The Post Office Girl (17 page)

Anthony, as stolid and healthy as ever, is embarrassed by so much sympathy and concern. It takes him a moment to
understand
the repugnant farce he’s embroiled in.

“No, dear child,” he growls (damn it all, why is Claire using me as an excuse!). “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that Claire always exaggerates. I feel fine, and if it were up to me we’d stay.” Baffled and irritated by his wife’s lie, he adds almost roughly, “Claire, stop with the damn packing, there’s plenty of time for that. On our last evening we want to relax with the dear girl.” Claire goes on busying herself with the packing, saying nothing. Probably she fears the inevitable explanations; Anthony
meanwhile
looks pensively out the window (let her get herself out of this one, I’m not going to lift a finger). Christine stands mute and confused between the two of them, feeling she’s in the way. Something’s happened, something she doesn’t understand. Lightning has struck; now she waits with beating heart for the thunder which doesn’t come and doesn’t come and yet must come. She doesn’t dare to ask any questions, doesn’t dare to think, but knows with every nerve in her body that something bad has happened. Did they have a fight? Is there bad news from New York? Perhaps something in the stock market, something to do with business, a bank failure, there’s something like that in the papers every day. Or maybe her uncle really did have an asthma attack and he’s hiding it on her account. Why are they leaving me to stand here like this, what am I doing here? But nothing, silence, silence, just her aunt’s unnecessary bustling around and her uncle’s restless pacing and the loud thumping of her own heart.

A knock at the door comes as a relief. A waiter enters,
followed
by a second waiter carrying a white tablecloth. To
Christine
’s astonishment they clear the smoking things off the table and begin setting it carefully.

“You see,” her aunt explains finally, “Anthony thought it was better to have dinner up here in our room tonight. I hate those
awkward goodbyes, all those questions about where we’re
going
and for how long. Besides, almost all my things are packed now, Anthony’s smoking jacket too. And it’s quieter and more comfortable here, isn’t it.”

The waiters roll the cart in and serve from the
nickel-plated
chafing dishes. Once they’re gone I’ll get an explanation, Christine thinks, worriedly watching the faces of her aunt and uncle. Her uncle is bent low over his plate, angrily spooning his soup; her aunt looks pale and embarrassed. Finally she begins: “Christine, I know our sudden decision comes as a surprise! But in America everything’s done fast, that’s one of the good things you learn over there. Don’t stick around where you don’t want to be. If a business isn’t doing well, give up and start another. If you don’t feel right somewhere, you pack your bags and leave. I didn’t want to tell you, because you’ve been having such a splendid vacation, but we’ve been feeling out of sorts here for some time. I’ve been sleeping poorly all along and Anthony just can’t take it either, the thin air at this altitude. Today a telegram happened to arrive from our friends in Interlaken and we just decided to go, probably only for a few days, and then on to
Aix-les
-Bains. Yes, we do everything fast (I know it’s a surprise).”

Christine bows her head over her plate in order not to look at her aunt. Something in her tone bothers her, the
brightness
of her talk, every word artificially brisk and full of false enthusiasm. There has to be something behind it. Something else must be coming, and it comes: “Of course it would have been best for you to come along,” her aunt goes on, pulling off a chicken wing. “But I don’t think you’d like Interlaken, it’s no place for young people, and one has to consider whether all that toing and froing in the last few days of your vacation would really be worth the trouble. You’ve picked up fabulously here, this powerful fresh air has done wonders for you. Yes, I always say there’s nothing better than the high mountains for young people, Dickie and Alvin ought to come here
sometime. Obviously for worn-out old hearts like ours the Engadine is all wrong. So as I say, of course we’d love it, Anthony’s so used to having you around, but on the other hand it’s seven hours each way, that would be too much, and anyway we’ll be back next year. But of course if you want to come along to Interlaken …”

“No, no,” Christine says, or rather her lips say it, the way a patient going under anesthesia might continue counting after losing consciousness.

“Myself, I think you’d be better off going straight home. There’s a wonderfully comfortable train that leaves around seven in the morning—I asked the desk clerk. That would put you in Salzburg by late tomorrow night and back home the next morning. I can picture how happy your mother will be, you look so tanned and fresh and young, really magnificent, and the best thing would be for you to go right home and show them.”

