if.thespywholovedme-第12节

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　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　war。　It　follows　the　great　river　exactly；　clinging　to　the　north　bank；　and　I　knew　it　well　from　bathing　picnics　as　a　child。　But　the　Saint　Lawrence　Seaway　had　been　opened　since　then；　and　the　steady　stream　of　big　ships　with　their　thudding　engines　and　haunting　sirens　and　whistles　were　a　new　thrill。
　The　Vespa　hummed　happily　along　at　about　forty。　I　had　decided　to　stick　to　an　average　daily　run　of　between　a　hundred　and　fifty　and　two　hundred　miles；　or　about　six　hours'　actual　driving；　but　I　had　no　intention　of　being　bound　by　any　schedule。　I　wanted　to　see　everything。　If　there　was　an　intriguing　side　road；　I　would　go　up　it；　and；　if　I　came　to　a　beautiful　or　interesting　place；　I　would　stop　and　look　at　it。
　A　good　invention　in　Canada　and　the　northern　part　of　the　States　is　the　〃picnic　area〃…clearings　carved　out　of　the　forest　or　beside　a　lake　or　river；　with　plenty　of　isolated　rough…hewn　benches　and　tables　tucked　away　among　the　trees　for　privacy。　I　proposed　to　use　these　for　luncheon　every　day　when　it　wasn't　raining；　not　buying　expensive　foods　at　stores；　but　making　egg…and…bacon　sandwiches　on　toast　before　I　left　each　night's　motel。　They；　with　fruit　and　a　Thermos　of　coffee；　would　be　my　midday　meal　and　I　would　make　up　each　evening　with　a　good　dinner。　I　budgeted　for　a　daily　expenditure　of　fifteen　dollars。　Most　motels　cost　eight　dollars　single；　but　there　are　state　taxes　added；　so　I　made　it　nine　plus　coffee　and　a　roll　for　breakfast。　Gas　would　not　be　more　than　a　dollar　a　day；　and　that　left　five　for　luncheon　and　dinner；　an　occasional　drink；　and　the　few　cigarettes　I　smoked。　I　wanted　to　try　and　keep　inside　this。　The　Esso　map　and　route　I　had；　and　the　A。A。A。　literature；　listed　countless　sights　to　see　after　I　had　crossed　the　border…I　would　be　going　right　through　the　Indian　country　of　Fennimore　Cooper；　and　then　across　some　of　the　great　battlefields　of　the　American　Revolution；　for　instance…and　many　of　them　cost　around　a　dollar　entrance　fee。　But　I　thought　I　would　get　by；　and　if　on　some　days　I　didn't；　I　would　eat　less　on　others。
　The　Vespa　was　far　more　stable　than　I　had　expected　and　wonderfully　easy　to　run。　As　I　got　better　at　the　twist…grip　gears；　I　began　really　to　drive　the　little　machine　instead　of　just　riding　on　it。　The　acceleration…up　to　fifty　in　twenty　seconds…was　good　enough　to　give　the　ordinary　American　sedan　quite　a　shock；　and　I　soared　up　hills　like　a　bird　with　the　exhaust　purring　sweetly　under　my　tail。　Of　course　I　had　to　put　up　with　a　good　deal　of　wolf…whistling　from　the　young；　and　grinning　and　handwaving　from　the　old；　but　I'm　afraid　I　rather　enjoyed　being　something　of　the　sensation　my　aunt　had　predicted；　and　I　smiled　with　varying　sweetness　at　all　and　sundry。　The　shoulders　of　most　North　American　roads　are　bad；　and　I　had　been　afraid　that　people　would　crowd　my　tiny　machine　and　that　I　would　be　in　constant　trouble　with　potholes；　but　I　suppose　I　looked　such　a　fragile　little　outfit　that　other　drivers　gave　me　a　wide　berth；　and　I　usually　had　the　whole　of　the　inside　lane　of　the　highway　to　myself。
