Without fanfare or further ado, I reach for the bag and stick my hand in it and bring out its contents. A book on electricity, a copy of Aesop’s Fables, a leather purse with a few coins, a red bandanna, sunglasses, pen, and…Helen’s diary. The book with ANALYST inscribed on its cover. This is it, I exclaim to myself, heart beating, this is it. Astonished and alarmed, I shove everything back into the bag and then place it again on Stephen’s blanket.
But I do not and I cannot relinquish Helen’s diary. I will not. It is mine. I ought to have it. I smooth Stephen’s blanket to return it to its previous pristine condition.
I have never before stolen. Never. Not since I was a small boy and then only a trinket. It meant nothing. I glance anxiously, shiftily, toward the sea where Stephen still swims, innocent of my theft. But why should he have her diary? Why Stephen? Then it comes to me. Yes. How stupid of me. The last night I saw Stephen was also the last night I saw Helen. So she must have gone off with him, which I did consider then. Helen followed after him that very night and did not go off with the Gypsy girl. Or all three joined up and ventured off together. But I cannot ask Stephen what happened, and obviously Helen is no longer about, as he has her diary, and I will not surrender the diary. About this I am adamant, even indignant, and I certainly don’t want him to know that I have gone through his bag. Of course I could replace the diary in the bag and hope that the whole story would spill out, and probably a story would — but Stephen cannot be counted upon for a reliable report, and I would not have Helen’s writing, her own words. Besides, the diary — I keep thinking this — belongs to me. I am insulted that he should have it. I stare at the book. I cannot open it now. Who knows what will be in it?
The sea and sky, the sand, the view, all this is as it was, but I am not. I do not know what I am. But I know I have to leave. I must get out of here before Stephen finds out what I have done and what he is missing. For surely he will miss it and know. Still, I remind myself, he is so crazy he may think he lost it. He would never suspect me, Horace, of such an outrageous and scurrilous deed. Not Horace. This calms me and enables me to contemplate the situation and to devise a plan.
Yes, I see it now. I can grasp it. Stephen is here as he arrived at this place with Helen, who left abruptly, the way she can. Alternatively it was he who was living at Bliss’ house, with her, or by himself after she left, so it could have been he who made the map and the drawings. But whatever, whatever, I repeat to myself, Helen befriended Stephen, that is as clear as the pellucid sea, and they disappeared together, at least from my purview. These facts square with the evidence, with the diary, its being in Stephen’s possession. These things clearly show themselves; they are demonstrable. A fact is a fact, after all. One must confront reality.
I place Helen’s diary in my shoulder bag and gather my belongings. I straighten Stephen’s blanket again. I know exactly what I will say to Stephen. I cannot — and do not — run away, for that would make him suspicious. Upon Stephen’s return I will tell him that I am sick and must leave the south and drive home, as quickly as possible. I will say it is my heart. He will be sympathetic but I will not let him help me. I will tell him I have left my pills at home. Strange to say, but as I concoct my cover story I do begin to feel queasy, as if I might have a heart attack. The best cover, as Stan Green knows, is honesty. No one should blow an honest cover. Didn’t Joseph Conrad once write that all a man can betray is his own conscience?
Stephen returns. In short order I tell him I am ill. He is dripping wet and not ready for my revelation, which is perfect for my plan. Before he can utter a word in response, I hurry off and leave him with his towel on his head. I march to the path that leads to the road and even more quickly thumb a ride — I have never before hitchhiked — to Partheny’s store. I throw my things together and shove them into the suitcase. I pay my bill— scarcely thinking about what she will make of my sudden departure. Then I jump into the car and drive like the wind — or in any case with more speed than I ever have — toward home and safety. It is possible, I realize, that Helen did not give Stephen the diary. He may have stolen it from her. That is just as likely. In which case, I am no more a thief than he.
I arrive home in the early evening. The return trip seemed to have taken no time at all.
Chapter 17
Inside my apartment, at last in the secure confines of my rooms — I note Yannis has not tidied up since I left — I can breathe again and relax, somewhat. The door locked and secured behind me, I walk in shadow to the windows to draw the curtains. No one must know I have returned. Upon entering the hotel I instructed Nectaria not to tell anyone I’d come back. Except for Gwen and Yannis. Nectaria will bring a meal to my room. Dear Nectaria.
Only after the curtains are closed do I switch on a light. I settle into my favorite chair near the window and hear once more the music of the harbor. Yet nothing alleviates my anxiety. Helen’s diary — the stolen treasure — awaits my perusal. It is a prize and will be my reward, I tell myself, though reward for precisely what I have not yet ascertained. For the journey, for my labors, for my concern, for my relentless curiosity? All the way home, I was able to refrain from pulling over to the side of the road to read her diary then and there; this was accomplished by admonishing myself that I ought to be in the right place to do so, that all must be right — the setting and so forth. I do not like dark, dreary places for reading or eating. On this point I appreciate Sydney Smith: “Better to eat dry bread by the splendour of gas than to dine on wild beef with wax candles.” My objective was to dwell in a place of peace and quiet, I told myself, and then, and only then, would I — and would it be proper to — immerse myself in Helen and her diary.
With a stiff drink in hand, I study its covers carefully. There is silver glitter sprinkled and glued onto the back cover. On closer inspection I notice that the word “analyst” has been scratched upon. I swallow the Scotch then pour another shot — the tawny liquid toasts my innards. Then, for good measure, another, and only then do I dare open the book.
Gingerly I flip through its pages, from first to last, to get a sense of the whole. Some pages are nearly blank, with just a few words on them; some are covered with magazine pictures, a few words glued on or over the images. Other pages are filled with doodles and scribbles; most are writings, scrawled in an intense, vertical script. There are photographs and news clippings. The journal is in bits and pieces, cut up and pasted, like a collage. Like her room, I say to myself. At first glance Smitty’s diary — though I have nearly quit using that name — is a messy, disorderly affair; though, like her room, it may have its own rhythm and order. Helen is a very young woman — just a girl, really — and not a writer, after all. Thus I prepare myself.
I begin in earnest. Her diary starts at page two, for page one merely gives her name and address, in New York City, under which is emblazoned in gold ink, READ THIS AND DIE. I down another shot of Scotch. While these words are chilling, unnerving, they are also sophomoric, touching and comical, something common to adolescents. The diary is undated and may have been begun before she came to Crete, but I am not sure.
On the second page is a quote: “Take a walk on the wild side.” Beneath this is a picture of Jane Fonda. Helen has scrawled Klute next to it. The movie played here; I was intrigued by Fonda’s portrayal of a prostitute, who was shown in session with her psychiatrist. It was a frightening film — she was stalked by one of her clients. Fonda’s having visited Hanoi during the war in Vietnam was an outrage to Roger; one can barely mention her name to him. He will fulminate for hours. Opposite is a photograph of Helen and another girl, posing extravagantly; the two look about fifteen. The other girl is pursing her lips. They are both wearing black lipstick, I think. Next, two pages of line drawings that appear to me to be sexual organs.