Assignment in Nowhere

Chapter Six

I watched the play of sunlight on the set of gauzy curtains at the open window for a long time before I began to think about who owned them. The recollection came hard, like a lesson learned but not used for a while. I had had a breakdown—a nervous collapse, that was it—while on a delicate mission to Louisiana—the details were vague—and now I was resting at a nursing home in Harrow, run by kindly Mrs. Rogers…

I sat up, felt a dizziness that reminded me of the last time I had spent a week flat on my back after a difficult surveillance job in… in… I had a momentary half-recollection of a strange city, and many faces, and…

It was gone. I shook my head, lay back. I was here for a rest; a nice, long rest; then, with my pension—a sudden, clear picture of my passbook showing a balance of 10,000 gold Napoleons on deposit at the Banque Crédit de Londres flashed across my mind—I could settle somewhere and take up gardening, the way I’d always wanted to…

The picture seemed to lack something, but it was too much trouble to think about it now. I looked around the room. It was small, cheery with sunlight and bright-painted furniture, with hooked rugs on the floor and a bedspread decorated with a hunting scene that suggested long winter nights spent tatting by an open fire. The door was narrow, paneled, brown-painted wood, with a light brass knob. The knob turned and a buxom woman with grey hair, cheeks like apples, a funny little hat made of lace, and a many-colored skirt that brushed the floor came in, gave a jump when she saw me, and beamed as though I’d just said she made apple pie like Mother’s.

“Mr. Bayard! Ye’re awake!” She had a squeaky voice as jolly as the whistle on a peanut stand, with an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“And hungry, too, I’m guessing! Ye’d like a lovely bowl of soup, now would’t ye, sir? And maybe a dab of pudding after.”

“A nice steak smothered in mushrooms sounds better,” I said. “And, uh…” I had meant to ask her who she was, but then I remembered: kindly Mrs. Rogers, of course…

“A glass of wine, if it’s available,” I finished, and lay back, watching little bright spots dance before me.

“Of course, and a nice hot bath first. That’ll be lovely, Mr. Bayard. I’ll just call Hilda…” Things were a little hazy then for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of bustlings and the twitter of feminine voices. Hands plucked at me, tugged gently at my arms. I made an effort, got my eyes open, saw the curve of a colored apron over a girlish hip. Beyond her, the older woman was directing two husky, blonde males in maneuvering something heavy below my line of sight. The girl straightened, and I caught a glimpse of a slim waist, a nicely rounded bosom and arm, a saucy face under straight-cut hair the color of clover honey. The two men finished and left, the motherly type with them. The girl fussed about for a minute, then followed the others, leaving the door open. I got up on one elbow, saw a six-foot-long enameled bathtub half full of water placed neatly on the oval rug, a big fluffy towel, a scrub brush, and a square cake of white soap on a small stool beside it. It looked inviting. I sat up, got my legs over the side of the bed, took deep breaths until the dizziness went away, then pulled off the purple silk pajama bottoms and stood, shakily.

“Oh, ye shouldn’t try to walk yet, sir!” a warm contralto voice said from the doorway. Honey-hair was back, coming toward me with a concerned look on her pert features. I made a halfhearted grab for my pants, almost fell, sat down heavily on the bed. She was beside me now, with a strong hand under my arm.

“Gunvor and I’ve been worried about ye, sir. The doctor said ye’d been very sick, but When ye slept all day yesterday…”

I wasn’t following what she said. It’s one thing to wake up in an unfamiliar room and have a little trouble getting oriented; it’s considerably different to realize that you’re among total strangers, and that you have no recollection at all of how you got there…

With her assistance, I made the three steps to the tub, hesitated before tackling the climb in.

“Just put your foot in, that’s right,” the girl was saying. I followed orders, stepped in and sat down, feeling too weak even to wince at the hot water. The girl perched on the stool beside me, tossed her head to get her hair back, reached for my arm.

“I’m Hilda,” she said. “I live just along the road. It was exciting when Gunvor phoned and told me about yer coming, sir. It isn’t often we see a Louisianan here—and a diplomat, too. Ye must lead the most exciting life! I suppose ye’ve been in Egypt and Austria and Spain—and even in the Seminole Nation.” She chattered and sudsed me, as unconcernedly as a grandmother bathing a five-year-old. What little impulse to resist I may have had faded fast; I was as weak as a five-year-old, and it felt good to have this lively creature briskly massaging my back with the brush while the sun shone through the window and the breeze flapped the curtain.

