He stopped abruptly, to regain control of his voice, which had begun to sound a little queer — how odd, he thought, to find that one’s voice does tremble at such moments — and then resumed, speaking very slowly, very solemnly.
“All night, mind you, watching a woman, an ineffably lovely woman, and a wonderfully intelligent one, suddenly at battle with the idea of death. And conquering it, by God, Key. She didn’t rave — she didn’t cry, though I’ve seen her cry, many times — she just became an embodied question. Embodied suffering. I’ll never forget the expression of her face as long as I live. It was as if she were looking around me all the time, looking past me, trying to get through to something on the other side, or even seeing something there. It was curiously childlike — a persistent, baffled, hurt, uncomprehending, but perpetually questioning stare, as if I had become for her the only living evidence of a world of evil, or mystery, which she couldn’t accept. Do you see what I mean?”
“Jesus!”
“Yes. The incarnated ‘Why?’ of all tragedy, all human misery. All night she was that. And facing, of course, as if in me, that was the awful part of it, the fact that there was no answer. I was the pitiless and unanswering void; the whirlwind; the trap; the six-foot pine box; the gallows; the run-over child. No arguing about it, mind you — not much talk; she would sit perfectly still, and look at me for half an hour, then suddenly get up and walk out into the little garden at the back and stand there, staring up at the catalpa tree. We would just stand there for a while, looking up at the tree and the sky — my God it was extraordinary — I never saw the sky or a tree before — the sky was rushing away above us at a million miles a second, rushing away to annihilation; the tree was dying before our eyes, like one of those quick-motion movies when it all shrivels up like melting tinsel — and she was holding them there together, holding them to herself, by an effort of will which I could feel going out to them. Living out into the void with all her senses; that’s what she was doing; and making me do it with her.…”
Key lifted his cocktail glass, turned it so that the olive stirred. He said quickly:
“Blom, have a drink. How!”
“How! That helps.”
“And here’s Henry. One lamb brochette, Henry, and one lamb with okras. And some beers. And I guess a little rice, just for fun!”
“Yes, Mister Key. The lamb is very good tonight.”
“Fine!.. Now go on, Blom.”
Blomberg looked down at his half-emptied glass, saw nothing, resumed:
“Yeah. You can imagine what it was like. I’d never seen anyone dying before — and that’s of course what she was doing. Dying! Dying with her eyes wide open, looking at death. It’s changed my feeling about life, Key, believe it or not — God knows I’ve sneered often enough at the messy and muddled and horrible business that life for the most part seems to be — so much of it so dirty and ignoble — but here was Noni all by herself, and with no one to give her a cue, setting such an example of courage as I shall never forget. And so simply. No bravura about it, no melodramatics — just herself.”
Key lifted his glasses from the table, held the bridge pinched between finger and thumb, his head a little on one side.
“You like her a lot, don’t you?” he said. “I’m damned sorry.”
“I’ve always liked her. Yes.”
“I suppose there’s no mistake, possibly?”
“Oh no. Not a chance.”
“I see.”
There was a pause; they finished their cocktails, and presently Henry brought the two glasses of beer. Blomberg stared out at the walls of Elsinore, his eyes fixed and unseeing. What he was seeing, once more, was the catalpa tree in starlight, the stars showing frostily through the bare branches, and Noni’s white face uplifted beneath it, so intense, so still. He could see her there; he could see her leaning against the doorjamb, with her hands tightly clasped behind her; he could see her suddenly turning to go back into the little basement sitting room. And he could hear her saying quietly, as she learned slightly forward towards him from the low chair: “It seems so ridiculously random, Blom — it’s that that’s so puzzling!”—for all the world as if the problem were a purely metaphysical one, and herself the person in the world least involved.…
Key was saying:
“Well, I’m damned sorry. But I still don’t see where Mexico comes in — it makes less sense than ever. You’d think, with a bad heart, and the chance of cashing in any second, the sensible thing was to stay where she is and take it easy. What’s the idea?”
He gave a little half smile, slightly cocky, as if to say, “Let’s keep it light, for God’s sake, if we can!” and put on his glasses. The effect was in a sense as if he had disappeared.
“Ah,” said Blomberg, slowly, “that’s the most interesting part of it. Mind you, when I talked with her, she’d only known the full facts for a few hours — she saw the doctor at four; she saw me at eight. But in that time, in that small interval, when most people would have been simply blind with self-pity, or in a state of complete collapse, she had made her plans; discussed it with her lawyer; called up Gil to tell him about it, and had him to the house for half an hour; called up me; and several other people as well, who she hoped might help out with the money problem. She had decided at once, you see, that she owed it to Gil, after holding him off all these years, to get a divorce, and marry him — she wanted to make it up to him, all that lost life, she wanted to give him something — in fact the best thing she had: herself.”
Key simply stared.
“But, good God, Blom, it’s insane!”
“Yeah. I thought so too. I said so. I still think so and say so; and I’ve done every conceivable thing I could to prevent it. Not an atom of use, Key; she won’t argue with me; she just stands there and tells me. You see, the idea is this. A Mexican divorce, for what it’s worth, apparently is much quicker than any other, and cheaper. Twice as quick as Reno, and twice as cheap, and just as good. But the quickness is the main point. She’s not only counting the days — she’s counting the hours. She wants to give Gil as much time as she can. And so, God help us, off we go, the three of us, to Mexico City.…”
“Ah, here’s the food.”
“Good. Let’s eat. The little hexagonal okras, by gum!”
“Somehow, I always feel like whinnying, when I see Henry bringing food — guess I must have been a horse in a previous incarnation. And this here beer, Henry, is very nice, only there ain’t enough of it. Two more, please.…”
“Sure, certainly, Mr. Key!”
“It’s crazy. And do you mean to sit there and tell me you’ll go? And that Gil will go? My God, I’d have thought Gil, at any rate, if he’s in love with her—”
Blomberg lifted a long finger, held it before him, glared.
“Yeah! But you don’t know this, my dear Key: Gil, believe it or not, will not know a thing about it. Not a thing. She won’t tell him, and she won’t let me tell him. She puts it simply that for a year or more — and it’s partly true — she’s been planning to take a trip like this, somewhere to the south, and that now the doc’s told her she needs a change—”