It was of course, as I should have expected, Assistant Professor Rick L. Tucker of the University of Astrakhan, Neb. He was rigged in outdoor costume, Lederhosen, long socks with dazzling tops and boots so thick in the sole they seemed to have brought lumps of pavement with them. His shirt was open at the neck under a pullover with the inscription OLE ASHCAN knitted into it. I thought for a moment he was being defiant about that dustbin he'd rummaged so many years ago—well, seven long years ago. But the inscription was no more than a winsome joke at the expense of the place where he was earning his lolly. The letters spread right across his chest, which was wide. The glow of mountain air about him, as expressed by his cheeks and the tip of his nose, made him seem wider and taller than ever. I had to look a long way up at him. When I turned to him with the first movement of indignation he drew his chin back only minimally.
"Hi, Wilf! I see you had the same idea as we did!"
"Don't be wet."
"Mary Lou, look who's here!"
I stared round the bar. Mary Lou smiled pallidly from the lap of a huge armchair in a dark corner.
"Hi, Mary Lou."
"Mr Barclay."
"Wilf."
She made no reply but looked withdrawn. I had that sudden feeling that all the preciousness of life had condensed itself—no, no, it must not be, could not be!
"Your juice, hon."
"I guess I don't even feel like juice, hon."
Rick turned back to me.
"Mary Lou is feeling the altitude."
"A girl for sea level."
I took my eyes away, deliberately.
"Hon?"
I looked back despite myself. Mary Lou had her hands over her mouth. Her large eyes became huge. She struggled to get out of the chair.
"Can't you see, you fool? She's going to throw up!"
Mary Lou threw up halfway between the chair and the door. Rick made a kind of triangular dash to the bar with glasses and to the door. Mary Lou disappeared through it. The manager looked dispassionately at the mess. He shouted through the open door at the back of the bar and, as if she had been waiting for the event, a fat, grey-haired woman emerged through it with mop and pail. Rick dutifully pursued Mary Lou to wherever their room was. I contemplated the sick with the detachment of a man who was drinking something even worse. I took my filthy mixture and wandered out of the hotel into the sunset. There were round metal tables (the same ones I always sit at) in the little square where one side was the hideous drop. I sat at the table I had sat at in, say, Florence, Paris, St Louis. Where was I? Moving, always moving. It was the manager of the hotel in Schwillen. I simply hadn't covered my tracks. Next time—
I got up, strolled a few yards up the path that led to the higher meadows and felt a deadly weakness. I was just able to reach my chair and table again. Time passed.
Rick was sitting by me and talking. I didn't know how long he had been there. He was sketching out the immediate future. There were said to be four splendid walks we could take. He would explore while I spent the day acclimating. He didn't need to acclimate, having been used to heights all his life. They said that one of the walks involved a little scrambling. I sat back in the chair, nodding at what he said and my chin hit my chest.
Mary Lou was coming down the path from the high, flowery slopes. She was talking about solid geometry and explaining the three fundamental curves of the calculus by reference to the immense cone of mountain that stood over us.
Someone blew an alphorn, right there in the square.
"Wilf? Sir?"
I was the alphorn and blew myself again with another enormous honk.
"Asleep."
I blinked back into the sunset. The station was absorbing a procession of Swiss, German, Austrian walkers. They all seemed as wide as they were high. Rick was laughing.
"You said Mary Lou majored in math! Mary Lou!"
"Dreamed I was an alphorn. Pretty girl. Congratulations."
"She admires you."
"She like me?"
Pause.
"Hell, yes!"
"She play chess?"
"Hell, no!"
"Checkers?"
"You'll both be OK. By morning. By this evening."
"Dinner."
"Yeah," said Rick baldly, "we'd like to have you eat with us."
I felt ever so slightly embarrassed.
"This one's on me."
The three of us appeared to be the only people staying at the hotel, midweek and out of season. At dinner Mary Lou remained pale and ate next to nothing. But Rick talked for all three. The walk he'd explored had the damnedest views. Truly inspirational. Streams, trees, the treeline, flowers. After I had grasped that we were going to walk tomorrow I ceased to listen and endured my preoccupation with Mary Lou instead. She didn't seem much interested in what Rick was saying either. She stood up suddenly, so that oddly enough I got to her before Rick, who had been talking about the snowline. He took her from me and led her away. When he came back he apologized for her, which amused me all down one side of my face.
