3

‘I NEVER did get to Haiti,’ Mrs Carter said sadly. ‘That is one place I have never been. I don’t know why – perhaps because of George, perhaps because we had planned it together. I have thought about it since – many times – and one day I’d like to go.’

The thought dispelled her sadness. She smiled at the actress, her blue eyes crinkling in anticipated pleasure. ‘I am anxious to study voodoo, you know, and observe all those strange primitive rites. I was taken to Fiji when I was a girl, but that isn’t nearly as interesting as Haiti, is it? – though I did witness a firewalk. And let me tell you it is true what you have heard about it, every word. They heat a pit of stones until it is white hot; then they go down by the river for their incantations and other things. When they come back their faces are like dolls’, with the eyes turned in their heads. Then, as calmly as you please, they walk over the stones in their bare feet without as much as raising a blister – some of them with babies in their arms! – I will admit that one or two of them ran – but I noticed that they were the younger ones who probably had not learned their incantations quite as well as the others.’

She paused to offer the actress a cigarette, an Egyptian brand of great rarity, and after lighting it and her own, she added: ‘Of course, after you’ve done it – walked on fire, that is – anyone can shrug and say “So what?” That’s what my father said at the time. But he was always so pessimistic about such things. When we saw the whirling dervishes, the only comment he made was that they gave him a headache. I’m sure Mildred could never stand them with her inner ear – the whirling dervishes, I mean. She would be dizzy in an instant. That is why I have advised her never to see them. But I have never had ear trouble of any kind whatsoever. I have been most fortunate in that respect. . . .’

She smiled at the actress. ‘So you see, I have tried to work. And when I failed so miserably each time, I thought finally that I would make a career of my home. I didn’t have a home, of course, but I decided I would have one – and give up this eternal travelling. It does grate on one’s nerves after a while. I thought I might even have a child, and though I was tired of marriage, I was determined to try it once more – just to see, you know. Well’ – she made a sour face, ‘it was no better than the others. I found out I couldn’t have a child, and Henry – he was my fourth husband – didn’t want one anyway. Whenever he talked about them – children, that is – you could just see the picture he had in his mind: fevered little bodies always smelling vaguely of urine – forever clinging to you with grubby hands, demanding lollypops and ice cream.’

‘Ah – I know exactly what he meant,’ the actress said with a laugh, remembering her brothers and sisters in Rome. ‘Your Henry and I would have gotten along.’

‘ – But I don’t see children that way at all,’ Mrs Carter returned. ‘In fact, I was hoping to adopt one, no matter what Henry said. I didn’t of course, but if people tell you children are difficult to adopt, never believe them. They are in America, I am told – all sorts of credentials are required. But it is foolish to insist on having an American child, don’t you think? Americans are so odd. Just because they are American, nothing will do but that they have an American child. It has no advantages I can see. In Arabia you can pick children off the streets. In fact, it is difficult to pass through the country without acquiring at least one child. I remember the difficult time I had in Riyadhjiji, That’s on the very edge of the Mosuljask desert, you know, and very wild. The natives are nomads. I’m sure they must fornicate in the wilderness for a whole year, and then, the following year – usually in the wintertime when they can appear more pathetic – bring all their babies to Riyadhjiji to palm them off on the tourists.’

She laughed. ‘I am exaggerating, of course, but truly, that is the impression one gets. Why I remember – I had great trouble with one young mother. I had done her a small favour – I’ve even forgotten what – and in return she wanted to give me one of her babies! I was astonished! – and refused of course, but I couldn’t get her to understand. I don’t think she spoke more than two words of English and I knew nothing of her language at all. If I lived a thousand years I could never understand their alphabet. All the characters are like tiny pitchforks lying upside down. In any event, through gestures and by pointing to a picture in a magazine I told her that back home where I came from, across the sea, I had twenty-four babies of my own. I don’t know why I thought of twenty-four, except that, clearly, four or five would have made no impression on her whatsoever. She had twelve of her own, and I probably thought I might as well double it. And let me tell you it did work. You should have seen her face! . . . so full of pity and sympathy. Why the very next day . . .’

