Arch of Triumph (17 page)

The chubby nurse sat down in the chair in a corner of the room. She dimmed the light on the side toward the bed, wrapped her feet in a blanket, and reached for a magazine. It was one of those cheap magazines containing detective stories and movie pictures. She adjusted herself comfortably and began to read. Beside her on a little table she had put an opened box of chocolate wafers. Ravic saw her take one without looking up. Sometimes one doesn’t comprehend the simplest things, he thought—that in the same room one person should be lying deadly ill and the other not at all concerned about it. He closed the door. But isn’t it the same with me? Am I not going from this room into another in which—

The room was dark. The door to the bathroom was ajar. There was a light beyond it. Ravic hesitated. He did not know whether Joan was still in the bathroom. Then he heard her breathing. He walked through the room to the bathroom. He did not say anything. He knew she was here and was not asleep, but she too said nothing.
Suddenly the room was full of silence and expectancy and tension—like a vortex which silently called—an unknown abyss, beyond thought, from which rose the poppy clouds and the dizziness of a red tumult.

He closed the door of the bathroom. In the clear light of the white bulbs everything was familiar and known to him again. He turned on the taps of the shower. It was the only shower in the hotel. Ravic had paid for it himself and had had it installed. He knew that in his absence it was still being shown to the patron’s French relatives and friends as a remarkable sight.

The hot water ran down his skin. In the next room Joan Madou was lying and waiting for him. Her skin was smooth, her hair surged over the pillow like an impetuous wave, and her eyes shone lucidly even when the room was dark, as if they caught the meager light of winter stars from outside the window and reflected it. She lay there, subtle and changeable and exciting because there was nothing left of the woman whom one had known an hour ago, she was everything that enticement and temptation could give without love—and yet all of a sudden he felt something like an aversion to her—a strange resistance mixed with a violent and sudden attraction. He looked around involuntarily—if the bathroom had had a second exit, he thought it possible that he would have dressed and gone out to drink.

He dried himself and hesitated for a while. Strange, what had fluttered in from nowhere! A shadow, a nothing. Perhaps it was because he had been with Kate Hegstroem. Or because of what Joan had said in the taxi earlier. Much too quick and much too easy. Or simply because someone was waiting—instead of his waiting. He tightened his lips and opened the door.

“Ravic,” Joan said out of the dark. “The calvados is on the table by the window.”

He stood still. He realized that he had been tense. He could not
have stood many things she might have said. This one was right. His tension eased into loose, light certainty. “Did you find the bottle?” he asked.

“That was easy. It was standing right here. But I opened it. I discovered a corkscrew somewhere among your things. Give me another glass.”

He poured two glasses and brought one to her. “Here—” It was good to feel the clear apple brandy. It was good that Joan had found the right word.

She leaned her head back and drank. Her hair fell over her shoulders and in this moment she seemed to be nothing but drinking. Ravic had noticed this in her before. She gave herself completely to whatever she did. It occurred to him vaguely that therein lay not only fascination, but also danger. Such women were nothing but drinking, when they drank; nothing but love when they loved; nothing but desperation when they were desperate; and nothing but forgetfulness when they forgot.

Joan put down the glass and laughed suddenly. “Ravic,” she said. “I know what you are thinking.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You felt already half married just now. So did I. To be abandoned at the door is not exactly an enviable experience. Left alone with roses in one’s arms. Thank God, the calvados was here. Don’t be so careful with the bottle.”

Ravic refilled her glass. “You are a wonderful person,” he said. “It’s true. There in the bathroom I could hardly stand you. Now I find you wonderful.
Salute!
”

“Salute.”

He drank his calvados. “It is the second night,” he said. “The dangerous night. The charm of the unknown is gone and the charm of familiarity has not yet come. We’ll survive it.”

Joan put her glass down. “You seem to know quite a lot about it.”

“I know nothing at all. I just talk. One never knows anything. Everything is always different. Now too. It never is the second night. It is always the first. The second would be the end.”

“Thank God! Otherwise where would it lead? Into something like arithmetic. And now come. I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want to drink with you. The stars stand naked up there in the cold. How easily one can freeze when one is alone! Even when it is hot. Never when there are two.”

“Two together can actually freeze to death.”

“Not we.”

“Naturally not,” Ravic said and in the dark she did not see the expression that crossed his face. “Not we.”

“
WHAT WAS THE MATTER
with me, Ravic?” Kate Hegstroem asked.

She was lying in her bed, slightly raised, with two pillows under her head. The room had the odor of Eau de Santé and perfume. The window was slightly opened at the top. Clear, somewhat chilly air streamed in from the outside and mingled with the warmth of the room as if it were not January but already April.

“You were feverish, Kate. For a few days. Then you slept. Almost twenty-four hours. Now the fever has gone and everything is fine. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Still always tired. But different from before. Not so tense any more. I have hardly any pain.”

“You will have some later. Not very much, and we’ll take care of it so you’ll be able to stand it. But it won’t stay the way it is now. You know that yourself—”

She nodded. “You have cut me up, Ravic—”

“Yes, Kate.”

“Was it necessary?”

“Yes.”

He waited. It was better to let her ask. “How long will I have to be in bed?”

“A few weeks.”

She remained silent for a while. “I think it will be good for me. I need quiet. I’d had enough. I realize it now. I was tired. I did not want to admit it. Did this thing have something to do with it?”

“Certainly. Most certainly.”

“Also the fact that I had hemorrhages from time to time? Between periods?”

“That too, Kate.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I have time. Maybe it was necessary. To have to get up now and face all that again—I don’t think I could do it.”

