Authors: Thomas Tryon
“It was a brisk, bright morning, with a spanking breeze, which put white tips on the blue water below, and clouds passed intermittently over the sun. As the countess was wheeled out and placed under the canopy, I brought the basket from behind my back and presented it to her. She took it in her lap and examined the apricots, pressing several and apparently finding them to her satisfaction. But her chary look indicated that she considered the gift suspect. I knew that in itself it was not sufficient to cause her to let down her hair regarding Fedora, but I wondered how long I would have to wait until she discovered the little bomb I’d included. So far she hadn’t noticed the note, but only set the basket on the table at her side and said,
‘Merci.’
“I casually asked if she’d ever read
Madame Bovary
; she said she had. I recalled to her the part in which Emma’s faithless lover, Rodolphe, sends her a basket of apricots with a concealed note renouncing her as his mistress and canceling their plans to run away to Italy. She nodded, remembering the scene, but the clue went undetected, my own note unobserved. She rang her bell for Kritos and demanded a knife and a
serviette
; she intended to sample the fruit.
“‘Fedora once was to have done a film of that story,’ she remarked. ‘Someone made it, didn’t they?’
“I said David Selznick had sold Metro a movie package, starring Jennifer Jones.
“‘Ah, yes, she won an Oscar, I believe. Fedora, no.
C’est dommage.
’ I agreed that it was a disgrace that Hollywood had never honored her work. Kritos came with the knife and napkin, and when he tried to help her she pushed him impatiently away and used the knife to halve the apricot, scooping out the pit which she dropped into her napkin, and proceeded to eat.
“‘Dites-moi, m’sieu’, qu’est-ce que vous y pensez?’
“What did I think of what? I wondered; she was pointing her knife out to sea.
“‘What do you think of her, our Fedora?’
“I realized that she was indicating the direction of the Athens boat, which Balfour had particularly told me Fedora had taken with Count Sobryanski. I said I thought that she was probably the most fascinating woman of our time, and the greatest screen actress the movies had ever seen.
“‘Yes, yes, we all know this,’ she said, eating the other half of her apricot, and using her napkin on her lips, ‘but what do you think of her, really? Do you find her beautiful still?’
“‘Certainly. She’s remarkable.’
“‘And young?’
“‘Quite young. She has had a long career.’
“‘Perhaps too long, do you think?’ She laid the knife and napkin on the small table at her left elbow, giving an infinitesimal nod of satisfaction.
‘Délicieuse,’
she granted my gift. It was enough, she having now affirmed my carefully deduced theory.
“‘Not at all,’ I replied easily. ‘How old is she, would you say?’
“‘I would not say. She may tell you that, if she chooses, but not I. It would not be kind. Though kindness is hardly in her lexicon. Do you find her pleasant? Enjoyable to be with? Sociable company?’ Again she was toying, her little eyes watched me closely—even as I was now watching her.
“‘I’ve seen her only a few times, madame. Not enough to know her, really.’
“‘A few times can be quite enough in her case, I think.’ She looked out to sea again. ‘If anyone can know her. She is unfortunate; she is lonely and unhappy, yet she thinks of no one but herself. She is the most selfish of creatures.’
“I observed that this was often the case with famous stars; the countess nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘that is her trouble, being a star. She is a martyr to her fame. She was not always the way you have seen her, the world has seen her.’
“That morning I’d noticed the postman coming up from the village, a rare occurrence. When I made a point of mentioning the fact, Countess Sobryanski said yes, she’d had a letter from her son.
“‘How is Fedora?’ I asked.
“‘She is in hospital. Receiving proper care and attention.’ I appeared to accept her statement, though I was now certain beyond any doubt that Fedora was not in a hospital, nor was she in the hands of Count Sobryanski. I glanced up to the upper windows, where the shades were still drawn, then back to the old woman, who pointed her knife at the book and set me to reading, while she selected another apricot and sliced it in the same delicate way. I read until Mrs. Balfour interrupted us. She’d brought out Fedora’s red shirt, which, because of the breeze, she insisted on draping around the countess’s shoulders, then she was alarmed to see that she’d been eating the fruit; evidently a question of her digestion. Balfour took the knife and napkin, and started to remove the basket of apricots as well, which would have upset my plan, so I asked her to leave them; I might have one myself.
