if.thespywholovedme-第3章

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　and　looked　about　me；　expecting　I　don't　know　what　scene　of　chaos　and　destruction。　But　there　it　all　was；　just　as　I　had　〃left〃　it…the　important…looking　reception　desk；　the　wire　rack　of　paperbacks　and　magazines；　the　long　counter　of　the　cafeteria；　the　dozen　neat　tables　with　rainbow…hued　plastic　tops　and　unfortable　little　metal　chairs；　the　big　ice…water　container　and　the　gleaming　coffee　percolator…everything　in　its　place；　just　as　ordinary　as　could　be。　There　was　only　the　hole　in　the　window　and　a　spreading　pool　of　water　on　the　floor　as　evidence　of　the　holocaust　through　which　this　room　and　I　had　just　passed。　Holocaust？　What　was　I　talking　about？　The　only　holocaust　had　been　in　my　head！　There　was　a　storm。　There　had　been　thunder　and　lightning。　I　had　been　terrified；　like　a　child；　by　the　big　bangs。　Like　an　idiot　I　had　taken　hold　of　the　electric　switch…not　even　waiting　for　the　pause　between　lightning　flashes；　but　choosing　just　the　moment　when　another　flash　was　due。　It　had　knocked　me　out。　I　had　been　punished　with　a　bump　on　the　head。　Served　me　right；　stupid；　ignorant　scaredy　cat！　But　wait　a　minute！　Perhaps　my　hair　had　turned　white！　I　walked；　rather　fast；　across　the　room；　picked　up　my　bag　from　the　desk；　and　went　behind　the　bar　of　the　cafeteria　and　bent　down　and　looked　into　the　long　piece　of　mirror　below　the　shelves。　I　looked　first　inquiringly　into　my　eyes。　They　gazed　back　at　me；　blue；　clear；　but　wide　with　surmise。　The　lashes　were　there　and　the　eyebrows；　brown；　an　expanse　of　inquiring　forehead　and　then；　yes；　the　sharp；　brown　peak　and　the　tumble　of　perfectly　ordinary　very　dark　brown　hair　curving　away　to　right　and　left　in　two　big　waves。　So！　I　took　out　my　b　and　ran　it　brusquely；　angrily　through　my　hair；　put　the　b　back　in　my　bag；　and　snapped　the　clasp。
　My　watch　said　it　was　nearly　seven　o'clock。　I　switched　on　the　radio；　and　while　I　listened　to　WOKO　frightening　its　audience　about　the　storm…power　lines　down；　the　Hudson　River　rising　dangerously　at　Glens　Falls；　a　fallen　elm　blocking　Route　9　at　Saratoga　Springs；　flood　warning　at　Mechanicville…I　strapped　a　bit　of　cardboard　over　the　broken　windowpane　with　Scotch　tape　and　got　a　cloth　and　bucket　and　mopped　up　the　pool　of　water　on　the　floor。　Then　I　ran　across　the　short　covered　way　to　the　cabins　out　back　and　went　into　mine；　Number　9　on　the　right…hand　side　toward　the　lake；　and　took　off　my　clothes　and　had　a　cold　shower。　My　white　Terylene　shirt　was　smudged　from　the　fall；　and　I　washed　it　and　hung　it　up　to　dry。
　I　had　already　forgotten　my　chastisement　by　the　storm　and　the　fact　that　I　had　behaved　like　a　silly　goose；　and　my　heart　was　singing　again　with　the　prospect　of　my　solitary　evening　and　of　being　on　my　way　the　next　day。　On　an　impulse；　I　put　on　the　best　I　had　in　my　tiny　wardrobe…my　black　velvet　toreador　pants　with　the　rather　indecent　gold　zip　down　the　seat；　itself　most　unchastely　tight；　and；　not　bothering　with　a　bra；　my　golden　thread　Camelot　sweater　with　the　wide　floppy　turtleneck。　I　admired　myself　in　the　mirror；　decided　to　pull　my　sleeves　up　above　the　elbows；　slipped　my　feet　into　my　gold　Ferragamo　sandals；　and　did　the　quick　dash　back　to　the　lobby。　There　was　just　one　good　drink　left　in　the　quart　of　Virginia　Gentleman　bourbon　that　had　already　lasted　me　two　weeks；　and　I　filled　one　of　the　best　cut…glass　tumblers　with　ice　cubes　and　poured　the　bourbon　over　them；　shaking　the　bottle　to　get　out　the　last　drop。　Then　I　pulled　the　most　fortable　armchair　over　from　the　reception　side　of　the　room　to　stand　beside　the　radio；　turned　the　radio　up；　lit　a　Parliament　from　the　last　five　in　my　box；　took　a　stiff　pull　at　my　drink；　and　curled　myself　into　the　armchair。