"She's enchanting, Rick. I thought it was a literary convention but, you know, when she feels faint she doesn't go green and ancient—she just goes even more transparent."
"She said she wouldn't go with us tomorrow."
"Doesn't she like anything? I mean—"
"You could say," said Rick carefully, "Mary Lou isn't physical."
"Cats? Dogs? Horses?"
He blushed, a slow burn.
"You were there, Rick, the two of you. Recently."
"It's a place where you lived for a long time, Wilf."
I thought of the place where I had lived for a long time. The only place. The quaint old house, the water meadows, trees, hedges, bare downs closing in the two sides of the wide valley, the huge oaks and clumps of elms that Elizabeth said were dying. I felt detached.
"Did you like it?"
"Hell, yes!"
"Why?"
I never thought to hear a grown man say it, but he did.
"It's so green. That white horse cut in the side of the hill—everything's so ancient—"
"When I was there last they had motocross up the hill on one side of the White Horse on Sundays. The university archaeological society was skinning the turf on the other."
"But the people, Wilf! The customs—"
"Incest, mostly."
"You're—"
"No, I'm not kidding. And don't forget the coven."
"You are, you are, yes you are, Wilf!"
"Usually reliable sources. Wilfred Barclay's Stratford-on-Avon."
"I don't think so, sir."
"What were you looking for? My finger prints?"
"I had to talk to her. There's a great deal only she knows."
"Well, I'm damned."
"And papers."
"Now look, Rick Tucker. Those papers are mine and nobody, nobody, is going to go mucking about with them."
"But—"
"It was a condition. The house is hers, then reverts to Emmy in the event of. The papers are mine."
"Of course, Wilf. She said it was all very civilized."
"Elizabeth? She said that? Why, it was—"
I stopped, not so much out of residual loyalty as caution. Elizabeth had been covering up, of course. It had been a rending, hateful match which would have broken my heart if I had had one and to which only Julian had managed to bring legal decency. I had given everything on my side, not out of generosity but just to be shot of the whole thing. Julian saved us from advertising the mutual hatred which linked us indissolubly for better or worse. Perhaps like me by now, she had worn away all but a vestige of the hatred and accepted the huge scar? Or had I? Had she?
"She said she had to keep them but they were nothing to do with her."
"My papers?"
"You've never understood, sir. You are part of the Great Pageant of English Literature."
He really did say that. It rolled forth like a statement being read out in court. The accused wishes to state that he is part of the Great Pageant—why, there was meat in it! Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of being, and with intent to deceive, a part of the Great Pageant—
"Balls!"
Rick's chin was back, forehead thrust forward, eyes looking out from under his ledge of rock.
"So give over, professor."
"In any case, she refused me, Wilf."
"She never was promiscuous. I give her that."
"I know you're joking, sir. But I see the hurt."
"Well, for God's sake! How was Capstone Bowers?"
"Well, I guess."
"Good. Very good."
"She wouldn't even let me see the boxes."
"Good. Good."
"She said not without your permission. Written permission. That was the agreement, she said. 'Gentleman's agreement,' she said and laughed. You both laugh a lot. I'd like to research that."
"Vivisection. You don't know about my life. You aren't going to either."
A minute cup of coffee and a large brandy had appeared on my rush place mat. I warmed the brandy with cupped hands.
"It's important to me, Wilf. Very important. I'd give anything—anything! You don't know the competition—and I have a chance. There's a man—I'll tell you one day. But I must have your permission—"
"I said no, damn it!"
"Wait, wait! I'm not talking about the papers—there's time and maybe one day—but there's another thing."
"The devil of it is, I gave up drinking yesterday. Now here I am, without conscious volition, drinking brandy and really, you know, a little, just a little—"
"Another thing—"
"I'm what they call just a little on circuit. The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. How odd it must be on circuit. Rather like motor roads. No one to talk to. Just booze and the papers of the next day's cases. Cheers."
"Wilf—"
I thought of judges and how little I knew about them. Lucky me. A long life of undiscovered crime. Those who didn't get away with it were exported to Australia. The criminals that stayed behind bred the likes of us. Take your pick.
I became aware that Rick had gone on talking. I interrupted him.
"I get drunk so easily nowadays. It's the altitude."
"Wilf, please!"
"Professor?"
"It means a whole lot to me. I can do no more than plead—"
"You wanna be a full professor? Emeritus?"
"Wilf. I want you to appoint me your official biographer."