if.thespywholovedme-第11节

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d　Kurt　to　marry　me；　or　Derek。　I　had　just　expected　them　to　be　kind　and　to　behave　like　that　idiotic　word　〃gentlemen〃…to　be　gentle　with　me；　as　I；　I　thought；　had　been　gentle　with　them。　That；　of　course；　had　been　the　trouble。　I　had　been　too　gentle；　too　acmodating。　I　had　had　the　desire　to　please　（and　to　take　pleasure；　but　that　had　been　secondary）；　and　that　had　marked　me　as　easy　meat；　expendable。　Well；　that　was　the　end　of　that！　From　now　on　I　would　take　and　not　give。　The　world　had　shown　me　its　teeth。　I　would　show　mine。　I　had　been　wet　behind　the　ears。　Now　I　was　dry。　I　stuck　my　chin　out　like　a　good　little　Canadian　（well；　a　fairly　good　little　Canadian！）；　and；　having　learned　to　take　it；　decided　for　a　change　to　dish　it　out。
　The　business　of　my　abortion；　not　to　mince　words；　was　good　training　for　my　new　role。　The　concierge　at　my　hotel　looked　at　me　with　the　world…weary　eyes　of　all　concierges　and　said　that　the　hotel　doctor　was　on　holiday　but　that　there　was　another　who　was　equally　proficient。　（Did　he　know？　Did　he　guess？）　Dr。　Süsskind　examined　me　and　asked　if　I　had　enough　money。　When　I　said　I　had；　he　seemed　disappointed。　The　gynecologist　was　more　explicit。　It　seemed　that　he　had　a　chalet。　Hotels　in　Zürich　were　so　expensive。　Would　I　not　care　to　have　a　period　of　rest　before　the　operation？　I　looked　at　him　with　stony　eyes　and　said　that　the　British　Consul；　who　was　my　uncle；　had　invited　me　to　recuperate　with　his　family　and　I　would　be　glad　if　I　could　enter　the　clinic　without　any　delay。　It　was　he　who　had　remended　Dr。　Süsskind。　No　doubt　Herr　Doktor　Braunschweig　knew　the　Consul？
　My　hocus…pocus　was　just　good　enough。　It　had　been　delivered　with　my　new　decisive　manner；　and　the　gambit　had　been　thought　out　beforehand。　The　bifocals　registered　shock。　There　were　coolly　fervent　explanations　and　a　hasty　telephone　call　to　the　clinic。　Yes；　indeed。　Tomorrow　afternoon。　Just　with　my　overnight　things。
　It　was　as　mentally　distressing　but　as　physically　painless　as　I　had　expected；　and　three　days　later　I　was　back　in　my　hotel。　My　mind　was　made　up。　I　flew　back　to　England；　stayed　at　the　new　circular　Ariel　Hotel　near　London　Airport　until　I　had　got　rid　of　my　few　small　belongings　and　paid　my　bills；　and　then　I　made　an　appointment　with　the　nearest　Vespa　dealer；　in　Hammersmith；　and　went　to　see　him。
　My　plan　was　to　go　off　on　my　own；　for　at　least　a　year；　and　see　the　other　half　of　the　world。　I　had　had　London。　Life　there　had　hit　me　with　a　hard　left　and　right；　and　I　was　groggy　on　my　feet。　I　decided　that　I　just　didn't　belong　to　the　place。　I　didn't　understand　Derek's　sophisticated　world；　and　I　didn't　know　how　to　manage　the　clinical；　cold…eyed；　modern　〃love〃　that　Kurt　had　offered　me。　I　told　myself　that　it　was　because　I　had　too　much　〃heart。〃　Neither　of　these　men　had　wanted　my　heart；　they　had　just　wanted　my　body。　The　fact　that　I　fell　back　on　this　age…old　moan　of　the　discarded　woman　to　explain　my　failure　to　hold　either　of　these　men；　was；　I　later　decided；　a　more　important　clue　to　my　failure　than　this　business　of　〃heart。