10

Chester had never detested any town as much as he detested Chania. The pattern of the buildings on the street of the hotel had taken on a meaning to him: they were a symbol of hell, a trademark of hell, the very face of hell. Chania was where he had lost Colette. Chania was where he had existed for three days like a hunted dog and watched a seedy young bum seduce his wife. Chester was sure they’d been to bed together. Colette denied it, but naturally she would, and it was the first time she’d ever lied to him, Chester thought. And Chania was where he’d hit his wife for the first time. He’d hit her hard on the shoulder Saturday night, after they got home. On Sunday morning, she had a darkening bruise. On Sunday, she was very angry with him. Chania was the town where Colette had turned against him. Now she was determined to keep the seedy young bum with them, just because she knew he wanted to get rid of him. Chester would have liked to leave Chania Sunday afternoon, but there wasn’t any bus back to Iraklion on Sunday afternoon. A boat had come and gone in the port overnight. Chester had longed to be on it, with Colette, alone. It didn’t matter where it was going. Well, they were leaving tomorrow morning on a 9 o’clock bus bound east, for Iraklion. Chester supposed Rydal would take the same bus, which would be annoying, but certainly in Iraklion they could lose him, and if Rydal said anything about taking the same plane with them back to Athens, Chester was going to ask him to find another.

Chania reminded him of his second year at Harvard, when the news of his father’s bankruptcy had come, and when Annette, the girl he had been engaged to, had broken the engagement—instantly, on hearing of the bankruptcy—so that the shock of his father’s situation and the loss of Annette had seemed a single, world-shattering catastrophe. Chester had left school and tried to apply what he had learned of business administration to the saving of an artificial-leather factory up in New Hampshire. He hadn’t saved it. Flat broke, he had sworn to himself he would get rich, and fast. So he had started to operate, more and more shadily, he could see it now, though when he had started out, he hadn’t intended to get rich by being crooked. It had been a gradual thing. A gradual bad thing, Chester knew. But now he was stuck with it, really deep in it, hooked on it like an addict on dope.

Chania reminded him of all that. Chania reminded him of failure.

At half-past two on Sunday afternoon, Chester lay in bed with a headache. He would have liked a couple of cold beers, but Chania was the town where a man couldn’t get a cold beer if he needed it. Chester had called down for some beer hours ago, and been told something in faulty English about a store not being open until 4 p.m. Chester alternately read Colette’s pocketbook novels and dozed. Every doze made him feel a bit better, but each one brought ugly half-dreams of Rydal and Colette together—they were together this minute, “taking a walk” somewhere, unless—He grabbed the telephone, and asked for room 18.

No one answered him. He had spoken into silence. At last a man’s voice came on the wire.

“Would you connect me with room eighteen, please . . . Eighteen. . . . One eight. Yes. . . . No, no, the room. On the second floor.”

“Yes, sir. I ring.”

Chester couldn’t hear anything like a ring. Several seconds went by, then the man’s voice said:

“I ring,” like a repeating record.

Chester sighed, not knowing if he had already rung or was going to. There was still no sound of ringing. Chester lost his patience. “Never mind, before you can ring them I can knock on the door!” He hung up.

In two minutes, he was dressed, except for a tie. He went down the hall to room eighteen, listened for only a couple of seconds at the door, heard nothing, and knocked firmly.

After a moment, Rydal’s voice said, “Yes?”

“It’s Chester.”

Rydal opened the door. He was in shirt-sleeves, but his tie was tied. He looked worried. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, sure. Can I come in?” Chester went in as Rydal stepped aside, expecting to see Colette there, but the room was empty. On the bed—it was rumpled, but it had the counterpane on it—lay a scattering of sheets of paper, written on in longhand, and a black-and-white-marbled notebook. Chester cleared his throat. “Just wondered if you’ve seen Colette. I thought you were taking a walk with her.”

“We did take a walk. She . . . went out again for something, I don’t know what.”

“Went out again? Was she here?”

“We got back to the hotel, and she went out again.” Rydal folded his arms and looked at Chester levelly.

Chester nodded, took a step towards the bed and said, “What’s all this?”

“Poems,” Rydal said flatly. “I write poems sometimes.”

“Oh.” Chester turned around, glanced again around the room, then his eyes stopped at Colette’s pocketbook, peeking from under a newspaper in the armchair, and he smiled. “Where is she? Hiding under the bed?” Chester asked Rydal.

Rydal let his arms drop. He frowned. “She happens to be in the—”

The bathroom door behind Rydal opened, and Colette came out, her face tight with anxiety. She was carrying her coat. “Ches, don’t make a scene. For gosh sake, I’ve been reading some of ­Rydal’s poetry.”

“Then why do you have to hide in the bathroom?” Chester thundered out.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Colette said.

“Yes, you were, or Rydal wouldn’t have said you were out!” Chester retorted. “Why were you hiding?”

Rydal hurled a pencil he had had in his hand down onto the bed. “I’ll tell you why she was hiding, because she knew the stink you’d make if you found her here. All right, now you’re making it. Go ahead.”

