Casablanca had vaguely1 disappointed Hilary by being such a prosperous-looking French town with no hint of the Orient or mystery about it, exceptfor the crowds in the street.
The weather was still perfect, sunny and clear, and she enjoyed lookingout of the train at the passing landscape as they journeyed northward3. Asmall Frenchman who looked like a commercial traveller sat opposite toher, in the far corner was a somewhat disapproving-looking nun4 tellingher beads5, and two Moorish6 ladies with a great many packages, who con-versed gaily7 with one another, completed the complement8 of the carriage.
Offering a light for her cigarette, the little Frenchman opposite soonentered into conversation. He pointed2 out things of interest as theypassed, and gave her various information about the country. She foundhim interesting and intelligent.
“You should go to Rabat, Madame. It is a great mistake not to go to Ra-bat.”
“I shall try to do so. But I have not very much time. Besides,” she smiled,“money is short. We can only take so much with us abroad, you know.”
“But that is simple. One arranges with a friend here.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got a convenient friend in Morocco.”
“Next time you travel, Madame, send me a little word. I will give you mycard. And I arrange everything. I travel often in England on business andyou repay me there. It is all quite simple.”
“That’s very kind of you, and I hope I shall pay a second visit to Mo-rocco.”
“It must be a change for you, Madame, to come here from England. Socold, so foggy, so disagreeable.”
“Yes, it’s a great change.”
“I, too, I travelled from Paris three weeks ago. It was then fog, rain andall of the most disgusting. I arrive here and all is sunshine. Though, mindyou, the air is cold. But it is pure. Good pure air. How was the weather inEngland when you left?”
“Much as you say,” said Hilary. “Fog.”
“Ah yes, it is the foggy season. Snow—you have had snow this year?”
“No,” said Hilary, “there has been no snow.” She wondered to herself,amusedly, if this much-travelled little Frenchman was following what heconsidered to be the correct trend of English conversation, dealing9 prin-cipally with the weather. She asked him a question or two about the polit-ical situation in Morocco and in Algiers, and he responded willingly, show-ing himself to be well informed.
Glancing across at the far corner, Hilary observed the nun’s eyes fixeddisapprovingly on her. The Moroccan ladies got out and other travellersgot in. It was evening when they arrived at Fez.
“Permit me to assist you, Madame.”
Hilary was standing10, rather bewildered at the bustle11 and noise of thestation. Arab porters were seizing her luggage from her hands, shouting,yelling, calling, recommending different hotels. She turned gratefully toher new French acquaintance.
“You are going to the Palais Djamai, n’est-ce pas, Madame?”
“Yes.”
“That is right. It is eight kilometres from here, you understand.”
“Eight kilometres?” Hilary was dismayed. “It’s not in the town, then.”
“It is by the old town,” the Frenchman explained. “Me, I stay here at thehotel in the commercial new city. But for the holiday, the rest, the enjoy-ment, naturally you go to the Palais Djamai. It was a former residence, youunderstand, of the Moroccan nobility. It has beautiful gardens, and you gostraight from it into the old city of Fez which is untouched. It does notseem as though the hotel had sent to meet this train. If you permit, I willarrange for a taxi for you.”
“You’re very kind, but. .?.?.”
The Frenchman spoke13 in rapid Arabic to the porters and shortly after-wards Hilary took her place in a taxi, her baggage was pushed in, and theFrenchman told her exactly what to give the rapacious14 porters. He alsodismissed them with a few sharp words of Arabic when they protestedthat the remuneration was inadequate15. He whipped a card from hispocket and handed it to her.
“My card, Madame, and if I can be of assistance to you at any time, tellme. I shall be at the Grand Hotel here for the next four days.”
He raised his hat and went away. Hilary looked down at the card whichshe could just see before they moved out of the lighted station:
Monsieur Henri Laurier
The taxi drove briskly out of the town, through the country, up a hill. Hil-ary tried to see, looking out of the windows, where she was going, butdarkness had set in now. Except when they passed a lighted building noth-ing much could be seen. Was this, perhaps, where her journey divergedfrom the normal and entered the unknown? Was Monsieur Laurier anemissary from the organization that had persuaded Thomas Betterton toleave his work, his home and his wife? She sat in the corner of the taxinervously apprehensive16, wondering where it was taking her.
It took her, however, in the most exemplary manner to the PalaisDjamai. She dismounted there, passed through an arched gateway17 andfound herself, with a thrill of pleasure, in an oriental interior. There werelong divans18, coffee tables, and native rugs. From the reception desk shewas taken through several rooms which led out of each other, out on to aterrace, passing by orange trees and scented19 flowers, and then up a wind-ing staircase and into a pleasant bedroom, still oriental in style butequipped with all the “conforts modernes” so necessary to twentieth-cen-tury travellers.