“…yer accident, sir?” I realized Hilda had asked a question—an awkward one. I had a powerful reluctance to admit that I had—or appeared to have—some sort of mild amnesia. I hadn’t forgotten everything, of course. It was just that the details were hazy…

“Hilda—the man that brought me here—did he tell you anything about me—about the accident?…”

“The letter!” Hilda jumped up, went across to a table decorated with red, yellow, blue, and orange painted flowers, brought back a stiff square envelope.

“The doctor left this for ye, sir. I almost forgot!”

I reached for it with a wet hand, got the flap open, pulled out a single sheet of paper on a fancy letterhead, formally typed:

“Mr. Bayard, It is with deep regret and expressions of the highest personal regard that I confirm herewith your retirement for disability from the Diplomatic Service of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon V…”

There was more—all about my faithful service and devotion to duty, regrets that I hadn’t recovered in time for a personal send-off, and lots of hopes for a speedy convalescence. Included was the name of the lawyer in Paris who would answer all my questions, and if at any time could be of assistance, etc. etc. The name at the end was unfamiliar—but then, of course, everybody knew Count Regis de Manin, Deputy Foreign Minister for Security. Good old Reggie…

I read the letter twice, then folded it and crammed it back into the envelope. My hands were quivering.

“Who gave you this?” my voice came out hoarse.

“T’was the doctor, sir. They brought ye, in the carriage, two nights since, and he was most particular about ye. A pity about yer friends having to hurry to catch the steam packet for Calais—”

“What did he look like?”

“The doctor?” Hilda resumed her scrubbing. “He was a tall gentleman, sir, handsomely dressed, and with a lovely voice. Dark he was, too. But I saw him only for a moment or two, and in the gloom of the stable-yard I couldn’t make out more.” She giggled. “But I did mark his eyes were close together as two hazelnuts in an eggcup.”

“Was he alone?”

“There was the coachmen, sir—and I think another gentleman riding inside, but—”

“Did Mrs. Rogers see them?”

“Only for a few moments, sir. They were in a shocking hurry…”

Hilda finished with the bath, dried me, helped me into clean pajamas, helped me stagger back to bed and tucked me in. I wanted to ask questions, but sleep came down over me like a flood from a broken dam.

The next time I woke up, I felt a little more normal. I got out of bed, tottered to the closet, found a suit of strange-looking clothes with narrow trousers and wide lapels, a shirt with ruffles at collar and wrist, shoes with tiny buckles.

But of course they weren’t really strange, I corrected myself. Very stylish, in fact—and new, with the tailor’s tag still in the breast pocket.

I closed the closet, went to the window for a look. It was still open, and late-afternoon sun glowed in the potted geraniums on the sill. Below was a tidy garden, a brick wall, a white picket fence, and in the distance, a tall openwork church spire. There was an odor of fresh-cut hay in the air. As I watched, Hilda came around the corner with a basket in her hand and a shawl over her head. She had on a heavy, ankle-length skirt and wooden shoes painted in red and blue curlicues. She saw me and smiled up at me.

“Hello there, sir! Have you had yer sleep out, now?” She came over, lifted the basket to show me a heap of deep red tomatoes.

“Aren’t they lovely, sir? I’ll slice ye some for dinner.”

“They look good, Hilda,” I said. “How long have I been asleep?”

“This last time, sir?”

“Altogether.”

“Well, ye came about midnight. After we tucked ye in, ye slept all through the next day and night, and woke this morning about ten. After yer bath ye went back, and slept till now—”

“What time is it?”

“About five—so that’s another six hours and more.” She laughed. “Ye’ve slept like one drugged, sir…”

I felt a weight slide off me like thawed snow off a steep roof. Drugged! I wasn’t sick—I was doped to the eyebrows.

“I’ve got to talk to Gunvor,” I said. “Where is she?”

“In the kitchen, plucking a fine goose for yer dinner, sir. Shall I tell her—”

“No, I’m getting dressed. I’ll find her.”

“Sir, are ye sure ye’re feeling well enough—”

“I’m fine.” I turned back to the closet, fighting the drowsiness that washed around me like thick fog. I got out the clothes, donned underwear, a loose-sleeved silk shirt and tight black pants of heavy cavalry twill, eased my feet into the slippers. Out in the narrow not-quite-straight passage papered in woodland scenes and decorated with framed tintypes, I followed the sounds of clattering crockery, pushed through a swinging door into a low-ceilinged, tile-floored room with a big black coal range, stainless steel sinks where a teen-age girl soaped dishes before a window with a flower box just outside, a glass-paneled door, a display of copper pots on the wall, and a big scrubbed-looking wooden table where Gunvor stood, working over the goose.