“I continued reading, the countess dozed. Sun streamed in several shafts through torn places in the canopy, and as her head nodded to the side a ray struck her eyes, and she came suddenly awake. She looked blankly about, as though uncertain of her surroundings, then she belched: the apricots.
“‘Ought she to make another film, do you think?’ she resumed, as if there had been no interruption in our earlier discussion of Fedora. ‘Would they still come to see her?’
“‘Undoubtedly they would.’
“She turned to me again. ‘You are loyal, even if you are deceitful.’
“‘Deceitful, madame?’ I was enjoying this. ‘Perhaps, but then I am not alone in that, am I?’
“‘Qu’est-ce que vous vouez dire?’
Her voice crackled, demanding what I meant.
“‘You also have been deceitful, haven’t you? Or should I really believe that I was brought here merely to read to you, and to be paid off with Fedora’s memorabilia?’
“‘You have a pleasant voice,’ she said grudgingly.
“‘So does Mrs. Balfour, I’m sure—nor does she really have laryngitis, I think.’ She laughed, a few faint barks and said I was probably right.
“‘But such small deceptions must not be held against an old woman. When you are my age deception comes easily, and you discover that small deceits are easier than large truths.’
“‘Large truths are often painful, I know. But in my business you always look for the deceits; they make more interesting news. You enjoyed the apricots?’
“‘Quite tolerable. I hope you did not pay a lot for them—they take advantage of you, the Greeks.’ She pointed her cane over toward the headland, behind which lay Iraklion. ‘It is easy to be victimized,
là-bas.
’ I followed the tip of her cane, not seaward, but in the opposite direction, along its length to her face. She caught me looking at her, and now jabbed the cane at the book, indicating I should go on. I did not. I closed the book and set it on my knees. She’d had her fun, played her game; now I was going to have my fun and play mine. I said:
“‘It’s true, you can be easily victimized in Greece. I have been.’
“‘Is that a fact? Who has victimized you?’
“‘You.’
“‘I?’ She gave me an angry snort and an affronted look. ‘I fail to see how a weak old woman might go about victimizing a strong and clever man such as yourself.
Expliquez, s’il vous plaît.
’
“‘Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s not me, but Fedora who is being victimized.’
“‘Pfaugh! Fedora should be used to that; she has been victimized all her life. Say what you mean,
m’sieu’
.’
“‘I cannot say, madame. I can only suggest. Allow me to suggest, however, that there is a plot afoot here. A connivance, if you will; a conspiracy even.’
“‘Conspiracy? Of what are you speaking?’ She took further umbrage as she drew the shirt closer around her shoulders.
“‘Simply this, Countess Sobryanski. I’ve known for some time that all is not as is represented here. So allow me to suggest that Fedora has not gone away at all. I suggest that she is not in a hospital at Menton, or anywhere in your son’s loving care. I suggest that she is still in this house, and that your man Kritos, he and Mrs. Balfour and yourself, keep her here against her will.’
“‘For what reason, this?’
“‘I suggest that it is a conspiracy to rob her. You say I have eavesdropped; I admit it, and I have overheard certain discussions concerning money matters. Her papers alone must be worth a good deal, yet I am being paid with them piecemeal.’
“She became more indignant, but I saw that it was only a defense. ‘You must be mad. Where do you get such ideas?’ Trembling, she tried to hold on to her cane, but it slipped from her fingers and fell on the stonework. I got up and handed it to her. She clutched it, her shoulders shaking.
‘Ne touchez pas!’
I moved to lean against the balustrade, looking down at her; she would not return my gaze.
“‘Or I could suggest something else—a perhaps less believable plot, but still possible. Perhaps, as you say, she has gone away. Perhaps not to Menton, but to Switzerland.’
“‘We are not at home just now in Switzerland.’
“‘Obviously, since you are here. But I suggest that perhaps she has gone to Basel, to the clinic. For more treatments.’
“‘Vous pensez de Vando?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was thinking of Vando.’
“‘He is dead.’ She rattled her cane again, always a bad sign. ‘He has been dead for many years.’
“‘I have heard so, but there has never been proof, has there?’
“‘He is dead, I promise you. And she is not there—I promise you that as well!’