Dinner, the porter informed her, took place from 7:30. She unpacked20 alittle, washed, combed her hair and went downstairs through the long ori-ental smoking room, out on the terrace and across and up some steps to alighted dining room running at right angles to it.
The dinner was excellent and, as Hilary ate, various people came andwent from the restaurant. She was too tired to size them up and classifythem this particular evening, but one or two outstanding personalitiestook her eye. An elderly man, very yellow of face, with a little goateebeard. She noticed him because of the extreme deference21 paid to him bythe staff. Plates were whisked away and placed for him at the mere22 raisingof his head. The slightest turn of an eyebrow23 brought a waiter rushing tohis table. She wondered who he was. The majority of diners were clearlytouring on pleasure trips. There was a German at a big table in the centre,there was a middle- aged24 man and a fair, very beautiful girl who shethought might be Swedes, or possibly Danes. There was an English familywith two children, and various groups of travelling Americans. Therewere three French families.
After dinner she had coffee on the terrace. It was slightly cold but notunduly so and she enjoyed the smell of scented blossoms. She went to bedearly.
Sitting on the terrace the following morning in the sunshine under thered-striped umbrella that protected her from the sun, Hilary felt how fant-astic the whole thing was. Here she sat, pretending to be a dead woman,expecting something melodramatic and out of the common to occur. Afterall, wasn’t it only too likely that poor Olive Betterton had come abroadmerely to distract her mind and heart from sad thoughts and feelings?
Probably the poor woman had been just as much in the dark as everybodyelse.
Certainly the words she had said before she died admitted of a perfectlyordinary explanation. She had wanted Thomas Betterton warned againstsomebody called Boris. Her mind had wandered — she had quoted astrange little jingle—she had gone on to say that she couldn’t believe it atfirst. Couldn’t believe what? Possibly only that Thomas Betterton had beenspirited away the way he had been.
There had been no sinister26 undertones, no helpful clues. Hilary stareddown at the terrace garden below her. It was beautiful here. Beautiful andpeaceful. Children chattered27 and ran up and down the terrace, Frenchmammas called to them or scolded them. The blonde Swedish girl cameand sat down by a table and yawned. She took out a pale pink lipstick28 andtouched up her already exquisitely29 painted lips. She appraised30 her faceseriously, frowning a little.
Presently her companion—husband, Hilary wondered, or it might pos-sibly be her father — joined her. She greeted him without a smile. Sheleaned forward and talked to him, apparently31 expostulating about some-thing. He protested and apologized.
The old man with the yellow face and the little goatee came up the ter-race from the gardens below. He went and sat at a table against the ex-treme wall, and immediately a waiter darted32 forth33. He gave an order andthe waiter bowed before him and went away, in all haste to execute it. Thefair girl caught her companion excitedly by the arm and looked towardsthe elderly man.
Hilary ordered a Martini, and when it came she asked the waiter in alow voice:
“Who is the old man there against the wall?”
“Ah!” The waiter leaned forward dramatically, “That is Monsieur Ar-istides. He is enormously—but yes, enormously—rich.”
He sighed in ecstasy34 at the contemplation of so much wealth and Hilarylooked over at the shrivelled- up, bent35 figure at the far table. Such awrinkled, dried-up, mummified old morsel36 of humanity. And yet, becauseof his enormous wealth, waiters darted and sprang and spoke with awe37 intheir voices. Old Monsieur Aristides shifted his position. Just for a momenthis eyes met hers. He looked at her for a moment, then looked away.
“Not so insignificant38 after all,” Hilary thought to herself. Those eyes,even at that distance, had been wonderfully intelligent and alive.
The blonde girl and her escort got up from their table and went into thedining room. The waiter, who now seemed to consider himself as Hilary’sguide and mentor39, stopped at her table as he collected glasses and gaveher further information.
“Ce Monsieur-là, he is a big business magnate from Sweden. Very rich,very important. And the lady with him she is a film star—another Garbo,they say. Very chic—very beautiful—but does she make him the scenes,the histories! Nothing pleases her. She is, as you say, ‘fed up’ to be here, inFez, where there are no jewellers’ shops—and no other expensive womento admire and envy her toilettes. She demands that he should take hersomewhere more amusing tomorrow. Ah, it is not always the rich who canenjoy tranquillity40 and peace of mind.”