“Why, it’s Mr. Bayard!” She blew a feather off her nose, looking flustered.

I leaned on the table for support, trying not to think about the buzzing in my head.

“Gunvor, did the doctor give you any medicine for me?”

“He did indeed, sir. The little drops for yer soup, and the white powders for yer other dishes—though since ye’ve taken no solid food as yet—”

“No more medicine, Gunvor.” Everything was blacking out around me. I planted my feet, tried to will away the dizziness.

“Mr. Bayard, yer not strong enough yet—ye shouldn’t be on yer feet!”

“Not… going back to bed. Need to… walk.” I got out. “Get me outside…”

I felt Gunvor’s arm under mine, heard her excited voice. I was vaguely aware of stumbling up steps, then the coolness of out-of-doors. I tried again, drew a couple of deep breaths, blinked away the fog.

“Better,” I said. “Just walk me…”

Gunvor kept a running string of clucks and suggestions that I lie down right away. I ignored her, kept walking. It was a nice garden, with brick walls curving and meandering among the vegetable plots, past a rose bed along the side, under fruit trees at the far end, by a tempting bench under a thick-boled oak, and back to the kitchen door.

“Let’s go around again.” I tried not to lean on Gunvor this time. I was stronger; I could feel faint stirrings of appetite. The sun was sinking fast, throwing long, cool evening shadows across the grass. After the third lap, I waited by the kitchen door while Gunvor fetched a pitcher from the brown wooden icebox and poured me a glass of cool cider.

“Now ye’ll sit and wait for yer dinner, Mr. Bayard,” Gunvor suggested anxiously.

“I’m all right now.” I patted the hand she had laid on my arm.

She watched me anxiously as I started off. I breathed deep and tried to sort out my thoughts. Someone had brought me here, drugged, arranged to keep me that way—for how long I didn’t know, but I could check that by examining Gunvor’s medicine supply. Someone had also been tinkering with my memory. The question of who—and why—needed answering.

I made an effort to cut through the fog, place an authentic recollection. It was June here, I judged, from the tender leaves and the budding roses. Where had I been in May, or last winter?…

Icy streets, tall buildings grim in the winter night, but inside, warmth, cheer, color, the laughing faces of friendly people and the smile of a beautiful redhead, named… named…

I couldn’t remember. The almost-recollection slipped away like a wisp of smoke in a sudden breeze. Someone had done a good job—using deep hypnotics, no doubt—of burying my recollections under a layer of false memories. Still, they hadn’t done as well as they thought. It had taken me only a few hours to throw off the nebulous impressions of a dubious past. Perhaps—

I turned, hurried back to the house. Gunvor was hesitating over a plate of fresh-baked pastries. She ducked something under her apron as I stepped into the room.

“Oh! Ye startled me, sir…”

I went across and removed a saltshaker half-filled with a coarse white powder from her hand, tossed it into the wastebasket.

“No more medicine, I skid, Gunvor,” I patted her reassuringly. “I know the doctor gave you instructions, but I don’t need it any more. But tell me, is there a…” I groped for a word. I didn’t want to alarm her by asking for a brain doctor, and she wouldn’t understand “psychiatrist.”

“A hypnotist?” I waited for signs of comprehension. “Someone who talks to troubled people, soothes them—”

“Ah, ye mean a mesmerist! But there’s none here in the village, alas… Only Mother Goodwill,” she added doubtfully.

“Mother Goodwill ?” I prompted.

“I’ve nothing against her, mind ye, sir—but there’s those that talk of witchcraft. And I was reading just the other day in the Paris Match that ye can develop serious neuroses by letting unqualified practitioners meddle with yer psyche.”

“You’re so right, Gunvor,” I agreed. “But it’s only a little matter of a faulty memory—”

“Are ye troubled with that too, sir?” Her face lit up. “I’m that forgetful meself, sometimes I think I should have something done—but then a regular mesmerist’s so dear, and as for these quacks—”

“What about Mother Goodwill? Does she live near here?”

“At the other end of the village, sir. But I wouldn’t recommend her—not for a cultured gentleman like yerself. Her cottage is very plain, and the old woman herself is something less than a credit to our village. Dowdy, she is, sir—no sense of style at all. And as for clothes—”

“I won’t be overly critical, Gunvor. Will you take me to her?”