Chester moved closer to him, his hands closing in fists. You’ve got a fine nerve talking to me like that. You with your nasty, scheming—”

“Yes, I have, I have.” Rydal stood his ground. His own hands were fists, too. “I’ve got the nerve to stand up to you. You’re used to pushing people around, aren’t you? Having them cringing around you. Like your wife here, hiding in the bathroom.”

“You admit she’s my wife, eh?” Chester said, feeling his face grow hotter. “I’ll thank you to keep her out of your bed!”

“Chester ple-ease!” Colette rushed to him but stopped before she touched him, her hands also raised in fists, fists that pled.

“This is my room, and you can get out,” Rydal said, and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t let anybody talk to me like that,” Chester told him.

“I have news for you. I don’t let anybody talk to me the way you have. Insult . . . insult Colette the way you have.” Rydal was shaking. He could hardly get the cigarette into his mouth.

Chester noticed the shaking, and interpreted it as guilt. He felt in a sense triumphant. He had fairly caught them both in adultery, caught them red-handed. They really had nothing to say for themselves. “I think you’re both a couple of animals. Animals!”

“You call me that?” Rydal said, moving towards him.

Colette grabbed Rydal’s arm. “Don’t, Rydal.” She held his right wrist.

Chester stared wide-eyed for an instant at her hands on his wrist, then looked at Rydal. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Rydal broke Colette’s hold with a sharp movement of his arm. “I’m going to do something to you, too. I’m going to inform on you. Try doing the same thing to me. I’ll match you. All right?”

“I’ll kill you first,” Chester said, and felt his mouth curve in a smile. His heart pounded. Triumph again! He’d never said those words before. Plain strong words.

“I’m sure you would. Try it. I’m not afraid.” Rydal folded his arms.

“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” Colette said. “Please. Can’t you both apologize—” Her voice trembled.

“I see no reason to apologize,” Rydal said.

“Nor do I,” Chester said automatically. “But I think—I think he’d better take back what he said about informing on me, or else.”

“No.” Rydal walked to the night table and flicked his ash into the tray. “I’ve decided to give you what you deserve, and that’s it.”

Chester gave a laugh. “What do you think’s going to happen to Colette, if you do that?”

“She’s not guilty of your crimes,” said Rydal.

“You’ve ‘decided’, you’ve ‘decided’,” Chester said, and walked in a circle. His armpits were cool with sweat. “You don’t know the consequences even for yourself! Don’t you know—” Chester stopped. Rydal was staring at him coolly, his eyes hard and steady.

“Get out of my room,” Rydal said. “Oh! One thing more. Would you like your five thousand back? You’ll get it back.” He went quickly to his suitcase.

“I’m not interested. What’s five thousand to me?” said Chester. “Come on, Colette.” He moved towards the door. “No, no, no,” he said when he saw Rydal coming towards him with the money. “Keep it for the informing—sneaking—” He blinked as the money hit his face.

The banknotes fluttered and spun and settled to the floor.

“Now isn’t that silly,” Colette said chidingly, and began to pick them up.

Rydal laughed, a little hysterically, Chester thought.

“Honey, don’t bother,” Rydal said. “Let the maid pick them up. Or Chester.”

“Calling her ‘honey’ now?” said Chester. “I think that’ll be the last time.”

“And you know,” Colette said, still gathering the bills, “I think that’s the first time he’s called me ‘honey’. I know it is.”

Rydal laughed again, and Colette glanced at him.

“Come on, he’s nuts,” Chester said, pulling at Colette’s arm.

“Here, Rydal. It’s yours.” She handed him the money.

“No, thanks,” Rydal said, and turned his back on them.

“Come on,” Chester said to her, “and don’t forget your pocket-book.” He snatched the bills from her hand and plopped them down on the back of the armchair. Rydal still had his back to them. Chester thought his back would make a fine target for a pistol shot.

“I’ll talk to you later, Rydal,” Colette said as she went out.

Rydal did not answer.

Chester poured himself a Scotch as soon as they got to their room. He watched Colette as she moved about, hanging her coat, getting a comb from her pocketbook, combing her hair. After a couple of minutes, Chester felt calm enough to sit down in the armchair.

“An empty threat, that,” Chester said, gesturing with his glass towards Rydal’s room. “That bastard. He’s a sad case.” He gave a short laugh. “Throwing my money back at me. My, my, I’ll bet he’ll remember that. I bet it’ll be the last time he’ll ever have five thousand to throw at anybody. I only wish I’d accepted it.” And Chester chuckled, stretching his legs out, leaning his head back.

“I think you were both acting like a couple of children.” Colette lifted the lid of a small box of candy on the night table, took a piece, then pushed off her shoes. She sat on the bed, put her feet up and pulled a pillow behind her. “You know, he writes quite good poetry, I think. Better than that what’s-his-name—You know, that book of love poems you gave me? What’s his name?”

