Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax (29 page)

Suddenly the gaudy, blood-red sun cleared the high cliffs behind them and the misty landscape lost its oriental quality and Mrs. Pollifax thought, “Why, this is the dawn I was sure I’d never see!” For a moment she was caught by the magic of life, its brevity and unpredictability, and she stared at this world as if just born into it. The distant mountains were snow-capped, the nearer cliffs tawny with deep-purple shadows. Around her the ground mist that only a few minutes ago had been gray and tattered was transformed by light into silky clouds of pearl-white and palest pink. The air was cool, and smelled of damp earth and wet grass, and the river flowing around and past them contained in it mosaic patterns of sky and sun and shore. Mrs. Pollifax felt a stirring in her that was almost mystical; an exhilarating sense of freedom that she had never known before, as if in this moment all the rules and habits of a lifetime fell from her and she stood at the very core of life and felt its heartbeat. It came of experiencing dawn in this strange country a continent away from her own; it came of being still alive when she ought to have been dead; it was compounded of surprise, appreciation, exhaustion, hunger, the effects of danger and an unquenchability of the human spirit.

She heard Farrell say, “You all right, Duchess?”

She started. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

At that moment ahead of them the ground mist rolled away and they saw the sun shining on the clear, sparkling water of the Adriatic. Almost simultaneously Farrell cried, “Oh, God—look!” and Mrs. Pollifax glanced to the shore of the river on their right and saw a police boat setting out to intercept them, flags flying from its bow and stern, the spray rising majestically in an arc behind it.

There were two men in the boat, each of them faceless silhouettes from this distance, but it could be assumed they were well armed—police usually were—and each man was leaning forward with an intensity that suggested fixity of purpose. Their boat was too old and too broad in the beam to move with speed, but it took the waves like a sedate and experienced old dowager, and even a motor that kept missing and cutting out would make progress against a
londra
with one man at its oars. Mrs. Pollifax said anxiously, “They can’t possibly know who we are, they know only that we came down the river.”

“They’ll find out who we are soon enough,” pointed out Farrell dryly, and he began to swear quietly and thoroughly at their impotence while the Genie frantically churned the water with the oars, his face grim.

Mrs. Pollifax glanced around, hoping for some wild improvisation or concealment to present itself but behind them the river was empty, and ahead of them the sea was open and boundless, furnished only with buoys noting the river’s entrance. Buoys … no, nothing could be done with buoys … Mrs. Pollifax’s gaze swerved to the left bank of the river and she gave an exclamation. “Look! There’s a wharf and a boat—a sailboat!”

“So?” growled Farrell, snapping the safety on the gun.

“But sailboats go fast!” Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward and clutched the Genie’s arm. “Do look,” she begged. “The man’s getting ready to take the boat out, the sail’s already up, we have that gun and we can make him sail us out to sea, it’s our only chance!” She found herself standing and helping the Genie push and pull at the oars. “Faster,” she whispered. “Faster, faster, faster.” The Genie had backed one oar to change their direction but they were rowing against the current now and the police launch, coughing and sputtering, was nevertheless gaining on them with shocking speed. The wharf was a small one, a float, really, with a narrow catwalk leading over the water to it. The boat moored beside it looked heavy but certainly seaworthy; it was roughly twenty-five feet in length, with a sunlit white sail flapping gently in the wind as the man secured the halyards. Behind them the asthmatic whine of the motor launch grew louder, and now Mrs. Pollifax could see the two men clearly, one thin and dark-faced, the other fleshy and bald. Mrs. Pollifax began to tremble.

“Faster,” Farrell was saying sharply. “For God’s sake faster, we’re almost there and so are they.”