“I’ll summon her here, sir, if ye’re determined—but there’s a licensed master mesmerist in Ealing, just an hour by coach—”

“Mother Goodwill will do, I think. How soon can you get her here?”

“I’ll send Ingalill—but if it’s all the same to ye, sir, let me have her up after dinner. I’ve just popped me goose in, and the pies are browning even now—”

“After dinner will be fine. I’ll take a few more turns around the garden and develop an appetite worthy of your cooking.”

After a second slab of blackberry pie buried in cream too thick to pour, a final mug of ground-at-the-table coffee, and a healthy snort of brandy with the flavor of a century in a dark cellar safely under my belt, I lit up a New Orleans cigar and watched as Hilda and Gunvor lit the oil lamps in the sitting room. There was a timid tap at the door, and Ingalill, the kitchen slavey, poked her face in.

“The old witch is here,” she piped. “Gunvor, she’s smoking a pipe. I think it’s got ground-up salamander innards in it—”

“She’ll hear ye, ye wretch,” Hilda said. “Tell her to wait until her betters summon her—”

Ingalill yelped and jumped aside, and a bent-backed ancient in a poke bonnet pushed in past her, one gnarled hand gripping a crooked stick on which she leaned. Bright black eyes darted about the room, lit on me. I stared back, taking in the warty nose, toothless gums, out-thrust chin, and wisp of white hair hanging beside one hollow cheek. I didn’t see a pipe, but as I watched she snorted a last wisp of smoke from her nostrils.

“Who has need of Mother Goodwill’s healing touch?” she quavered. “But, of course, it’d be ye, sir, who’s come such a strange, long way—and with a stranger, longer path still ahead…”

“Phooie, I told you it was the new gentleman,” Ingalill said. “What’s in the basket?” She reached to lift a corner of the red and white checked cloth covering the container, yelped as the stick cracked across her knuckles.

“Mind yer manners, dearie,” Mother Goodwill said sweetly. She shuffled to a chair, sank down, put the basket on the floor at her feet.

“Now, Mother Goodwill,” Gunvor said, sounding agitated. “The gentleman only wants a little help with—”

“He’d draw aside the veil of the past, the future to read more clearly,” the crone piped. “Ah, he did well to call on old Mother Gee. Now…” her tone became more brisk. “If ye’ll pour me a dram, Gunvor, to restore me strength a mite—and then ye’ll all have to clear out—except m’lord, the new gentleman, o’ course.” She grinned at me like a meat-eating bird.

“I’m not interested in the future,” I started—

“Are ye not, sir?” the old woman nodded as though agreeing. “Then it’s a strange mortal ye are—”

“…But there are some things I need to remember,” I bored on, ignoring the sales pitch. “Maybe under light hypnosis I can—”

“So… then it’s the past ye’d glimpse, as I thought,” she commented imperturbably. Gunvor was clicking glasses at the sideboard. She came over and handed the old woman a glass, then got busy clearing dishes from the table, with Ingalill and Hilda working silently beside her.

Mother Goodwill smacked her lips over the brandy, then waved an oversized brown-spotted hand.

“Away with ye, now, me chicks!” she quavered. “I feel the spirit coming over me! The power’s flowing in the celestial field-coil! Strange visions are stirring, like phantom vipers in a pot! What’s this! What’s this! Ai, curious indeed, the things the spirits whisper to me now…”

“Hmmmp! Ye can skip the spirits routine,” Hilda said. “All Mr. Bayard wants from ye—”

“Get along with ye, girl,” the old woman snapped, “or I’ll send a cramp that’ll lock yer knees together that tight the fairest swain this side o’ Baghdad’ll not unlock ’em! All o’ ye! Off, now!”

They went. Then the hag turned to me.

“Now, down to business, sir.” She used a wheedling tone. “What were ye thinking o’ giving the old woman for a handful of lost recollections? Is it a lover ye’ve forgot, the raptures of youth, the key to happiness once glimpsed and now forever gone a-glimmering?”

I was grinning at her. “You’ll be well paid, but let’s skip the rest of the routine. I’ll get straight to the point. I have reason to believe I’m suffering from induced amnesia, probably the result of post-hypnotic suggestion. I’d like you to put me under and see if you can counter the block.”

Mother Goodwill leaned forward, looked at me keenly.

“There’s a strangeness about ye—something I can’t put me finger on. It’s as though yer eyes was focused on a horizon that other men can’t see…”

“Granted I’m a strange character, but not so strange you can’t hypnotize—or mesmerize me, I hope.”