“Dunno,” Chester mumbled.

“Chester.”

“What?”

“That was the honest truth. I went into Rydal’s room to see his poetry. He’s never made any pass at me and I certainly never got into his bed. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“All right, all right, I don’t want to hear any more about it!” Chester said loudly, and stood up. He felt he had a right to be loud after what he’d just been through. He also had a right to another Scotch.

“Darling, haven’t you had enough? Why don’t you go for a little walk? It’d do you good.”

“Why? So you can go back to him again?” Chester poured another drink. His headache was returning. It had left him for a while.

“Chester, darling, come here.” She held up her arms to him.

Chester put the glass down, sat down by her on the bed, and buried his face in her neck. He gave a long sigh. Her fingers were delicious on the back of his neck, soothing, reassuring. Like her body, small and round and soft under his arm.

“You know I love you, Chester. Don’t you know that?”

“Yes, honey, yes.” It was true. What else mattered, Chester thought. Rydal Keener’s stupid threat seemed far away now, far and small and petty. “Why don’t you take off your clothes?” Chester said.

Colette did.

Chester was asleep when Colette came into the room at a little after 5. The closing of the door woke him up. He hadn’t known she had gone out.

“Hi,” she said, and he heard at once something strained in her voice.

“Hi.” She’d been back to see Rydal, he thought groggily, and hauled himself up a little in bed. “Where’ve you been?”

“Mind if I turn a lamp on?”

“No.”

“It’s more cheerful, no?” She turned on the night lamp.

“Where’d you go?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were tense. “I think I might have a cigarette.”

“Sure. Mine are—There they are by the Scotch.” He watched her. She took a cigarette about twice a year, usually at a big, late party.

“I went in to see Rydal. Now don’t get excited.” She sat down on the edge of the bed with the cigarette. “I went in—you know, to see how he was. I mean, what he was thinking. Well—”

“Well?”

“He’s angry, Chester.” She looked at Chester in an intense, bewildered way. “I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s very bitter. He says he’s going to report you to the police.”

“Um-m,” said Chester contemptuously, but a very cold chill had gone over him. “When? If he’s going to do it, what’s he waiting for?”

“Athens,” Colette said. “He says he’s going to tell the police in Athens.”

Chester frowned. “Light me one, will you, honey?”

“I tried to reason with him. I couldn’t. He was quite calm, but—” She lit the cigarette and handed it to him. “What do you think we should do, Chester?”

Chester chewed his underlip. “I don’t think he intends to do it. If he did, he wouldn’t wait till he got to Athens. If he did, he wouldn’t tell us, either. He’s in this as much as we are.”

“I don’t think he cares about that.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No, Chester. Talk to him yourself, if you want to. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Wouldn’t dream of talking to him. Asking him—Oh, yes, now I get it. I’m slow today. He wants more money. A big hunk this time, I suppose.”

“No, he doesn’t. He didn’t mention money. Not a hint.”

“He wants me to mention it.” Chester got out of bed, reached for his shirt, which was on a chair, and went into the bathroom, where he put on his robe. He felt on familiar ground now. The bum wanted money. “Wait and see. I’ll see what his attitude is tomorrow—or tonight. He’s going with us on the bus to Iraklion tomorrow, I’ll bet.”

“Yes. He says he doesn’t want you to get out of his sight.”

Chester smiled. “Well, either tonight or tomorrow morning, he’s going to mention money. Or you. The only thing else I can think of that he’d want is you.” Chester bent and pinched her cheek gently. “Now, don’t worry about it, will you? I’ve got enough to pay him off. Not that I’d want to make a second payment,” he added, looking musingly at the rumpled bed. “They always lead to more.”

“You won’t have to worry about that. That’s not what you have to worry about.”

“We’ll see. I don’t want you upset about it. What did you arrange with him about this evening? Anything?”

“He doesn’t want to eat with us.”

“Good. Let him eat alone. Pay for his own dinner for a change.”

“He pays his way enough, doesn’t he? He’s not going to eat tonight.” She drew lightly on her cigarette and let the smoke out in a thick, uninhaled puff.

Something in her voice, a sympathy, made Chester look at her. “How sad. He announced that to you?”

“No. I know him, that’s all. I know the mood he’s in.”

“And you’re feeling sorry for him because he’s not eating dinner?” Chester came towards her. “That bum in there?”

“Chester, if you hit me again, I’ll scream! I forgave you once, but I won’t do it again!” She had jumped up from the bed and moved towards the door.

Chester pushed his fingers through his thin hair. “All right, honey, for Christ’s sake. My God, I wasn’t going to hit you. Listen, honey . . .” Scowling, treading heavily on his bare feet, he came towards her and only stopped when she drew back from him again. “Honey, you’ll drive me nuts if you keep on like this. We’re going to drop that guy in there. In Iraklion. Wait and see. And when we get rid of him our troubles’ll be over. We mustn’t—we absolutely mustn’t quarrel like this.”

“All right, Chester.”