“All right,” Christine hears herself say quietly. Why is she still sitting here? They just want her gone, and fast. But why? Something must have happened, something. She eats
mechanically
, tasting bitterness in every bite. I have to say something, something casual, she thinks—she doesn’t want them to see that her eyes are stinging, that her throat is quivering with anger. Something matter-of-fact, something cool and indifferent.

Finally she has a thought. “I’ll go get your clothes so we can pack them,” she says, standing up. But her aunt pushes her back gently.

“No, child, there’s still time for that. I’ll pack the third suitcase tomorrow. Just leave everything in your room, the maid will bring it.” And then, suddenly embarrassed: “By the way, you know that dress, the red one, why don’t you keep it, I really don’t need it anymore, it fits you so well, and of course the odds and ends too, the sweater, the underthings, that goes without saying. The other two gowns are all I’ll be needing for Aix-les-Bains, it’s wonderful there, you know, a fantastic
hotel too, I’m told, and I hope Anthony will feel well there, the warm baths, and the air is much milder and…” Now that the hard part is over, her aunt rattles on. Having gently
broken
it to Christine that she’ll be leaving tomorrow, she knows it’s smooth sailing from here, and she perks up as she talks about hotels and traveling and America—the most wounding stories—and Christine, downcast, sits through them meekly though her nerves are strained by the shrill, desperately blasé stream of talk. If only it were over. Finally a brief pause. “I don’t want to keep you up. Uncle should rest and you too, Aunt, you must be tired from your packing. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“No, no.” Her aunt stands up too. “I can easily pack the last few things myself. But it would be better for you too if you got to bed early. You’ll have to be up by six, I think. You won’t be mad if we don’t take you to the train, will you?”

“No, no, there’s no need for that, Aunt,” Christine says tonelessly, looking at the floor.

“And you’ll write to tell me how Mary is doing, won’t you, write as soon as you get there. And as I say, we’ll see each other next year.”

“All right,” Christine says. Thank God I can go now. A kiss for her uncle, who is strangely embarrassed, a kiss for her aunt, and then she moves toward the door (go now, quickly!). But at the last moment—her hand is on the doorknob—her aunt rushes up with fear in her heart (though for the last time). “You’ll be going to your room now, won’t you, Christl,” she says urgently, “go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Best not to go down again, you know, or … or … or tomorrow morning everyone will come to say goodbye to us … And we don’t like that … It’s better just to go without a big song and dance and then send a few postcards later … I can’t bear it when people give you flowers and … come to see you off. So you won’t go down, will you, just go right to bed … You’ll promise me?”

“Yes, of course,” says Christine with the last of her voice and
pulls the door shut. Not until weeks later does she realize she hadn’t spoken even a word of thanks.

Outside the door the strength that Christine summoned with so much effort deserts her. Holding on to the wall, she makes it back to her room in a daze, the way an animal that’s been killed by a shot lurches on for a few steps before falling. In her room she drops into a chair and doesn’t move. She doesn’t understand what has happened. Behind her forehead she feels the pain of an unexpected blow, but who dealt it? Somebody did something, did something to hurt her. She’s being chased off, but doesn’t know why.

She tries to think, but she’s numb inside, filled with
something
dim, hard, unresponding. Around her there’s more hardness, a glass coffin more ghastly than a dank black one, its lights brilliant and taunting, its comfort mocking, and silent, horribly silent, while within her the question “What did I do? Why are they driving me away?” cries out for an answer. The dull pressure is intolerable, as though the entire hotel with its four hundred guests, its bricks and beams and huge roof lay on her chest, along with the poisonously cold white light and the beckoning chairs and mirror, the enticing bed with its flowered coverlet; if she goes on sitting in this chair she might freeze, smash the windows in fury, or scream, howl, weep so loudly that everybody wakes up. Just get away from here, leave! Just … she doesn’t know what, but get out, get out, to keep from
suffocating
in this dreadful airless silence.

She jumps up and runs out with no idea what she’s doing, leaving the door swinging and the brass and glass glittering meaninglessly at each other under the light.