　Things　went　so　well　that　first　day　that　I　managed　to　get　through　Montreal　before　nightfall　and　twenty　miles　on　down　Route　9　that　would　take　me　over　the　border　into　New　York　State　the　next　morning。　I　put　up　at　a　place　called　The　Southern　Trail　Motel；　where　I　was　treated　as　if　I　was　Amelia　Earhart　or　Amy　Mollison…a　rather　pleasurable　routine　that　I　became　accustomed　to…and；　after　a　square　meal　in　the　cafeteria　and　the　shy　acceptance　of　one　drink　with　the　proprietor；　I　retired　to　bed　feeling　excited　and　happy。　It　had　been　a　long　and　wonderful　day。　The　Vespa　was　a　dream；　and　my　whole　plan　was　working　out　fine。
　I　had　taken　one　day　to　do　the　first　two　hundred　miles。　I　took　nearly　two　weeks　to　cover　the　next　two　hundred　and　fifty。　There　was　no　mystery　about　it。　Once　over　the　American　border；　I　began　to　wander　around　the　Adirondacks　as　if　I　was　on　a　late　summer　holiday。　I　won't　go　into　details　since　this　is　not　a　travelogue；　but　there　was　hardly　an　old　fort；　museum；　waterfall；　cave；　or　high　mountain　I　didn't　visit…not　to　mention　the　dreadful　〃Storylands；〃　〃Adventure　Towns；〃　and　mock　〃Indian　Reservations〃　that　got　my　dollar。　I　just　went　on　a　kind　of　sightseeing　splurge　that　was　part　genuine　curiosity　but　mostly　wanting　to　put　off　the　day　when　I　would　have　to　leave　these　lakes　and　rivers　and　forests　and　hurry　on　south　to　the　harsh　Eldollarado　of　the　superhighways；　the　hot…dog　stands；　and　the　ribboning　lights　of　neon。
　It　was　at　the　end　of　these　two　weeks　that　I　found　myself　at　Lake　George；　the　dreadful　hub　of　tourism　in　the　Adirondacks　that　has　somehow　managed　to　turn　the　history　and　the　forests　and　the　wildlife　into　honkytonk。　Apart　from　the　rather　imposing　stockade　fort　and　the　harmless　steamers　that　ply　up　to　Fort　Ticonderoga　and　back；　the　rest　is　a　gimcrack　nightmare　of　concrete　gnomes；　Bambi　deer　and　toadstools；　shoddy　food　stalls　selling　〃Big　Chief　Hamburgers〃　and　〃Minnehaha　Candy　Floss；〃　and　〃Attractions〃　such　as　〃Animal　Land〃　（〃Visitors　may　hold　and　photograph　costumed　chimps〃）；　〃Gaslight　Village〃　（〃Genuine　1890　gas…lighting）；　and　〃Storytown　USA　〃　a　terrifying　babyland　nightmare　which　I　need　not　describe。　It　was　here　that　I　fled　away　from　the　horrible　mainstream　that　Route　9　had　bee；　and　took　to　the　dusty　side　road　through　the　forest　that　was　to　lead　me　to　The　Dreamy　Pines　Motor　Court　and　to　the　armchair　where　i　have　been　sitting　remembering　just　exactly　how　I　happened　to　get　here。
　　
　Part　Two：　Them
　Seven：　〃e　into　My　Parlor。。。〃
　
　THE　rain　was　hammering　down　just　as　hard；　its　steady　roar　providing　a　background　to　the　gurgling　torrents　from　the　downspouts　at　the　four　corners　of　the　building。　I　looked　forward　to　bed。　How　soundly　I　would　sleep　between　the　sheets　in　the　spotless　little　cabin…those　percale　sheets　that　featured　in　the　advertisements　for　the　motel！　How　luxurious　the　Elliott　Frey　beds；　Magee　custom…designed　carpets；　Philco　television　and　air…conditioning；　Icemagic　ice…makers；　Acrilan　blankets　and　Simmons　Vivant　furniture。　（〃Our　phenolic　laminate　tops　and　drawers　are　immune　to　cigarette　burns；　alcohol　stains〃）…in　fact　all　these　refinements　of　modern　motel　luxury　down　to　Acrylite　shower　enclosures；　Olsonite　Pearlescent　toilet　seats；　and　Delsey　〃bathroom　tissue；〃　otherwise　toilet　paper　（〃in　modern　colors　to　harmonize　with　contemporary　decor〃）　that　would　be　mine；　and　mine　alone；　tonight！
