‘All the same,’ she replied, not as perturbed as she might be. But she turned her back to me.
‘Wake up! It was only a dream.’
‘All the same, you shouldn’t have dreamt it.’
‘I couldn’t help it!’
‘I’m glad I frightened you now.’
‘Frightened me?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’
‘I heard an awful noise outside—maman calling out “Berthe!” Then Berthe’s pantoufles. I leaned over to the little table at your side to strike a match, and you were so frightened you jumped straight out of bed.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘You did!’
‘Did I say anything?’
‘You said “Hell!” ’
‘I didn’t!’
‘You did! You said it five times — like this! “Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell!” ’
‘How queer! I don’t remember a thing. Only being a little frightened in my sleep, perhaps.’
And when afterwards I saw her take her little toothbrush, the sight of it, dilapidated and red-stained, and of her pathetic squeezed-out toothpaste tube, made me feel sad. Why? Since surely she would be able to afford to buy herself another. Nevertheless, with a heartfelt pang, I said:
‘Oh, that little brush …’
‘Why, darling?’
‘And your teeth and all. Is he to take care of you?’
‘All this should have been for you.’
‘It should, it should. — But should it?’
I looked at the clock, at her sad look. The boat sails, your feet sail, your chest with your heart remains — you topple over. Unhappiness!
‘This little brush … So pathetic … I see you use red toothpaste.’
‘Yes.’
‘Carbolic?’
‘Yes. Why?’ Sylvia is always suspicious of me.
‘Just so. I use white — Pepsodent.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She always says ‘Yes’—softly, whisperingly.
‘Sylvia, darling!’
A kiss.
‘Sylvia-Ninon!’
A kiss again.
‘You little … prince.’
Twenty-four kisses, mostly in one.
‘Ha-ha! I’ve been trying to screw your top on to my toothpaste!’ she laughed.
‘Dearest,’ I whispered, ‘I love you as ever, and more than ever — fervently, passionately. I love your frankness, your kindness of heart, your trustfulness. I love these eyes, these curls, your movements. I love you, oh! how I love you — with my soul — with my soul …’
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘go and turn the tap on for me in the bathroom.’
45
IT WAS THE 29TH OF APRIL, BUT ALREADY SUNNY AND warm. Spring was beginning in real earnest. I broke my front collar-stud, and therefore was later than usual for breakfast. To my surprise, I found Aunt Teresa already dressed and heading the breakfast-table. Usually she took breakfast in bed. And I appreciated the compliment. It was because I could not bear to see Sylvia in the podgy freckled hands of Gustave that I was leaving this Sunday, though the boat on which I had booked my passage did not leave Shanghai till ten days hence, and my plan was to spend a week travelling through China.
‘Today it’s warm, hot,’ said Aunt Teresa, ‘you can sleep with the windows open.’
‘Did you, ma tante?’
‘I didn’t sleep at all.’
‘I heard an awful noise in the night, maman, and your crying “Berthe! Berthe!” ’ said Sylvia.
‘Well you might!’ she groaned.
No! Emphatically she would not stand this any longer — for the love of anyone. (And at her words it was as if a hand of ice was laid on my heart. Could it be that Aunt Teresa knew about us?) She would put up with it no longer, unless we wished to see her go clean out of her mind! Suddenly in the middle of the night she woke. The door she had shut was half-open. It seemed as if somebody in a white gown had entered the room, holding a candle. She was too frightened to cry out. The light had vanished. But somebody stood at her bedside breathing on her. She stretched her hand for the matches, and as she did so a box was handed to her in the dark. Who did it? She lit the candle on the table at her side: and there was no one there. A picture postcard stood on edge. Who made it stand? Who kept it in that position?
It was clear enough. She was haunted by him. He lay beneath the sill, with the weight of a massive tombstone upon him. Yet apparently it was not enough. She had burnt her camisole, her knickers, her silk stockings, garters, and the boudoir cap, but it wasn’t any use. He brought them back to her in her dreams. She developed an aversion to all knickers, camisoles and even combinations, whether new or old; she had a secret fear lest in some mysterious way they were all contaminated. She knew not what to do. Give up wearing them? Was it either just or fair? Always she would dream the same awful dream: Uncle Lucy returning to her again and again, showing his teeth (as he had done when listening, without comment, to the local intellectuals), with that last strange grin on his face, intimating by what he carried in his hands that no matter how many camisoles and knickers she might burn, whatever new and different ones she might purchase, they were still the same — the original ones. It was as if he brought them back to her each time out of the flames. Each morning, on waking, they were there across the back of the chair. She didn’t like to touch them. True, she marked every fresh pair she bought in variegated thread. Yet he may have replaced them in the night with the identical marking. She never knew what he might not be up to. Besides, she really could not go on for ever purchasing new underlinen. The moral was: she must leave the haunted house.
It is well known that far-reaching, lasting decisions are nearly always taken in a whim or mood that will not last.
‘Emmanuel!’ she said. ‘We are going back.’
‘Going back where, my dear?’
‘To Belgium.’
‘But, ma tante—’ I chided in.
‘No, George, no!’ She was determined to go, whatever the difficulties. She could not stop here another week. Uncle Lucy had breathed on her; she was certain of it.
I did not oppose.
‘It won’t take long to pack. We must all help. I shall write out the labels.’
I grew alarmed, however, when she turned to me and said: ‘When is the next boat?’
‘Which boat, ma tante?’
‘The boat sailing for Europe — leaving Shanghai.’
‘Oh — well — God only knows. My boat — the Rhinoceros—sails Wednesday week.’ She considered.
‘Why not,’ she asked, ‘sail on the Rhinoceros?’
‘So soon?’ said Uncle Emmanuel.
‘But he breathed on me! I can’t stay here! mon Dieu!’
‘Perhaps change the room?’
‘He will come to the other room — I am sure of it.’
‘But the fare, my dear?’
She considered.
‘Gustave will have to get us a loan at the bank.’
The door opened and Gustave, with a red rose in his buttonhole and two bouquets in his hand — one for his mother-in-law and one for his bride — entered. And I surveyed him with a feeling of double curiosity.
‘Gustave,’ she said, accepting the flowers without comment, ‘we are leaving.’
‘Leaving where, maman?’
‘For Europe — for Belgium.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. At once.’
He looked first at her, then at his bride.