a motorboat, and running so near to the shore that it was a wonder its propeller cleared the bottom. She lay inert, terrified that at any moment some trace of them be seen. The boat drew level with their hiding place, passed them by and in its wake came the waves. Mrs. Pollifax had not thought of waves and in any case would not have considered them a threat. All motorboats caused waves, some large, some small. Waves rippled charmingly as they swept toward shore, and always they made lovely sounds as they met the beach. She had forgotten that here there was no beach.

The water came with a rush, lifting the debris outside their hole and flinging twigs and leaves aside to sweep inside their tiny earthen cave. One moment Mrs. Pollifax was gazing at the entrance and the next moment she was totally submerged and without hope of escape as the water filled their cave from floor to ceiling. “This at last is the end,” she thought as she fought to hold her breath. As her lungs gasped for air she drew in the first water through her nostrils, found no sustenance in it and during the brief moment of panic that precedes drowning she arched her body for one last fight. The struggle brought her head up, and suddenly there came the near alien sensation of air entering her lungs again. Sputtering, choking and gasping she realized that the water had receded. She had just time enough to fill her lungs before the next wave entered. All in all there were six waves, three of them that filled the cave and three that came only to her shoulders before retiring. Then the surge of water desisted.

They were still alive. Farrell lay on his side, with only a weak smile to show that he survived. The Genie was vomiting water, his shoulders heaving, and she brought up one arm—it was difficult in so confined a space—and patted his shoulder
in commiseration. The Genie gagged once and rolled over on his back, an arm across his face.