The Barbarous Coast

Chapter 4

GRAFF was floating on his back in the pool when George Wall and I went outside. His brown belly swelled above its surface like the humpback of a Galapagos tortoise. Mrs. Graff, fully clothed, was sitting by herself in a sunny corner. Her black dress and black hair and black eyes seemed to annul the sunlight. Her face and body had the distinction that takes the place of beauty in people who have suffered long and hard.

She interested me, but I didn’t interest her. She didn’t even raise her eyes when we passed.

I led Wall out to my car. “You better duck down in the seat when we get up to the gate. Tony might take a pot shot at you.”

“Not really?”

“He might. Some of these old fighters can get very upset very quickly, especially when you take a poke at them.”

“I didn’t mean to do that. It was a rotten thing to do.”

“It wasn’t smart. Twice this morning you nearly got yourself shot. Bassett was scared enough to do it, and Tony was mad enough. I don’t know how it is in Canada, but you can’t throw your weight around too much in these parts. A lot of harmless-looking souls have guns in their drawers.”

His head sank lower. “I’m sorry.”

He sounded more than ever like an adolescent who hadn’t caught up with his growth. I liked him pretty well, in spite of that. He had the makings, if he lived long enough for them to jell.

“Don’t apologize to me. The life you save may be your own.”

“But I’m really sorry. The thought of Hester with that old sissy – I guess I lost my head.”

“Find it again. And for God’s sake, forget about Bassett. He’s hardly what you’d call a wolf.”

“He gave her money. He admitted it.”

“The point is, he did admit it. Probably somebody else is paving her bills now.”

He said in a low growling voice: “Whoever it is, I will kill him.”

“No, you won’t.”

He sat in stubborn silence as we drove up to the gate. The gate was open. From the door of the gatehouse, Tony waved to me and made a face at Wall.

“Wait,” George said. “I want to apologize to him.”

“No. You stay in the car.”

I made a left turn onto the coast highway. It followed the contour of the brown bluffs, then gradually descended toward the sea. The beach cottages began, passing like an endless and dilapidated freight train.

“I know how terrible I look to you,” George blurted. “I’m not usually like this. I don’t go around flexing my muscles and threatening people.”

“That’s good.”

“Really,” he said. “It’s just – well, I’ve had a bad year.”

He told me about his bad year. It started at the Canadian National Exhibition, in August of the previous year. He was a sportswriter on the Toronto Star, and he was assigned to cover the aquacade. Hester was one of the featured tower divers. He’d never cared much about diving – football was his sport – but there was something special about Hester, a shine about her, a kind of phosphorescence. He went back to see her on his own time, and took her out after the show.

The third night, she came out of a two-and-a-half too soon, struck the water flat, and was pulled out unconscious. They took her away before he could get to her. She didn’t appear for her act the following night. He found her eventually in a hotel on lower Yonge Street. Both her eyes were black and bloodshot. She said she was through with diving. She’d lost her nerve.

She cried on his shoulder for some time. He didn’t know what to do to comfort her.

It was his first experience with a woman, except for a couple of times that didn’t count, in Montreal, with some of his football buddies. He asked her to marry him in the course of the night. She accepted his proposal in the morning. They were married three days later.

Perhaps he hadn’t been as frank with Hester as he should have been. She’d assumed, from the way he spent money, that he had plenty of it. Maybe he’d let on that he was a fairly important figure in Toronto newspaper circles. He wasn’t. He was a cub, just one year out of college, at fifty-five dollars a week.

Hester had a hard time adjusting to life in a two-room flat on Spadina Avenue. One trouble was her eyes, which were a long time clearing. For weeks she wouldn’t leave the flat. She gave up grooming her hair, making up, even washing her face. She refused to cook for him. She said she’d lost her looks, lost her career, lost everything that made her life worth living.

“I’ll never forget last winter,” George Wall said.

There was such intensity in his voice, I turned to look at him. He didn’t meet my eyes. With a dreaming expression on his face, he was staring past me at the blue Pacific. Winter sunlight crumpled like foil on its surface.

“It was a cold winter,” he said. “The snow creaked under your feet and the hair froze in your nostrils. The frost grew thick on the windows. The oil furnace in the basement kept going out. Hester got quite chummy with the custodian of the building, a woman named Mrs. Bean who lived in the next flat. She started going to church with Mrs. Bean – some freakish little church that carried on in an old house on Bloor. I’d get home from work and hear them in the bedroom talking about redemption and reincarnation, stuff like that.

