Part 11 (1/2)

”I'm sure that doesn't concern me,” my mother said haughtily. ”She charged us as much for her rat-trap as the best Paris hotel, that shrew.”

”But I think she wants a tip.”

”Enoch tipped her plenty. The old man, too. And the kitchen maid. -They think Americans are to squeeze white,” she snapped. ”My blood doesn't run dollars, you know-I like to get something in return!” She sounded positive enough; and I considered that I had done as much as could be expected in behalf of the concierge (toward whom I felt an obligation on account of what had seemed a real solicitude on the night the bra.s.s demon invaded my sleep-how disturbed she had been to find a deserted child!); and I would have said nothing further: but my mother was watching me slyly. ”What made her tell you that?”

”Because of Anneke. You would never have known about Anneke without her,” I repeated faithfully, although I was still uncertain of my governess' crime.

My mother resumed her fretful sc.r.a.ping. ”She takes a lot of credit for herself, the old bat!”

”She sleeps with one eye open,” I acknowledged in awe.

”One eye isn't worth rewarding. I give prizes for two eyes only,” my mother said with a quick rough laugh. ”Do you need to go down the hall?” It was her habit (an Americanism, Enoch observed) to refer obliquely to the toilets; she waited scrupulously until I a.s.sured her I had already called on them. ”Because I'm going to lock your door. Enoch's afraid you may forget and run out. We don't want anyone to know you're here,” she suggested suspensefully.

”The concierge knows I'm here.”

”The concierge knows too much,” my mother admitted. ”I was thinking of the visitor.”

”Maybe he isn't coming.”

”He's two hours late already,” she remarked, but more to herself than to me, and dipped after a large key in her pocket; a worn bit of paper was caught on the teeth. She unfurled it and gave it a surly squint. ”But I was the one who set the time, after all, and that by itself's enough to persuade him to ignore it. He'll come when it suits him,” she said decisively, holding the little square sheet stiffly before her.

”Is that the cablegram?” I asked, peering after a portent of William in her melancholy evasive hand-but clearly it was commerce of a different sort she just then crumpled from my glance. ”No, it's not, and never mind,” she charged me severely, but a moment too late: I had seen one word, ambiguous to my eyes, and a signature plain as a primer. My mother withdrew the whole with a rapid sense of error, and signified by her gasp of denial that she had permitted something to happen which ought not to have happened. She attempted to deflect me: ”Are you certain you don't have to go down the hall right now?” she insisted.

But I pursued, with my finger arrowed at her fist, ”What's in that?”

”Nothing,” she said shortly.

”Is it a letter?”

”I told you never mind”-but consternation marred her authority.

”I know what it says anyhow,” I ventured.

”Don't be too tricky with me!” she advised; her expression tacked from disbelief to fear. ”It has nothing to do with you.” Nevertheless she continued to hide it from me.

”Doesn't it say 'confer'?” She did not answer. ”Then it says 'career',” I hastily tried again.

”Must you badger!” she blew out at me. ”I've said it's nothing to do with you, isn't that enough?-It's a business letter,” she went ahead with a deliberateness almost too convincing, ”it's someone asking for an appointment with Enoch. I hope you don't disapprove,” she finished heavily.

”I don't like that name,” I observed.

”What name?”

”The name in the letter-Nick.”

”You saw that!”

The long shock of her breath lingered.

”Is Nick the man who's coming to see Enoch?”

”Haven't I just explained-” She scowled and struggled palely. ”Now look, a person has simply written to ask for a business appointment, is that so complicated? Really, I should slap you for this!”

”But is it the same man? The one who's coming right now?” I persisted. ”The one the concierge said-”

But she would not allow herself to hear, and instead quickly gave in. ”Yes,” she said, ”all right, yes.”

”Then the concierge ought to get a tip.”

”That gloating old bat gets nothing. Madame Pandarus, the go-between! I hope I'm not obliged to her for telling me what I already knew,” she muttered, stuffing the ball of paper into her pocket as though it were an invidious apple from the Tree of Knowledge. ”I'd like to wring her neck! Well, go sit on the bed,” she commanded, ”I'm going to lock your door.”

”I don't like that name: Nick,” I said again. ”Nick. Nick.” I kept trying it out, rattling the sound. ”It goes too quick. Nick.”

My mother blinked with each needle-p.r.i.c.k of repet.i.tion, as with a sting. ”Quit that, for heaven's sake-as though it had anything to do with you! I've told you that, how many times do I have to say the same thing? No wonder Enoch decided to turn the key on you”-she brandished it-”he's absolutely right. You can't be trusted.”

”That's what he said about Anneke too,” I reminded her.

My mother maintained uncomfortably, ”That was quite another matter.”

”It must have been,” I said. ”You didn't lock her in.”

”Well, don't think we wouldn't be better off if we had. -It's only for a little while though,” she told me guiltily. ”Until he's gone. Just so he doesn't see you're around.”

”If he doesn't have anything to do with me,” I said, ”I mean Nick-”

”He doesn't,” she jumped in.

”-Then why can't he know I'm here?”

”Really, you're disgusting!” My mother turned on me in a sickened rigorous wrathful spasm; a blotch like a berry burst out on the side of her chin. ”What's the matter with you? You don't think I care about your stupid notions, do you?” She spat and howled and rang her big key on the bedpost in a wild clatter and gong. ”Why can't you keep your eyes where they belong?-And then you get insulted if it's said you can't be trusted!” She unleashed herself at me and struck my arm, but the awkward unexpected pitch of her half-closed palm flattened with surprise midway in its arc, and it was no blow at all-nothing happened: only a harmless shrill zing of skin on skin. ”There, you see? It's just what you deserve! A child like you is the worst sort of danger yet!” She put a long angry s.p.a.ce between us, scratching at her throat where the collar lay back unb.u.t.toned, and rooting in that raw patch of neck with the very hand (how stiff and plain the fingers now) that had leaped out to punish; meanwhile yelling sorrowfully, bleating at my badness, until on the verge of clarity the word I had spied in the sc.r.a.p of letter, the picture of the word, renewed itself-was it ”cross”? was it ”church”?-and almost came to mind and life: only just rose and rose to the brim- (”Listen!” said my mother.) -and fell short.

A chug came out of the sky: and then the blurred din of whistle and strident cough and blare of bell and blast of steam; and then a kind of crash, also of steam, in resonance with the windowpanes, which vibrated delicately; and then at last across the town, far and clear, out of the station and up from the trembling platform where the alighted pa.s.sengers felt the engine's lungs s.h.i.+ver in their feet-soles, the eye of the sound rushed down. The eye of the sound just then rushed piercing shrieking down; and my mother said, ”It's three o'clock, we've missed the train”-falling out of violence as into a furred and noiseless pit, where the pelts of commonplace animals m.u.f.fled her calls and curses.

-I wondered whether the word were ”curse,” but knew in a second it was not.

”There won't be another one out of here until midnight-I checked the schedule. We're stuck,” my mother said, ”we're stuck until twelve o'clock, and I don't intend to go dragging off like a thief in the middle of the night! All right,” she said, ”I suppose we're stuck until tomorrow.”

The prospect did not content her.

”Ana now will we be late?” I asked.

”Late for what?”

”Getting to America.”

”No,” said my mother. She had ceased to founder and was in possession of herself and of me. ”There are always plenty of s.h.i.+ps in that direction. -It's never too late for America.”