didn’t move. Now, she remembered. The ship, of course. It sailed at two o’clock. They had said repeatedly that they were not waiting for anyone. Something was going to happen in Havana. They didn’t say what it would be. They didn’t even admit that it was going to happen, but by a little gesture, by the apprehensive look in their eyes, by the flurry they all were in, one gathered that something was going to happen that couldn’t possibly be pleasant.
The little, pock-marked steward, when he had given her her coat, had emphasized the necessity of being on board by midnight. He was nice, in spite of his pock-marks, and she made a point of assuring him that she would be back before then. She would have been if she hadn’t met Lacey.
She moved restlessly. Lacey. She saw him as he was the previous night. Tall, very clean-looking in his white evening clothes. He was good to look at. Any woman would have thought so. His lean face, his full lips, and the jeering, cynical look he had in his eyes.
He had joined the boat at Bahama. As soon as he came on board the women began to talk about him. He was that kind of a man.
She pressed her fingers to her aching head. God! She must have been tight, as tight as she had been crazy —that must have been very, very tight. She wanted to go to sleep again, but she began remembering, and as the memory of the previous night built up in her mind, sleep retreated.
Oh yes, he had been awfully nice. It was by the sheerest coincidence that he happened to be going ashore as she stepped on the gang-plank. She had planned to see Havana with a Mr. and Mrs. Skinner. They were nice people, elderly, kindly and safe—nice people.
Lacey had jeered at them. He had shaken his head at her, behind their backs, as they prepared to take her away on a stately little drive along the brightly lit Havana waterfront. Then he had stepped forward. It was all done so smoothly. She couldn’t remember what he had said, but it must have been horribly smooth and just right, because the Skinners went away, smiling. They even looked back and waved, leaving her alone with him. Oh yes, she had to admit that it was all very neat and clever. He had taken her into the heart of Havana. He seemed to know all the unexpected places. He didn’t take her to the show places, but to all the exciting little cafes and houses, as if he owned the place.
He talked. She began gathering the top of the sheet unconsciously into a tight, long rope. Yes, he had talked. At first, he said amusing things. He did what very few people could do, he made her laugh. Then later, in the evening, after they had a few drinks, he began to flatter her. It wasn’t eye-talk stuff. It was shockingly personal, and it made her go hot, but because of the velvety strength of the drinks he had given her she didn’t go away from him as she ought to have done. So it went on until she suddenly realized that she was getting dangerously light- headed. She stopped drinking, but she couldn’t stop him talking. He said, in a charming way, the most outrageous things. She felt herself being drawn to him entirely against her will. It was as if something inside her was going out to him, leaving her weak and without resistance.
She remembered wondering when he would touch her. She knew, beyond any doubt, that he would touch her. Why else did he continue to stare at her with such intentness?
He seemed in no hurry. That was because he was so confident. Even in small things he was always confident. Small things, as lighting a cigarette, walking through a crowded room, or ordering a meal.
She remembered thinking that in an hour, or less, he was going to possess her. He would take her as confidently as he took everything. She was going to do absolutely nothing about it. She knew that before he started. Absolutely nothing, because she had no resistance. She felt almost as if she were asleep, dreaming that this was happening to her.
There—he had touched her. He had reached out and put his hand firmly on hers. She was quite sure that he would reach out his hand in the same way, steadily and confidently, to pat the head of a snarling dog.
At his touch her blood ran hot in her veins. She remembered thinking, at the time, that such a thing only happened in novels, but she actually felt a sudden surge of warmth go through her.
He went on talking, holding her hand lightly in his. Meeting his eyes, she saw that he had finished playing with her. He was serious now. She saw an eagerness that had pushed the jeering look into the background.
He rose to his feet abruptly, and took her through the back of the restaurant, through a doorway screened by a bead curtain. Together they went down a dim corridor that smelt faintly of sandalwood.
She followed him, her knees feeling weak, into a little room which was beautifully furnished, lit by rose- coloured lanterns. She was quite unable to say anything.
As she lay there in bed she could see those lanterns very clearly. She shut her eyes and she could see them even more clearly. She could feel him drawing her down on the divan, his hands taking the weight from her breasts. His hands there made her suddenly want him with an urgency that terrified her.
She had said, a little wildly, “Be kind to me—be kind to me,” and she remembered trying to find his mouth with hers.
She did not know how he undressed her. She was conscious of her clothes leaving her smoothly as he did everything. Then he suddenly lost all his smoothness, and treated her shamefully.
She lay staring at the rose-pink lanterns, feeling a sick loathing of herself. Her desires had gone away from her the moment he took her. It was all so sudden, so brutal, so unexpected—so filthily selfish. So she lay looking at the rose-pink lanterns until he stood away from her.
He had said, a little impatiently, “It’s getting late, we had better go back to the boat.”
She had said nothing. She couldn’t even cry.
“Don’t you hear?” he said. “It is nearly twelve.”
Without looking at him, she said: “Does it matter? Does anything ever matter to you? Go away. Go back to the boat. I’ve nothing else to give you. Why don’t you go away?”
He said impatiently, “For God’s sake stop talking and get dressed.”
She shut her eyes and said nothing, so he left her. He walked out of the room with his confident tread and left her there.
When he had gone she got up and dressed. She remembered that she couldn’t look herself in the face as she stood before the mirror. She remembered thinking that she had behaved like a bitch, and she was ashamed.
She went back to the restaurant. The waiter who had served them looked at her curiously when she sat down at the table they had previously occupied. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t care about anything. She just felt a cold fury with herself for being such a bitch. She didn’t even think of Lacey any more. All she could think was that because this was Havana, because of the great yellow moon, and because of the blue-black water, studded with thousands of lights from the waterfront, she had behaved like a bitch with a horribly smooth ship’s Romeo. She deserved to be treated as a whore. She hadn’t even the satisfaction of knowing that she had been as efficient as a whore—she hadn’t. She had just wanted to be very sick and to cry, but she had done absolutely nothing.
She had ordered a lot of drink from the waiter. She had to get tight. She could do that. There was nothing else she could do. She couldn’t sit in the restaurant, knowing the ship was sailing with all her clothes, leaving her in Havana, where something was going to happen, without getting good and tight. So she got good and tight, and she might have been still sitting there if the waiter hadn’t very tactfully put her in a taxi and told the driver to take her to a hotel. She would go back one day and thank the waiter. It was the first act of kindness she had received in Havana.
At the hotel they didn’t seem to notice how very tight she was. The manager seemed to have something on his mind. He wasn’t even sorry when he heard that she had lost the boat. He just raised his hands, saying, “That is a very grave misfortune for you, senorita,” and gave instructions for her to be taken to a room on the third floor overlooking the waterfront.
She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her thick wavy hair. She must do something now. She couldn’t stay in bed nursing her cold hatred.
Reaching out, she rang the bell at her side violently.
2
It was hot. Too hot to stay in bed Quentin thought, pushing the sheet from him and sliding on to the coconut matting.