“One night after Mrs. Bean left, Hester told me that she was being punished for her sins. That was why she missed her dive and got stuck in Toronto with me. She said she had to purify herself so her next incarnation would be on a higher level. For about a month after that, I slept on the chesterfield. Jesus, it was cold.

“On Christmas Eve she woke me up in the middle of the night and announced that she was purified. Christ had appeared in her sleep and forgiven all her sins. I didn’t take her seriously at first – how could I? I tried to kid her out of it, laugh it off. So she told me what she meant, about her sins.”

He didn’t go on.

“What did she mean?” I said.

“I’d just as soon not say.”

His voice was choked. I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes. Blood burned in his half-averted cheek and reddened his ear.

“Anyway,” he continued, “we had a kind of reconciliation. Hester dropped the phony-religious kick. Instead, she developed a sudden craze for dancing. Dance all night and sleep all day. I couldn’t stand the pace. I had to go to work and drum up the old enthusiasm for basketball and hockey and other childish pastimes. She got into the habit of going out by herself, down into the Village.”

“I thought you said you were living in Toronto.”

“Toronto has its own Village. It’s very much like the original in New York – on a smaller scale, of course. Hester got in with a gang of ballet buffs. She went overboard for dancing lessons, with a teacher by the name of Padraic Dane. She had her hair clipped short, and her ears pierced for earrings. She took to wearing white silk shirts and matador pants around the flat. She was always doing entreehats or whatever you call ’em. She’d ask me for things in French – not that she knew French – and when I didn’t catch on, she’d give me the silent treatment.

“She’d sit and stare at me without blinking for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. You’d think I was a piece of furniture that she was trying to think of a better place for. Or maybe by that time I didn’t exist at all for her. You know?”

I knew. I’d had a wife and lost her in those silences. I didn’t tell George Wall, though. He went on talking, pouring out the words as though they’d been frozen in him for a long time and finally been thawed by the California sun. He probably would have spilled his soul that day to an iron post or a wooden Indian.

“I know now what she was doing,” he said. “She was getting her confidence back, in a crazy, unreal way, pulling herself together to make a break with me. The crowd she was playing with, Paddy Dane and his gang of pixies, were encouraging her to do it. I should have seen it coming.

“They put on some kind of a dance play late in the spring, in a little theater that used to be a church. Hester played the boy lead. I went to see it, couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It was something about a split personality falling in love with itself. I heard them afterwards filling her up with nonsense about herself. They told her she was wasting herself in Toronto, married to a slob like me. She owed it to herself to go to New York, or back to Hollywood.

“We had a battle when she finally came home that night. I laid it on the line for her: she had to give up those people and their ideas. I told her she was going to drop her dancing lessons and her acting and stay home and wear ordinary women’s clothes and look after the flat and cook a few decent meals.”

He laughed unpleasantly. It sounded like broken edges rubbing together inside him.

“I’m a great master of feminine psychology,” he said. “In the morning after I left for work she went to the bank and drew out the money I’d saved towards a house and got on a plane for Chicago. I found that out by inquiring at the airport. She didn’t even leave me a note – I guess she was punishing me for my sins. I didn’t know where she’d gone. I looked up some of her rum friends in the Village, but they didn’t know, either. She dropped them just as flat as she dropped me.

“I don’t know how I got through the next six months. We hadn’t been married long, and we hadn’t been close to each other, the way married people should be. But I was in love with her, I still am. I used to walk the streets half the night and every time I saw a girl with blond hair I’d get an electric shock. Whenever the telephone rang, I’d know that it was Hester. And then one night it was.

“It was Christmas night, the night before last. I was sitting in the flat by myself, trying not to think about her. I felt like a nervous breakdown getting ready to happen. Wherever I looked, I kept seeing her face on the wall. And then the telephone rang, and it was Hester. I told you what she said, that she was afraid of being killed and wanted to get out of California. You can imagine how I felt when she was cut off. I thought of calling the Los Angeles police, but there wasn’t much to go on. So I had the call traced, and caught the first plane I could get out of Toronto.”

“Why didn’t you do that six months ago?”

“I didn’t know where she was – she never wrote me,”

“You must have had some idea.”

“Yes, I thought she’d probably come back here. But I didn’t have the heart to track her down. I wasn’t making much sense there for a while. I pretty well convinced myself she was better off without me.” He added after a silence: “Maybe she is, at that.”

“All you can do is ask her. But first we have to find her.”