〃　The　truth　of　the　matter　was　that　I　was　just　too　simple　to　survive　in　the　big…town　jungle。　I　was　easy　prey　for　the　predators。　I　was　altogether　too　〃Canadian〃　to　pete　with　Europe。　So　be　it！　I　was　simple；　so　I　would　go　back　to　the　simple　lands。　But　not　to　sit　and　mope　and　vegetate。　I　would　go　there　to　explore；　to　adventure。　I　would　follow　the　fall　right　down　through　America；　working　my　way　as　waitress；　baby…sitter；　receptionist；　until　I　got　to　Florida；　and　there　I　would　get　a　job　on　a　newspaper　and　sit　in　the　sunshine　until　the　spring。　And　then　I　would　think　again。
　Once　I　had　made　up　my　mind；　the　details　of　my　plan　absorbed　me；　driving　out　my　misery；　or　at　least　keeping　it　at　bay；　and　anesthetizing　my　sense　of　sin　and　shame　and　failure。　I　went　to　the　American　Automobile　Association　in　Pall　Mall；　joined　it　and　got　the　maps　I　needed；　and　talked　to　them　about　transport。　The　prices　of　secondhand　cars　in　America　were　too　high；　as　were　the　running　costs；　and　I　suddenly　fell　in　love　with　the　idea　of　a　motor　scooter。　At　first　it　seemed　ridiculous；　the　idea　of　taking　on　the　great　transcontinental　highways　with　such　a　tiny　machine；　but　the　thought　of　being　out　in　the　open　air；　doing　around　a　hundred　miles　to　the　gallon；　not　having　to　worry　about　garages；　traveling　light　and；　let's　admit　it；　being　something　of　a　sensation　wherever　I　went；　made　up　my　mind；　and　the　Hammersmith　dealer　did　the　rest。
　I　knew　something　about　machinery…every　North　American　child　is　brought　up　with　motor　cars…and　I　weighed　up　the　attractions　of　the　little　125…c。c。　model　and　of　the　sturdier；　faster　150…c。c。　Gran　Sport。　Of　course；　I　plumped　for　the　sporty　one　with　its　marvelous　acceleration　and　a　top　speed　of　nearly　sixty。　It　would　only　do　around　eighty　miles　to　the　gallon；　pared　with　the　smaller　one's　hundred；　but　I　told　myself　that　gas　was　cheap　in　America　and　that　I　must　have　the　speed　or　I　would　take　months　to　get　south。　The　dealer　was　enthusiastic。　He　pointed　out　that　in　bad　weather；　or　if　I　got　tired；　I　could　just　put　the　thing　on　a　train　for　a　stretch。　He　could　get　about　thirty　pounds'　purchase　tax　off　the　price　of　one　hundred　and　ninety　pounds　by　delivering　it　to　a　ship　that　would　get　it　over　to　Canada　in　ten　days。　That　would　give　me　extra　money　to　spend　on　spares　and　deluxe　accessories。　I　didn't　need　any　pressuring。　We　did　one　or　two　runs　up　and　down　the　bypass；　with　the　dealer　sitting　on　the　back；　and　the　Vespa　went　like　a　bird　and　was　as　easy　to　drive　as　a　bicycle。　So　I　signed　up　for　it；　bought　a　leopard…skin　cover　for　the　seat　and　spare　wheel；　racy…looking　deluxe　wheel…trims；　a　rear　mirror；　a　luggage　rack；　white　saddlebags　that　went　beautifully　with　the　silver　finish　of　the　body；　a　Perspex　sports　windscreen；　and　a　white　crash　helmet　that　made　me　feel　like　Pat　Moss。　The　dealer　gave　me　some　good　ideas　about　clothes；　and　I　went　to　a　store　and　bought　white　overalls　with　plenty　of　zips；　some　big　goggles　with　soft　fur　round　the　edges；　and　a　rather　dashing　pair　of　lined　black　kid　motorcycling　gloves。　After　this　I　sat　down　in　my　hotel　with　the　maps　and　planned　my　route　for　the　first　stage　down　from　Quebec。　Then　I　booked　myself　on　the　cheapest　Trans…Canada　flight　to　Montreal；　cabled　Aunt　Florence；　and；　on　a　beautiful　first…of…September　morning；　I　was　off。