“Ye say ye’ve been tampered with, yer memories taken from ye. Who’d’ve done a thing like that to ye, lad—and why?”

“Maybe if you’re successful, I’ll find out.”

She nodded briskly. “I’ve heard of such things. Spells of darkness, cast by the light of a bloodred moon—”

“Mother Goodwill,” I cut in. “Let’s get one thing straight: every time you mention spells, magic, dark powers, or geese, the fee goes down. I’m interested in straight scientific mesmerism. Okay?”

“What, good sir? Would ye tell the Mistress of Darkness how to ply her trade?”

The routine was beginning to get tiresome. “Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.” I reached in my pocket for a coin. “My mistake…”

“Are ye saying Mother Goodwill’s a fraud, then?” Her voice had taken on a suspiciously mild note. I looked at her, caught a glint of light from an eye as black and bright as a polished opal. “D’ye think the old woman’s out to trick ye, to play ye false, to gull ye fer a new fledged chick, to…” her voice droned on, coming from far away now, booming like surf in a sea cave echoing, echoing…

“…ten!”

My eyes snapped open. A woman with a pale, almost beautiful face sat, leaning pensively on one elbow, a cigarette in her hand, watching me. Her dark hair was done up in a tight bun. Her plain white blouse was open at the collar, showing a strong, graceful neck. There was one dark curl against her forehead.

I looked around the room; it was dark outside now; a clock was ticking loudly somewhere.

“What happened to the old beldame?” I blurted.

The woman smiled faintly, waved a well-manicured hand toward a black cape on the chair beside her, a gnarled stick leaning against it.

“Rather warm for working in,” she said in a low voice. “How are you feeling?”

I considered. “Fine. But—” I caught a glimpse of a wisp of stringy grey hair under the edge of the cloak. I got out of my chair, went over and lifted it. There was a warty rubber mask, a pair of gnarly gloves.

“What’s the idea of the getup?”

“I find it helpful in my… business. Now—”

“You fooled me in a bad light,” I said. “I take it Gunvor and the others are in on the gag?”

She shook her head. “No one ever sees me in a good light, Mr. Bayard—and no one wishes to approach too close, even then. They’re simple people hereabouts. In their thoughts, warts and wisdom go together—so I fit their image of a village mesmerist, else none would seek my skill. You’re the only one who shares my little secret.”

“Why me?”

She looked at me searchingly. “You are a most unusual man, Mr. Bayard. A true man of mystery. You talked to me—of many things. Strange things. You spoke of other worlds, like this our own familiar plane, but different, alien. You talked of men like animals, clothed in shaggy hair—”

“Dzok!” I burst out. My hands went to my head as though to squeeze the recollections from my brain like toothpaste from a tube. “The Hagroon, and—”

“Calmly, calmly, Mr. Bayard,” the woman soothed. “Your memories—if true memories they are, and not fever fancies—are there, intact, ready to be recalled. Rest, now. It was not easy for either of us, this stripping away of veils from your mind. A master mesmerist: indeed was he who sought to bury your visions of strange paradises and unthinkable hells—but all lies exposed now.” I looked down at her and she smiled.

“I am no journeyman practitioner myself,” she murmured. “But all my skill was challenged this night.” She rose, went to a framed mirror on the wall, gracefully tucked back a strand of hair. I watched her without seeing her. Thoughts of Barbro, the flaming figure in the dark storeroom, the escape with Dzok from the Hagroon cell were jostling each other, clamoring to be remembered, thought about, evaluated.

Mother Goodwill plucked her cape from the chair, swirled it about her shoulders, hunching into the posture of the hag she had been. Her white hands slipped the mask in place, fitting it to her nose and mouth. The gloves and wig followed, and now the bright eyes gazed at me from the wrinkled face of age.

“Rest, sir,” the ancient face cackled. “Rest, sleep, dream, and let those restless thoughts seek out and know their familiar places once again. I’ll attend ye on the morrow—there’s more than Mother Goodwill would learn of the universes ye’ve told me lurk beyond the threshold of this drab world.”

“Wait,” I said. “I haven’t paid you…”

She waved a veined hand. “Ye’ve paid me well in the stuff visions are wrought on, sir. Sleep, I say—and awake refreshed, strong, with your wits keened to razor’s edge. For ye’ll be needing all yer strength to face what waits ye in the days yet undawned.”

She went out then. I went along the hall to my dark room, threw my clothes on a chair, fell into the feather-mattressed bed, and sank down into troubled dreams.