　The　mercial；　all　about　cats　and　how　they　loved　Pussyfoot　Prime　Liver　Meal；　lilted　on　against　the　steady　roar　of　the　rain；　whose　tone　only　altered　when　a　particularly　heavy　gust　of　wind　hurled　the　water　like　grapeshot　at　the　windows　and　softly　shook　the　building。　Inside；　it　was　just　as　I　had　visualized…weatherproof；　cozy；　and　gay　and　glittering　with　lights　and　chromium。　WOKO　announced　forty　minutes　of　〃Music　to　Kiss　By〃　and　suddenly　there　were　the　Ink　Spots　singing　〃Someone's　Rockin'　My　Dream　Boat；〃　and　I　was　back　on　the　River　Thames　and　it　was　five　summers　ago　and　we　were　drifting　down　past　Kings　Eyot　in　a　punt　and　there　was　Windsor　Castle　in　the　distance　and　Derek　was　paddling　while　I　worked　the　portable。　We　only　had　ten　records；　but　whenever　it　came　to　be　the　turn　of　the　Ink　Spots'　L。P。　and　the　record　got　to　〃Dream　Boat；〃　Derek　would　always　plead；　〃Play　it　again；　Viv；〃　and　I　would　have　to　go　down　on　my　knees　and　find　the　place　with　the　needle。
　So　now　my　eyes　filled　with　tears…not　because　of　Derek；　but　because　of　the　sweet　pain　of　boy　and　girl　and　sunshine　and　first　love　with　its　tunes　and　snapshots　and　letters　〃Sealed　With　A　Loving　Kiss。〃　They　were　tears　of　sentiment　for　lost　childhood；　and　of　self…pity　for　the　pain　that　had　been　its　winding　sheet；　and　I　let　two　tears　roll　down　my　cheeks　before　I　brushed　them　away　and　decided　to　have　a　short　orgy　of　remembering。
　My　name　is　Vivienne　Michel　and；　at　the　time　I　was　sitting　in　the　Dreamy　Pines　motel　and　remembering；　I　was　twenty…three。　I　am　five　feet　six；　and　I　always　thought　I　had　a　good　figure　until　the　English　girls　at　Astor　House　told　me　my　behind　stuck　out　too　much　and　that　I　must　wear　a　tighter　bra。　My　eyes；　as　I　have　said；　are　blue　and　my　hair　a　dark　brown　with　a　natural　wave；　and　my　ambition　is　one　day　to　give　it　a　lion's　streak　to　make　me　look　older　and　more　dashing。　I　like　my　rather　high　cheekbones；　although　these　same　girls　said　they　made　me　look　〃foreign；〃　but　my　nose　is　too　small；　and　my　mouth　too　big　so　that　it　often　looks　sexy　when　I　don't　want　it　to。　I　have　a　sanguine　temperament　which　I　like　to　think　is　romantically　tinged　with　melancholy；　but　I　am　wayward　and　independent　to　an　extent　that　worried　the　sisters　at　the　convent　and　exasperated　Miss　Threadgold　at　Astor　House。　（〃Women　should　be　willows；　Vivienne。　It　is　for　men　to　be　oak　and　ash。〃）
　I　am　French…Canadian。　I　was　born　just　outside　Quebec　at　a　little　place　called　Sainte　Famille　on　the　north　coast　of　the　Ile　d'Orleans；　a　long　island　that　lies　like　a　huge　sunken　ship　in　the　middle　of　the　Saint　Lawrence　River　where　it　approaches　the　Quebec　Straits。　I　grew　up　in　and　beside　this　great　river；　with　the　result　that　my　main　hobbies　are　swimming　and　fishing　and　camping　and　other　outdoor　things。　I　can't　remember　much　about　my　parents…except　that　I　loved　my　father　and　got　on　badly　with　my　mother…because　when　I　was　eight　they　were　both　killed　in　a　wartime　air　crash　ing　in　to　land　at　Montreal　on　their　way　to　a　wedding。　The　courts　made　me　a　ward　of　my　widowed　aunt；　Florence　Toussaint；　and　she　moved　into　our　little　house　and　brought　me　up。　We　got　on　all　right；　and　today　I　almost　love　her；　but　she　was　a　Protestant；　while　I　had　been　brought　up　as　a　Catholic；　and　I　became　the　victim　of　the　religious　tug　of　war　that　has　always　been　the　bane　of　priest…ridden　Quebec；　so　nearly　exactly　divided　between　the　faiths。　The　Catholics　won　the　battle　over　my　spiritual　well…being；　and　I　was　educated　in　the　Ursuline　Convent　until　I　was　fifteen。　The　sisters　were　strict　and　the　accent　was　very　much　on　piety；　with　the　result　that　I　learned　a　great　deal　of　religious　history　and　rather　obscure　dogma　which　I　would　gladly　have　exchanged　for　subjects　that　would　have　fitted　me　to　be　something　other　than　a　nurse　or　a　nun；　and；　when　in　the　end　the　atmosphere　became　so　stifling　to　my　spirit　that　I　begged　to　be　taken　away；　my　aunt　gladly　rescued　me　from　〃the　Papists〃　and　it　was　decided　that；　at　the　age　of　sixteen；　I　should　go　to　England　and　be　〃finished。〃　This　caused　something　of　a　local　hullabaloo。　Not　only　are　the　Ursulines　the　center　of　Catholic　tradition　in　Quebec…the　Convent　proudly　owns　the　skull　of　Mont…calm；　for　two　centuries　there　have　never　been　less　than　nine　sisters　kneeling　at　prayer；　night　and　day；　before　the　chapel　altar…but　my　family　had　belonged　to　the　very　innermost　citadel　of　French…Canadianism；　and　that　their　daughter　should　flout　both　treasured　folkways　at　one　blow　was　a　nine　days'　wonder…and　scandal。
　The　true　sons　and　daughters　of　Quebec　form　a　society；　almost　a　secret　society；　that　must　be　as　powerful　as　the　Calvinist　clique　of　Geneva；　and　the　initiates　refer　to　themselv