　It　was　strange　and　lovely　to　be　back　after　nearly　six　years。　My　aunt　said　she　could　hardly　recognize　me；　and　I　was　certainly　surprised　by　Quebec。　When　I　had　left　it；　the　fortress　had　seemed　vast　and　majestic。　Now　it　seemed　like　a　large　toy　edifice　out　of　Disneyland。　Where　it　had　been　awesome；　I　found；　irreverently；　that　it　looked　made　out　of　papier…maché。　And　the　giant　battles　between　the　faiths；　in　which　I　had　once　thought　myself　to　be　on　the　point　of　being　crushed；　and　the　deep　schisms　between　the　Canadiennes　and　the　rest；　were　now　reduced；　with　my　new　perspective；　to　parish…pump　squabbling。　Half　ashamed；　I　found　myself　contemptuous　of　the　screaming　provincialism　of　the　town；　of　the　dowdy　peasants　who　lived　in　it；　and　of　the　all…pervading　fog　of　snobbery　and　petit　bourgeoisie。　No　wonder；　a　child　of　all　this；　that　I　had　been　ill　equipped　for　the　great　world　outside！　The　marvel　was　that　I　had　survived　at　all。
　I　was　careful　to　keep　these　thoughts　from　my　aunt；　though　1　suspect　that　she　was　just　as　startled　and　perhaps　shocked　by　the　gloss　that　my　〃finishing〃　in　Europe　had　achieved。　She　must　have　found　me　very　much　the　town　mouse；　however　gangling　and　simple　I　might　feel　inside；　and　she　plied　me　with　questions　to　discover　how　the　gloss　went；　how　much　I　had　been　sullied　by　the　fast　life　I　must　have　led。　She　would　have　fainted　at　the　truth；　and　I　was　careful　to　say　that；　while　there　had　been　flirtations；　I　had　returned　unharmed　and　heart…whole　from　the　scarlet　cities　across　the　water。　No；　there　had　not　even　been　a　temporary　engagement。　No　lord；　not　even　a　moner；　I　could　truthfully　say；　had　proposed　to　me；　and　I　had　left　no　boy…friend　behind。　I　don't　think　she　believed　this。　She　was　plimentary　about　my　looks。　I　had　bee　〃une　belle　fille。〃　It　seemed　that　I　had　developed　〃beaucoup　de　tempérament〃…a　French　euphemism　for　〃sex　appeal〃…or　at　any　rate　the　appearance　of　it；　and　it　seemed　incredible　to　her　that　at　twenty…three　there　was　no　man　in　my　life。　She　was　horrified　at　my　plans　and　painted　a　doomful　picture　of　the　dangers　that　awaited　me　on　the　road。　America　was　full　of　gangsters。　I　would　be　knocked　down　on　the　highway　and　〃ravagée。〃　Anyway　it　was　unladylike　to　travel　on　a　scooter。　She　hoped　that　I　would　be　careful　to　ride　sidesaddle。　I　explained　that　my　Vespa　was　a　most　respectable　machine　and；　when　I　went　to　Montreal　and；　thrilling　with　every　mile；　rode　it　back　to　the　house；　in　my　full　regalia；　she　was　slightly　mollified；　while　menting　dubiously　that　I　would　〃faire　sensation。〃
　And　then；　on　September　the　fifteenth；　I　drew　a　thousand　dollars　in　American　Express　travelers'　checks　from　my　small　bank　balance；　scientifically　packed　my　saddlebags　with　what　I　thought　would　be　a　minimum　wardrobe；　kissed　Aunt　Florence　good…by；　and　set　off　down　the　Saint　Lawrence　on　Route　2。
　Route　2　from　Quebec　southward　to　Montreal　could　be　one　of　the　most　beautiful　roads　in　the　world　if　it　weren't　for　the　clutter　of　villas　and　bathing　huts　that　have　mushroomed　along　it　since　the