vaguely if the blond man would be there sitting at the bar. Better to keep in contact, to let him see her; to know where he was. Better than not to know and to be afraid like this, walking through a perfectly ordinary meadow full of perfectly ordinary salt grass, hovered over by perfectly ordinary gulls and terns and crows.
There was the fire.
It was only embers now, giving off steamy smoke.
Ruth approached it.
A dune hollow had been cleared and the grass lay uprooted and trampled in a sort of flung-out circle of anger and haste. Ruth sensed that someone had done this in a state of panic. A state of violence.
All around the hollow there were footprints, large and apparently male. They seemed to have been made by an extremely heavy person, because the impressions were deep and very clear. The fire, or what was left of it, was right in the center of the hollow and seemed to have consisted mostly of wastepaper and a few small pieces of wood.
Ruth stirred the ashes with a stick. She removed her sunglasses in order to see better. There was nothing sinister in the fire at all.
She looked up.
Why the birds? Fire does not attract birds. It repels them.
She looked down again.
No sign of food. No crusts. No wrappers or peelings. There was, however, a small blue piece of material. Ruth fished it out. It sizzled. It was still damp. Instinctively she smelled it. Nothing. Just wet fire. And vaguely, a little perfume. Part of a woman’s dress? No. Too heavy.
She put it in her pocket. Memento mori .
The dog gave all the footprints a hefty once-over, lifted its leg on the ashes, and nosed off. He seemed to want to go back, not forward. So Ruth followed.
At 7:30 that night she heard one of B. J.‘s children yelling and she went out onto the balcony, where she was witness to the discovery of a nude female corpse that had been washed up on shore. It was the body of the girl with the red hair, the one Ruth had seen that morning. “Oh,” she said. “God…”
Ruth went inside and locked herself in her room. She took off her clothes and stood with her back hard up against the wall.
“Not like that…” she whispered. “I don’t want to die like that…”
Her gaze shifted—watching the window as she listened to the commotion on the beach. Not really knowing she was doing it, she began to “swim.” Her arms made motions—forcing her shoulders against the wall—one arm and then the other reaching up and out and in and up and out and in—the rhythm gaining in momentum—locking—as she whispered, over and over, “ eins, zwei, drei. Eins, zwei, drei …”
In the pocket of her beach pajamas, flung upon the bed, was a small garish piece of bathing suit: scorched. Ruth knew it had belonged to the red-headed girl, now dead on the beach. Its smell was everywhere. Her nostrils and the room were filled with it.
The Chronicle of
the Mysterious Lady
Friday, September 2nd, 1938:
Bel Air
10:00 a.m.
The Little Virgin was in bed.
The bed was hung on all sides with curtains. Inside, a light shone down on the occupant, casting a warm and peachy glow over face and figure, sheets and pillowcases. The effect from outside the bed was one of many-coloured shadows; no features were visible: only the delicate profile.
A maid came and went with various Implements of Beauty, while another busied herself with flowers, setting them into bowls and Oriental vases.
The Implements of Beauty, lying on little trays, were passed through the curtains, used or disregarded, and then passed back to the waiting lackey. The atmosphere was surgical and silent, while a certain aura of imminent rebuke permeated the air.
Back and forth: back and forth: silvered trays, lacquered trays, inlaid trays, and trays with ormolu handles; small white towels fluttered in the breeze as back and forth through the netted portals loads of Kleenex were passed, loads of facial cream, bottles and syringes, loads of cotton; combs, curlers, brushes, and hair ribbons;
There was the fire.
It was only embers now, giving off steamy smoke.
Ruth approached it.
A dune hollow had been cleared and the grass lay uprooted and trampled in a sort of flung-out circle of anger and haste. Ruth sensed that someone had done this in a state of panic. A state of violence.
All around the hollow there were footprints, large and apparently male. They seemed to have been made by an extremely heavy person, because the impressions were deep and very clear. The fire, or what was left of it, was right in the center of the hollow and seemed to have consisted mostly of wastepaper and a few small pieces of wood.
Ruth stirred the ashes with a stick. She removed her sunglasses in order to see better. There was nothing sinister in the fire at all.
She looked up.
Why the birds? Fire does not attract birds. It repels them.
She looked down again.
No sign of food. No crusts. No wrappers or peelings. There was, however, a small blue piece of material. Ruth fished it out. It sizzled. It was still damp. Instinctively she smelled it. Nothing. Just wet fire. And vaguely, a little perfume. Part of a woman’s dress? No. Too heavy.
She put it in her pocket. Memento mori .
The dog gave all the footprints a hefty once-over, lifted its leg on the ashes, and nosed off. He seemed to want to go back, not forward. So Ruth followed.
At 7:30 that night she heard one of B. J.‘s children yelling and she went out onto the balcony, where she was witness to the discovery of a nude female corpse that had been washed up on shore. It was the body of the girl with the red hair, the one Ruth had seen that morning. “Oh,” she said. “God…”
Ruth went inside and locked herself in her room. She took off her clothes and stood with her back hard up against the wall.
“Not like that…” she whispered. “I don’t want to die like that…”
Her gaze shifted—watching the window as she listened to the commotion on the beach. Not really knowing she was doing it, she began to “swim.” Her arms made motions—forcing her shoulders against the wall—one arm and then the other reaching up and out and in and up and out and in—the rhythm gaining in momentum—locking—as she whispered, over and over, “ eins, zwei, drei. Eins, zwei, drei …”
In the pocket of her beach pajamas, flung upon the bed, was a small garish piece of bathing suit: scorched. Ruth knew it had belonged to the red-headed girl, now dead on the beach. Its smell was everywhere. Her nostrils and the room were filled with it.
The Chronicle of
the Mysterious Lady
Friday, September 2nd, 1938:
Bel Air
10:00 a.m.
The Little Virgin was in bed.
The bed was hung on all sides with curtains. Inside, a light shone down on the occupant, casting a warm and peachy glow over face and figure, sheets and pillowcases. The effect from outside the bed was one of many-coloured shadows; no features were visible: only the delicate profile.
A maid came and went with various Implements of Beauty, while another busied herself with flowers, setting them into bowls and Oriental vases.
The Implements of Beauty, lying on little trays, were passed through the curtains, used or disregarded, and then passed back to the waiting lackey. The atmosphere was surgical and silent, while a certain aura of imminent rebuke permeated the air.
Back and forth: back and forth: silvered trays, lacquered trays, inlaid trays, and trays with ormolu handles; small white towels fluttered in the breeze as back and forth through the netted portals loads of Kleenex were passed, loads of facial cream, bottles and syringes, loads of cotton; combs, curlers, brushes, and hair ribbons;
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