　Despite　all　these　gracious　trimmings；　plus　a　beautiful　site；　it　seemed　that　The　Dreamy　Pines　was　in　a　bad　way；　and；　when　I　had　e　upon　it　two　weeks　before；　there　were　only　two　overnighters　in　the　whole　place　and　not　a　single　reservation　for　the　last　fortnight　of　the　season。
　Mrs。　Phancey；　an　iron…gray　woman　with　bitter；　mistrustful　eyes　and　a　grim　slit　of　a　mouth；　was　at　the　desk　when　I　came　in　that　evening。　She　had　looked　sharply　at　me；　a　lone　girl；　and　at　my　meager　saddlebags；　and；　when　I　pushed　the　Vespa　over　to　Number　9；　she　followed　me　with　my　card　in　her　hand　to　check　that　I　had　not　entered　a　false　vehicle　license。　Her　husband；　Jed；　was　more　genial；　but　I　soon　understood　why　when　the　back　of　his　hand　brushed　against　my　breast　as；　later　in　the　cafeteria；　he　put　the　coffee　in　front　of　me。　Apparently　he　doubled　as　handyman　and　short…order　cook　and；　while　his　pale　brown　eyes　moved　over　me　like　slugs；　he　plained　whiningly　about　how　much　there　was　to　do　around　the　place　getting　it　ready　for　closing　date　and　constantly　being　called　away　from　some　job　to　fry　eggs　for　parties　of　transients。　It　seemed　they　were　the　managers　for　the　owner。　He　lived　in　Troy。　A　Mr。　Sanguinetti。　〃Big　shot。　Owns　plenty　property　down　on　Cohoes　Road。　Riverfront　property。　And　the　Trojan　Horse…roadhouse　on　Route　9；　outside　Albany。　Maybe　you　know　the　joint？〃　When　I　said　I　didn't；　Mr。　Phancey　looked　sly。　〃You　ever　want　some　fun；　you　go　along　to　The　Horse。　Better　not　go　alone；　though。　Pretty　gal　like　you　could　get　herself　roughed　up。　After　the　fifteenth；　when　I　get　away　from　here；　you　could　give　me　a　call。　Phancey's　the　name。　In　the　phone　book。　Be　glad　to　escort　you；　show　you　a　good　time。〃　I　thanked　him；　but　said　I　was　just　passing　through　the　district　on　my　way　south。　Could　I　have　a　couple　of　fried　eggs；　sunny…side　up；　and　bacon？
　But　Mr。　Phancey　wouldn't　leave　me　alone。　While　I　ate；　he　came　and　sat　at　my　little　table　and　told　me　some　of　his　dull　life…story　and；　in　between　episodes；　slipped　in　questions　about　me　and　my　plans…what　parents　I　had；　didn't　I　mind　being　so　far　from　home；　did　I　have　any　friends　in　the　States？　and　so　on…innocuous　questions；　put；　it　seemed　to　me；　with　normal　curiosity。　He　was　after　all　around　forty…five；　old　enough　to　be　my　father；　and　though　he　was　obviously　a　duty　old　man；　they　were　a　mon　enough　breed；　and　anyway　Mrs。　Phancey　was　keeping　an　eye　on　us　from　the　desk　at　the　other　end　of　the　room。
　Mr。　Phancey　finally　left　me　and　went　over　to　his　wife　and；　while　I　smoked　a　cigarette　and　finished　my　second　cup　of　coffee　（〃No　charge；　miss。　pliments　of　The　Dreamy　Pines〃）；　I　heard　them　talking　in　a　low　voice　over　something　that；　because　of　an　occasional　chuckle；　seemed　to　give　them　sa