Having uttered this last in a somewhat sententious fashion, he saw abeckoning forefinger41 and sprang across the terrace as though galvanized.
“Monsieur?”
Most people had gone in to lunch, but Hilary had had breakfast late andwas in no hurry for her midday meal. She ordered herself another drink.
A good-looking young Frenchman came out of the bar and across the ter-race, cast a swift discreet42 glance at Hilary which, thinly disguised, meant:
“Is there anything doing here, I wonder?” and then went down the steps tothe terrace below. As he did so he half sang, half hummed a snatch ofFrench opera:
Le long des lauriers roses
Rêvant de douces choses.
The words formed a little pattern on Hilary’s brain. Le long des lauriersroses. Laurier. Laurier? That was the name of the Frenchman in the train.
Was there a connection here or was it coincidence? She opened her bagand hunted in it for the card he had given her. Henri Laurier, 3 Rue43 desCroissants, Casablanca. She turned the card over and there seemed to befaint pencil marks on the back of it. It was as though something had beenwritten on it and then rubbed out. She tried to decipher what the markswere. “Où sont,” the message began, then something which she could notdecipher, and finally she made out the words “D’Antan.” For a momentshe had thought that it might be a message, but now she shook her headand put the card back in her bag. It must have been some quotation44 thathe had once written on it and then rubbed out.
A shadow fell on her and she looked up, startled. Mr. Aristides wasstanding there between her and the sun. His eyes were not on her. He waslooking across over the gardens below towards the silhouette45 of hills inthe distance. She heard him sigh and then he turned abruptly46, towards thedining room, and as he did so, the sleeve of his coat caught the glass onher table and sent it flying to the terrace where it broke. He wheeledround quickly and politely.
“Ah. Mille pardons, Madame.”
Hilary assured him smilingly in French that it did not matter in theleast. With the swift flick47 of a finger he summoned a waiter.
The waiter as usual came running. The old man ordered a replacementof Madame’s drink and then, once more apologizing, he made his way intothe restaurant.
The young Frenchman, still humming, came up the steps again. Helingered noticeably as he passed Hilary, but as she gave no sign, he wenton into lunch with a slight philosophic48 shrug49 of the shoulders.
A French family passed across the terrace, the parents calling to theiryoung.
“Mais viens donc, Bobo. Qu’est-ce que tu fais? Dépêchetoi!” “Laisse ta balle,chérie, on va déjeuner.”
They passed up the steps and into the restaurant, a happy contentedlittle nucleus50 of family life. Hilary felt suddenly alone and frightened.
The waiter brought her drink. She asked him if Mr. Aristides was allalone here.
“Oh, Madame, naturally, anyone so rich as Monsieur Aristides wouldnever travel alone. He has here his valet and two secretaries and a chauf-feur.”
The waiter was quite shocked at the idea of Mr. Aristides travelling un-accompanied.
Hilary noted51, however, when she at last went into the dining room, thatthe old man sat at a table by himself as he had done on the previous even-ing. At a table nearby sat two young men whom she thought were prob-ably the secretaries since she noticed that one or the other of them was al-ways on the alert and looked constantly towards the table where Mr. Ar-istides, shrivelled and monkeylike, ate his lunch and did not seem to no-tice their existence. Evidently to Mr. Aristides, secretaries were not hu-man!
The afternoon passed in a vague dream- like manner. Hilary strolledthrough the gardens, descending52 from terrace to terrace. The peace andbeauty seemed quite astounding53. There was the splash of water, the gleamof the golden oranges, and innumerable scents54 and fragrances55. It was theoriental atmosphere of seclusion56 about it that Hilary found so satisfying.
As a garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse57 .?.?. This was what a garden wasmeant to be, a place shut away from the world—full of green and gold.
If I could stay here, thought Hilary. If I could stay here always. .?.?.
It was not the actual garden of the Palais Djamai that was in herthoughts, it was the state of mind it typified. When she no longer lookedfor peace, she had found it. And peace of mind had come to her at a mo-ment when she was committed to adventure and danger.
But perhaps there was no danger and no adventure .?.?. Perhaps shecould stay here awhile and nothing would happen .?.?. and then. .?.?.
And then—what?
A little cold breeze sprang up and Hilary gave a quick shiver. Youstrayed into the garden of peaceful living, but in the end you would be be-trayed from within. The turmoil58 of the world, the harshness of living, theregrets and despairs, all these she carried within her.
It was late afternoon, and the sun had lost its power. Hilary went up thevarious terraces and into the hotel.
In the gloom of the Oriental Lounge, something voluble and cheerful re-solved itself, as Hilary’s eyes got attuned59 to the dimness, into Mrs. CalvinBaker, her hair newly blued, and her appearance immaculate as ever.
