The Two Faces of January (12 page)

Her blue eyes looked up at him, light purple eyes, like all the blue of the sky compressed into the two irises, Rydal thought.

“Because you're honest,” she said. “You're very frank and I can talk to you. You can talk to me, too, can't you? You have.”

Rydal moistened his lips and nodded. He couldn't think of a word to say. He suddenly wished they were in his room, alone, at the hotel.

“Well, that's why I like you.” She looked around her, as if she had abruptly stopped thinking about him. “I'm getting hungry, are you?”

“A little.” Rydal looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was after three.

“Can we eat something in a crummy place?” she asked.

“Crummy?”

“Where the Greeks go.”

Smiling, Rydal pulled her by the arm back in the direction of the town. “Does this town have anything else?”

Colette was quite definite about what she wanted. She wanted a hole-in-the-wall, stand-up kind of place, and Rydal found one on a street next to the market. They ate a piece of hot goat meat on a slab of grey bread, and shared a glass of the worst retsina Rydal had ever put in his mouth. Colette sampled one of the sweet rolls the proprietor had under a soiled cloth in a basket, and found it too hard even for her teeth, which she said had been “strong enough to chew blubber the right way in Alaska”.

Rydal supposed she had been to Alaska with Chester. He did not ask her about it.

When they got back to the hotel around 4, Chester was not in. Colette knocked on Rydal's door to tell him so.

“Well—the clerk downstairs would certainly have told us, if anything had happened to him,” Rydal said. He meant, if the police had come and picked him up, but after saying what he had, he wasn't sure if the clerk would have told them.

“Oh, I don't think anything's happened to him,” Colette said, coming into his room, closing the door. “He's just gone out for a walk.” She leaned against the door.

Rydal suddenly put his arms around her, inside her open coat, and kissed her on the mouth. The effect was like a mule kick, a blackout, or falling off an edge, and then he heard himself protesting, and he was trying to get her tight arms from around his neck, and Colette wouldn't let go, and she was saying she could tell Chester she had just been out for a while looking for him, and Rydal was saying, “No.” And finally he got her arms away and held her wrists together. She was open-mouthed with surprise, or she was dazed or shocked, he didn't know.

“Just go,” he said. “Please. Go now.”

“Why? What's the matter?”

“Just go. Go.” He pushed her out of the door and closed it.

Then he sat for several minutes in a chair, his face down in one hand, thinking of nothing. He realized he was avoiding thinking, avoiding trying to feel anything, avoiding trying to figure out what he had felt. And all because it reminded him of Agnes.
Damn Agnes!
He stood up. Maybe this was the last of it, maybe it wouldn't happen again with any other woman, that terrible, stupid bolt of pleasure-pain. Colette wasn't like Agnes, really. It didn't make any sense.

“She's not like Agnes,” he said softly. “She's not like Agnes.”

That evening, he had too much to drink, but Chester had even more. That evening, he allowed himself to believe he was in love with Colette. It was just a physical sensation, after all, he told himself. It was a pleasure to dance with her. Chester saw that it was a pleasure for him, and Chester was furious about it. Colette also had a bit too much to drink. But they all said good night earlyish, before midnight, Chester sullen, he and Colette very merry and cheerful. Chester, while Colette had been to the ladies' to powder her nose, had told Rydal that they would part company tomorrow night or Monday morning. Chester had said it like a heavy pronouncement, and Rydal had solemnly nodded his accord. After all, those were the terms.

And five thousand was the price.

Rydal focused his blurry vision until the numbers on the bills in his hand became very clear. 500. Five zero zero. They looked unreal. Ten of them. Ten clean new bills. Chester had passed them over as casually as if he were handing Rydal a menu, while Colette had been in the ladies' room. “Thank you,” Rydal had said. Just that and nothing more.

He pushed the bills in a small, sharp-edged stack through the slit in his suitcase lining, where his other dirtier but more honest money was.

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.”