“She’d become very upset; I softened my tone. ‘Let me suggest something else, then. Let me suggest that what you and Mrs. Balfour claim is true: Fedora
has
gone to Menton and
is
being looked after by your son. Let me suggest that your man Kritos is what you say he is, a faithful retainer.’
“‘What? How’s that? Speak up, stop mumbling.’
“I wasn’t mumbling, but speaking quite distinctly. I think she knew what was coming, but was trying to fend off the moment with her truculence.
“I said, ‘There are one or two interesting things about your friend Fedora, madame. You wouldn’t know it, but this was not the first time she and I have met.’
“‘C’est vrai?’
She shrugged; the encounter I referred to seemed to afford her no interest.
‘Et puis quoi?’
“‘And what then? Well,’ I returned, ‘there is the matter of that shirt you are wearing. I gave it to Fedora almost thirty years ago.’
“‘C’est vrai?’
she repeated, no more than glancing down at it. ‘It is little more than a rag now.’
“‘True, but it has sentimental connotations for me. You can imagine my surprise, seeing that she has held on to it for all these years.’
“‘Perhaps she treasures it.’
“‘My very thought She never thanked me for it, though.’
“‘Did you give it to her so you could be thanked? You are not only a liar and an eavesdropper; you have a petty mind.’
“‘I’m merely trying to explain to you. The shirt was sent to me by my mother, I had little money then, she wanted to be sure I would keep warm.’
“‘You have a loving mother, I am sure.’
Je suis certaine
: she snapped out the words. ‘Why do you go on about the matter? Is it so important?’
“‘Only in terms of the deceits we were speaking of. In any case, my mother sent it to me, I in turn sent it to Fedora. There are certain people in the world one would always give the shirt off one’s back for. I hoped she would be pleased by it.’
“She grew more impatient. ‘Why, then, she was pleased, or she wouldn’t have kept it. You really have a small nature.’ She took me in again, shielding her eyes against a ray of bright sun that filtered through a torn place in the canopy.
“‘I suppose,’ I pursued, ignoring her remark, ‘that having gone to Menton and left the shirt behind, she would hardly miss it—since it does not belong to her, anyway.’
“‘Does not? What do you mean? Surely you gave it to her,’ she replied caustically.
“‘No, Countess Sobryanski, I did not.’
“‘Are you an Indian giver, to make presents and then take them back?’
“‘Not at all. Where I gave it, there I meant it to be kept, even if on a hook in a back hallway. I would no more take it back than I would take, for example, these apricots.’ I picked up the basket and held it before her, turning it so the tip of the note was in front of her eyes. She looked at me questioningly, then drew it out. She unfolded it, looked at it, and said irritably, ‘You know I cannot see it. What does it say?’
“I took it from her and read it aloud.
‘“Rien d’ailleurs ne rassure autant qu’un masque.”’
“‘Well, then, well, then, what does it mean?’
“‘It’s from Colette. And I believe you know what it means.’ She was trembling more violently, and her fingers pinched the red points of the shirt collar and drew it closer around her chin. She ducked her face so it was hidden from me. ‘It means that I gave that shirt to Fedora—just as I gave her these apricots. I gave both to you. Because you are Fedora.’
“She struck my outstretched hand away, the fruit spilling in all directions, as she cried out,
‘Vous avez tort! Vous avez tort!’
Her voice cracked with emotion as she turned to me again, tilting her face into the ray of light.
‘Vous avez tort,’
she repeated, her voice gone to a dead whisper. ‘
J’étais
Fedora.’
“‘You are wrong. I
was
Fedora.’”
“Not possible.”
Marion Walker sat immobile, staring open-mouthed at Barry, her fingers holding her cigarette, burning but unsmoked, the ash grown long. She moved; the ash fell to the carpet. She reached to brush it away, tossing her hair aside as she raised her head.
“Not possible,”
she repeated.
Barry returned her look with a smile and a slight shrug. “In this life, Marion, dear, all things are possible.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Of course not. Didn’t I say you wouldn’t? But didn’t I also say that my facts were unassailable? They are, I promise you. She was Fedora.”
“I see…. I see,” Marion said, trying very hard to see. “Then the other one was—”
“An impostor.”
“Which one died in Menton yesterday?”
“The impostor.”
“Which one played the Virgin in
Santa Cristi
?”