The fisherman wore a red jersey and a pair of tattered trousers. He seemed completely oblivious to the race being run nearby. In a leisurely fashion he reached from his boat to the dock, picked up a bucket and stowed it away, walked forward to untie the mooring lines, returned aft and pulled in the stern lines. Grasping the tiller he gave it a thrust, the sails filled with wind and the boat swung free of the wharf. The Genie had been aiming for the wharf; now he swerved to follow the sailboat out to sea, and both he and Mrs. Pollifax began shouting to the man at the helm. “Wait—wait for us,” cried Mrs. Pollifax, and the startled fisherman turned to look at them. They were very close to him now, and the motorboat was even closer behind them. “Wait,” shouted Mrs. Pollifax, waving violently. The fisherman scowled. Undecided, watchful, he gave the tiller a jerk and brought his boat about into the wind, sails luffing, bow pointed directly at them as he regarded them with suspicious curiosity. The Genie viciously thrust one oar back through the water and the
londra
shot across the bow of the fishing boat. Dropping both oars the Genie leaped over Mrs. Pollifax and jumped aboard the sailboat.

“Zott,”
gasped the fisherman. He stood up and roared his indignation
but the Genie ignored him and leaned over the water to pull the
londra
against the sailboat.

To Farrell the Genie shouted, “For heaven’s sake aim your gun at this man! And climb aboard before he kills me with his bare hands!” His voice mingled with shouts from the policemen behind them. Their launch was heading straight for the sailboat to ram it, but the Genie had now pulled the
londra
between the two boats as a buffer. “Hurry,” he told Mrs. Pollifax, and she stumbled toward Farrell to help him drag his useless leg over the side.

The fisherman had stopped bawling his indignation. He stood watching them with opened mouth, his stare moving ponderously from the gun in Farrell’s hand to Mrs. Pollifax. He glowered briefly at the Genie and then his eyes came to rest on the men in the launch and narrowed as he recognized their uniforms. Startled, confused, he glanced back at Farrell climbing aboard, looked again at the policemen and then decided that he was caught in an insoluble situation, and very sensibly chose a prudent course. He jumped overboard and began swimming toward the wharf.

“No, no, come back,” implored Mrs. Pollifax, seeing him slip through their fingers.

The tiller that he had deserted moved idly to one side and hung there a moment, then abruptly, savagely, the sails filled with a wind that sent the boom crashing, lifted one side of the boat and sent buckets skidding across the deck.

“Grab the tiller!” screamed Farrell from the bow.

“What’s a tiller?” screamed back Mrs. Pollifax hysterically.

“That thing—for God’s sake hold it steady!”

Mrs. Pollifax retrieved the long arm of smooth wood that jutted from the deck and clung to it, the boom nearly decapitating the Genie before it settled, the sails flapping erratically, the boat threatening to turn over on its side before it steadied. What saved them was the
londra
, which the Genie held captive with both hands, and which the two policemen also held captive, having attached themselves to the other side of it like barnacles. Only a second earlier the bald man had started to climb across it to reach the sailboat—he was caught with one foot in the
londra
and one still in the police boat; jerking upright he waved both arms wildly in a fight for balance, lost the fight and fell ignobly to the floor of the
londra
.

At once the thin man behind the wheel of the launch pulled out a revolver and fired across the boat at the Genie. Farrell returned
the fire and the policeman slumped over the wheel. Mrs. Pollifax screamed, not because Farrell had shot the thin man but because the bald one in the bottom of the
londra
had climbed to his knees and was aiming a gun at Farrell. “Shoot,” she screamed at Farrell, pointing, and Farrell and the bald policeman exchanged shots simultaneously.

But the Genie’s clutch on the
londra
had weakened during the melee and it was the londra that had acted as a sea anchor. With nothing to hold them now the rigging tightened, the sails went taut and the wind carried them zooming off across the water with an abruptness that sent Farrell sprawling across the Genie on the deck. Mrs. Pollifax, holding tightly to the tiller, screamed for help.

“Let the tiller go! Drop it!” shouted Farrell, thereby totally confusing Mrs. Pollifax because earlier he had insisted that she grab it. She was further mystified when she let it go and the boat came about into the wind and ceased its reckless caroming. She said with interest, “Why does it …” and then stopped because Farrell had lifted himself from the Genie and was staring at him in horror. “Oh no,” she whispered, and both hands flew to her mouth to keep her lips from trembling. She understood now why the Genie had stopped holding the
londra
. Creeping over the coils of line she knelt beside him. “Is he dead?”