“You don’t have to. Forget about it. Think only of the very next thing. For instance, of your breakfast.”

“All right.” She smiled faintly. “Then pass me the mirror.”

He gave her the hand mirror from the night table. She studied herself attentively in it.

“Are these flowers from you, Ravic?”

“No. From the hospital.”

She put the mirror on the bed. “Hospitals don’t send lilacs in January. Hospitals send asters or something like that. Neither do hospitals know that lilacs are my favorite flowers.”

“Here they do. Here you are a veteran, Kate.” Ravic got up. “I have to go now. I’ll come back about six o’clock to look after you.”

“Ravic—”

“Yes.”

He turned around. Now it will come, he thought. Now she will ask.

She extended her hand. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for the flowers. And thanks for looking out for me. I always feel safe with you.”

“All right, Kate. All right. There was nothing really to look out for. And now fall asleep again if you can. In case you should have pains call the nurse. I’ll see that you get medicine. This afternoon I’ll be back.”

“Veber, where is the brandy?”

“Was it as bad as that? Here’s the bottle. Eugénie, get us a glass.”

Eugénie reluctantly went for a glass. “That’s a thimble,” Veber protested. “Get us a decent glass. Or wait, it might break your hand, I’ll do it myself.”

“I don’t know why it is, Doctor Veber,” Eugénie declared bitingly, “whenever Mr. Ravic comes in, you—”

“All right, all right,” Veber interrupted her. He poured a glass of cognac. “Here, Ravic. What does she believe?”

“She does not ask anything,” Ravic said. “She trusts me without asking questions.”

Veber glanced up. “You see,” he replied triumphantly. “I told you so.”

Ravic emptied his glass. “Has a patient ever expressed his thanks to you when you couldn’t do anything for him?”

“Often.”

“And believed everything?”

“Naturally.”

“And how did you feel about it?”

“Relieved,” Veber said in astonishment. “Very much relieved.”

“I feel like vomiting. Like a fraud.”

Veber laughed. He put the bottle aside again. “Like vomiting,” Ravic repeated.

“That’s the first human feeling I ever discovered in you,” Eugénie said. “Except, naturally, for the way you express yourself.”

“You are not a discoverer, you are a nurse, Eugénie, you often forget that,” Veber declared. “The affair is settled, Ravic, isn’t it?”

“Yes. For the time being.”

“All right. She told the nurse this morning that she wants to go to Florence as soon as she leaves the hospital. Then we’re in the clear.” Veber rubbed his hands. “The doctors over there can take care of it then. I don’t like it when someone dies here. It always hurts the reputation.”

Ravic rang the bell at the apartment door of the midwife who performed the abortion for Lucienne. After some time a sinister-looking man opened. He kept the latch in his hand when he saw Ravic. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I want to speak to Madame Boucher.”

“She has no time.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll wait awhile.”

The man was about to close the door. “If I can’t wait I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,” Ravic said. “But not alone. With someone who will certainly be able to see her.”

The man stared at him. “What does that mean? What do you want?”

“I told you. I want to speak to Madame Boucher.”

The man pondered. “Wait,” he said and then closed the door.

Ravic studied the peeling brown paint on the door, the tin letter box and the round enameled label with the name. A great deal of misery and fear had passed through this door. A few senseless laws which forced so many lives into the hands of quacks instead of doctors. No more children were born because of it. Whoever did not want a child found a way, law or no law. The only difference was that the lives of some thousands of mothers were ruined every year.

The door was opened again. “Are you from the police?” the unshaven man asked.

“If I were from the police I wouldn’t be waiting here.”

“Come in.”

The man showed Ravic through a dark corridor into a room crowded with furniture. A plush sofa and a number of gilt chairs, an imitation Aubusson carpet, walnut Vertikows and pastoral prints on the walls. In front of the window stood a metal stand with a bird cage and a canary in it. Wherever there was any space there were chinaware and plaster figurines.

Madame Boucher came in. She was enormously fat and wore a kind of billowing kimono which was not quite clean. She was a monster, but her face was smooth and pretty, with the exception of her eyes, which darted restlessly. “Monsieur?” she asked in a businesslike tone and remained standing.

Ravic got up. “I come in behalf of Lucienne Martinet. You performed an abortion for her.”

“Nonsense!” the woman replied immediately with complete calm. “I don’t know any Lucienne Martinet and I don’t perform abortions. You must be mistaken or someone has told you a lie.”

She acted as if the affair were settled and was about to leave. But she didn’t go. Ravic waited. She turned around. “Something else?”

“The abortion was a failure. The girl had serious hemorrhages and almost died. She had to have an operation. I operated on her.”

“It’s a lie!” Madame Boucher suddenly hissed. “It’s a lie! Those rats! They fool around trying to fix themselves up and then get other people into trouble! But I’ll show her! Those rats! My lawyer will settle that. I am well known and a taxpayer and I’ll see whether such an impudent little slut that whores around—”

Ravic studied her, fascinated. Her expression did not change
during the outburst. It remained smooth and pretty—her mouth only was drawn in and spat like a machine gun.

“The girl wants very little,” he interrupted the woman. “She only wants back the money she paid you.”

Madame Boucher laughed. “Money? Pay back? When did I get any from her? Has she a receipt?”

“Naturally not. You wouldn’t give any receipts.”

“Because I’ve never seen her! And would anyone believe her?”

“Yes. She has witnesses. She was operated on in Doctor Veber’s hospital. The diagnosis was clear. A report exists about it.”

“You may have a thousand reports! Where does it say that I touched her? Hospital! Doctor Veber! It’s a scream! Such a rat goes to an elegant hospital! Haven’t you got anything else to do?”