She moves downstairs like a sleepwalker. Rugs and paintings, hotel equipment, steps and light fixtures, guests, waiters and
chambermaids, objects and faces glide spectrally by. A few people look up, surprised she doesn’t acknowledge their
greetings
. Her gaze is closed off; she doesn’t know what she’s looking at or where she’s going or why but negotiates the stairs with inexplicable assurance.

Some mechanism that regulates her actions is broken. She’s running blindly now, pursued by a nameless fear, with no goal in mind. She stops short at the entrance to the lounge;
something
stirs, some memory of dancing and laughing and cheerful socializing. “Why am I here? Why did I come?” she wonders, and the power of the room is gone. She can’t go on; the walls are swaying, the carpet is slipping, the chandeliers are
swinging
in wild ellipses. I’m falling, she thinks, the floor is moving out from under me. She instinctively grasps a curtain with her right hand and regains her balance. But her limbs have lost their strength. She can’t go forward, can’t go back. She stands with all her weight against the wall, face convulsed and rigid, eyes closed, breathing hard, unable to go on.

Just then the German engineer runs into her. He’s hurrying to his room for some photos he wants to show a certain lady, but now he spots the figure oddly pressed against the wall,
motionless
, breathing heavily, with unseeing eyes; for a moment he doesn’t recognize her. But then his voice takes on its breezy boyish tone: “There you are! Why aren’t you coming to the lounge? Or are you on some secret mission? And why … What is it … Are you all right?” He stares with surprise. Christine has flinched at his first word. Now she’s trembling all over like a sleepwalker who hears her name called.

Her eyebrows are arched in alarm; she looks frantic, stricken. She raises her arm as though to ward off a blow.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” He steadies her, and just in time, for Christine is swaying strangely—her head is suddenly spinning. But she gives a feverish start when she feels the warm touch of his arm.

“I have to talk to you … right away … but not here … not in front of the others … I have to talk to you alone.” She doesn’t know what she wants to say to him, she just wants to talk, with someone, to let out a wail.

Her voice, usually so calm, is shrill, and the engineer is taken aback. He thinks: She’s probably ill. They put her to bed, that’s why she didn’t come down, and she sneaked off—she must have a fever, you can tell by her glassy eyes. Or maybe it’s a fit of hysteria—women do have them—anyway easy does it, don’t let on she looks sick, just play along.

“Of course, Fräulein” (he’s speaking to her like a child) “
although
…” (best not to be seen) “although why don’t we step outside … into the fresh air … I know it’ll do you good … The lounge is always so terribly overheated…” Soothe her, calm her down, he thinks, and as he takes her arm he casually checks her wrist for fever. No, her hand is ice-cold. Curious, he thinks with growing unease—very strange.

The lamps in front of the hotel sway brightly overhead; to the left the woods are deep in shadow. That’s where she waited yesterday. It seems like a thousand years ago and the memory is gone from every cell in her body. He leads her there gently (quick, into the dark, who knows what’s wrong with her), and she allows herself to be led. First distract her, he reflects, keep it light, no serious discussion, just some casual chat, that’s the most reassuring thing.

“This is much nicer, isn’t it … Here, put on my coat … Ah, what a marvelous evening … Look at the stars … Silly of us to spend the whole evening in the hotel the way we always do.” But Christine continues to shake and doesn’t hear him. What stars, what evening, she’s aware only of herself, the self suppressed, repressed for years, now rearing up to shatter her. She grips his arm fiercely, completely unaware of what she’s doing.

“We’re leaving … We’re leaving tomorrow … forever … I’ll never come back, never … You hear, never again … Never … No, I can’t bear it … never … never.” She’s feverish, the
engineer
thinks, look how her whole body is shaking. She’s sick, I have to get a doctor right away. But she clutches the flesh of his arm savagely. “But why, I don’t know why … Why do I have to go so suddenly … Something must have happened … I don’t know what. At lunch they were both so nice and said
nothing
about it, and this evening … this evening they said I have to leave tomorrow … tomorrow, tomorrow morning … right away, and I don’t know why … why I have to go away so suddenly … away … away, like some useless thing you toss out the window … I don’t know why, I don’t know … I don’t
understand
it … Something must have happened.”