Farrell very gently placed the Genie’s head in his lap. “Not dead but very
very
badly hurt.”

“Oh God, you’re hurt too,” she told him, seeing blood well out of Farrell’s sleeve at the shoulder.

He nodded. “Not badly but I can’t risk moving and I don’t think it would be very healthy for the Genie, either. Duchess, you’re going to have to sail this boat.”

“I?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax in a shocked voice. “Me?”

“I can tell you what to do,” he pointed out. “Duchess, you’ve got to, you can’t fall apart now, you realize how far we’ve come, don’t you?”

She thought back to the night on the precipice, to the goats and the wild chase in the Rolls Royce and the guard shot in the cornfield, to the day spent in being periodically submerged by motorboat waves, and the night floating across Scutari on a log. She nodded wearily. There came a time when a person wanted desperately to give up; she supposed it was as good a time as any to rally; surely there must be a few ounces of overlooked iron in her soul. “I’ll try,” she said, and wiped a tear
from what must be a very raddled cheek by now. “I can’t help crying,” she told Farrell. “I’m tired.”

“Can’t imagine why,” he said dryly. As she crawled drearily back toward the tiller he added casually, “Have any idea whether I winged that bald chap in the
londra
?”

Mrs. Pollifax looked back. “The boats are still there, bobbing around at some distance from each other. No head showing in the
londra
. You must have hit him a
little
.”

Farrell nodded. “There may not be much time before they’re discovered, and two boats, each with a wounded or dead policeman in them, will set off a merry chase. Duchess, before you take the tiller, do three things.”

“Yes?”

“Look for fresh water. Hand me that tarp over there so I can make a tent to keep the sun off the Genie. See if the fisherman packed a lunch.”

“Lunch?” said Mrs. Pollifax, brightening. “You mean
food
?”

“Naturally I mean food—the stuff we haven’t had since heaven knows when.”

Mrs. Pollifax, foraging around, was staggered by her success. She could not remember any triumph in her life that could possibly equal what she felt as she carried to Farrell the goatskin bag containing the fisherman’s noon meal. She brought from it a slab of cornbread, six olives and a square of cheese. From a smaller goatskin bag she poured a cup of goat’s milk. When she crept back to the tiller it was with her mouth full of flaky, exquisitely flavored cornbread and her heart filled with a faint hope that if the gods were smiling on them now their smiles might linger just a little longer.

“Okay, Duchess, full speed ahead.”

“But speed is what I’m afraid of,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax ruefully.

He paid this no attention. “Wind from the north. We can’t risk heading north to Yugoslavia, we might run into more police launches. We’ll have to head straight out to sea.”

Mrs. Pollifax gaped at him. “Out to sea!”

Farrell grinned weakly. “We’ve been doing everything else the hard way, Duchess, why stop now? Give me that compass and turn the tiller to starboard—the right, I mean. And brace yourself first,” he added.

Mrs. Pollifax tossed him the compass and turned the tiller to the right. At once the boat came to life; the wind seized them like a gigantic hand, the sail tightened, the rigging creaked and
Mrs. Pollifax was overwhelmed by a feeling of total helplessness as wind, sail and boat combined to send them skimming the waves. “But how do you
stop
this thing!” she wailed. She had the feeling of being on a roller coaster, idle one moment, the next moment hurtling at breath-taking speed.

“Easy does it,” Farrell shouted to her over the wind. “Keep the tiller in the center. You’re broad-reaching now, the wind on your starboard side.”

“Like this?”

“Excellent.”

“Yes—oh
yes
,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax. She had just felt the boat steady itself in response to a subtle turn of the tiller, had felt the boat under her become disciplined, the sails taut but not under strain, and she was delighted.