Mrs Carter stopped abruptly, her face somewhat stricken. ‘ – I seem to be talking a great deal this morning. And I’m really not that way, you know. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a woman who rambles on about everything under the sun – and none of it at all interesting most of the time. Why the others are always saying to me, “Marion, why are you so quiet?” – or “Marion, you haven’t said a word in two hours.” But I can’t help it, really. I believe it’s constitutional or organic – something to do with my genes or my glands. There are born talkers – and then there are people like myself – the thinkers and brooders. I don’t mean in the intellectual sense – goodness, no! – but the wonderers – the people who would much rather listen than talk. I’m talking now only because we’re new to each other and there’s so much “catching up” to do before the others arrive. Once they do, I won’t get a word in edgewise. They are great talkers, all of them. Except Mildred, perhaps. – But I take that back. She did talk last summer; it was her second summer and I suppose she had grown less timid about expressing herself before the others. The Countess is enough to frighten anyone. I don’t mean physically – she is a beautiful woman, really astonishing – but the way she talks – and talks. Her name is Victoria – Victoria Vranogrec-Markovici. And Robert, of course, is a writer – and you know how they like to talk. His full name is Robert R. M. Hunter. Perhaps you’ve heard the name or read one of his books ’

The actress shook her head. She sat up now, cross-legged like a yogi, and reached for her bottle of suntan lotion.

‘I don’t know what the R.M. stands for,’ Mrs Carter continued, ‘but he teaches at a university and writes books, and more books – and articles for various literary journals. His luggage consists mainly of typewriters. He brought three with him last year. I remember – one was an electric machine, which immediately blew out a fuse. We have DC current, you know, so if you have any electrical appliances with you . . .’

‘Is he married?’ the actress inquired.

‘No; he’s not. Nor was he ever. – Can you do that yourself? – here, let me ’ and Mrs Carter began smoothing the lotion across the young woman’s shoulders and back, ‘ – Like yourself, he is busy. He lived with his mother most of his adult life, though he is not old, understand; he must be forty-something; it’s so hard to tell with a man – but she died several years ago. I met her once. Quite an impressive woman I must say, though the time I spent with her seemed more like an interview for a position than a tea-time chat. I do believe she was afraid I was a candidate for Robert’s affections! – she had no idea how old I was, nor the kind of relationship I had with her son. But about Robert. I remember – last summer he was doing an article for the Partisan Review. That is an American magazine, you know, though I am told it is very well liked at the universities, and quite dignified. I read the manuscript. It was all about “writing” – about “the novel” in particular, which he maintained is a genre that has exhausted itself and is moribund. That was the word he used – moribund. Do you know what it means?’

‘I do not,’ the actress replied. ‘I have never heard such a word.’

‘Well, I hadn’t either. I had to look it up. It means dying . . . simply that. These writers, you know! – they will use any word rather than call a thing by its name. – In any event, he compared the novel to epic poetry. “Who,” he asked, and it was in italics, “Who,” reads epic poetry today?” Of course I had no ready answer, though I thought about it, nor would I dare criticise Robert in any way; he is much too clever and mature and knows everything that is worth knowing, but I must confess that I thought him wrong about the novel. How can it be a genre that has exhausted itself? Why almost the very first sentence a child learns to speak is “Tell me a story”. They are constantly saying that, and if anyone is exhausted it must be their parents who are having to think up all these stories to tell them. And that is why I maintain – though I wouldn’t dare tell Robert – that we shall always have novelists. They are simply our parents and we are still children saying “Tell me a story”. Though I do confess that some of the stories they tell are a little strange. I have never favoured pornography in literature – it seems such an easy way to get someone’s attention – but where can you find a book nowadays that doesn’t have something like that in it, unless it’s a cookery book – and even those are not above suspicion. I knew a woman once who read nothing but cookery books until her analyst told her that it was oral gratification, and that half a cup of this and a teaspoonful of that were merely symbols for something not so innocent, I can assure you. . . .’