“I’ve just got here by air,” she explained. “I simply can’t stand thesetrains—the time they take! And the people in them, as often as not, quiteunsanitary! They’ve no idea at all of hygiene61 in these countries. My dear,you should see the meat in the souks—all smothered62 in flies. They justseem to think it’s natural to have flies settling on everything.”
“I suppose it is really,” said Hilary.
Mrs. Calvin Baker60 was not going to allow such a heretical statement topass.
“I’m a great believer in the Clean Food movement. At home everythingperishable is wrapped in Cellophane—but even in London your bread andcakes just stand about unwrapped. Now tell me, have you been gettingaround? You’ve been doing the old city today, I expect?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t ‘done’ anything,” said Hilary, smiling. “I’ve justbeen sitting about in the sun.”
“Ah, of course—you’re just out of hospital. I forgot.” Clearly only recentillness was accepted by Mrs. Calvin Baker as an excuse for failure to sight-see. “How could I be so stupid? Why, it’s perfectly25 true, after concussionyou ought to lie down and rest in a dark room most of the day. By and bywe can make some expeditions together. I’m one of those people who likea real packed day — everything planned and arranged. Every minutefilled.”
In Hilary’s present mood, this sounded like a foretaste of hell, but shecongratulated Mrs. Calvin Baker on her energy.
“Well, I will say that for a woman of my age I get around pretty well. Ihardly ever feel fatigue63. Do you remember Miss Hetherington at Casab-lanca? An Englishwoman with a long face. She’ll be arriving this evening.
She prefers train to flying. Who’s staying in the hotel? Mostly French, Isuppose. And honeymoon64 couples. I must run along now and see aboutmy room. I didn’t like the one they gave me and they promised to changeit.”
A miniature whirlwind of energy, Mrs. Calvin Baker departed.
When Hilary entered the dining room that evening, the first thing shesaw was Miss Hetherington at a small table against the wall eating herdinner with a Fontana book propped65 up in front of her.
The three ladies had coffee together after dinner and Miss Hetheringtondisplayed a pleasurable excitement over the Swedish magnate and theblonde film star.
“Not married, I understand,” she breathed, disguising her pleasure witha correct disapproval66. “One sees so much of that sort of thing abroad. Thatseemed a nice French family at the table by the window. The childrenseemed so fond of their Papa. Of course, French children are allowed to situp far too late. Ten o’ clock sometimes before they go to bed, and they gothrough every course on the menu instead of just having milk and biscuitsas children should.”
“They seem to look quite healthy on it,” said Hilary, laughing.
Miss Hetherington shook her head and uttered a cluck of disapproval.
“They’ll pay for it later,” she said with grim foreboding. “Their parentseven let them drink wine.”
Horror could go no further.
Mrs. Calvin Baker began making plans for the next day.
“I don’t think I shall go to the old city,” she said. “I did that very thor-oughly last time. Most interesting and quite a labyrinth67, if you know whatI mean. So quaint12 and old world. If I hadn’t had the guide with me, I don’tthink I should have found my way back to the hotel. You just kind of loseyour sense of direction. But the guide was a very nice man and told mequite a lot of interesting things. He has a brother in the States—in Chicago,I think he said. Then when we’d finished with the town, he took me up to akind of eating house or tearoom, right up on the hillside looking downover the old city—a marvellous view. I had to drink that dreadful mint tea,of course, which is really very nasty. And they wanted me to buy variousthings, some quite nice, but some just rubbish. One has to be very firm, Ifind.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Hetherington.
She added rather wistfully, “And, of course, one can’t really spare themoney for souvenirs. These money restrictions68 are so worrying.”
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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pointed
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northward
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nun
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beads
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moorish
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gaily
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complement
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dealing
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standing
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bustle
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quaint
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spoke
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rapacious
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inadequate
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apprehensive
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gateway
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divans
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scented
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unpacked
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deference
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mere
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eyebrow
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aged
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perfectly
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sinister
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chattered
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lipstick
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exquisitely
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appraised
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apparently
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darted
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forth
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ecstasy
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bent
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morsel
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insignificant
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mentor
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tranquillity
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forefinger
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discreet
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quotation
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silhouette
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abruptly
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flick
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philosophic
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shrug
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nucleus
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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52
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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53
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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54
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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55
fragrances
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| n.芳香，香味( fragrance的名词复数 )；香水 | |
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56
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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57
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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58
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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59
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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60
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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61
hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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62
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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63
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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64
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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65
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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67
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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68
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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