The Night Guest: A Novel Part 14

"I'm a wreck," Ruth said.

"We'll both be, soon enough," said Frida. "Unless we act quickly."

"Why do you want me to go to Richard?"

"I want you to be happy," said Frida. Ruth suspected her of telling the truth. "You don't know what it's meant to me, living here with you these last few weeks. You're like the mother I-"

"No," said Ruth.

"No?"

"I won't go to Richard." That was easy enough: the lilies are over, don't go to Richard. Ruth was irritated at herself, actually, for almost falling for it: that version of leaving her house, of ending her life, as if she might scrub out the disappointment of fifty years ago and step, bridal, over Richard's door. "If he wants me, he can come here. I hope he comes. I'll invite him."

"But-"

"You can still help me. You can go away," said Ruth, and that was easy too. "You leave me alone, and I'll help you. I'll lend you the money for your mother's house. I have plenty of money. I'll pay the bank-tell them that."

"I can't tell them that," said Frida. She was very still at her end of the couch, but Ruth could see the tick of her temple.

"Why not?"

"It's too much money."

"You took care of my house, and now I'll take care of yours. It's like a poem."

"What are you talking about?"

"It rhymes," Ruth said, explanatory.

Frida sighed. "Do you know how much money that would be?" She shook her head. Something was amazing her.

"I have plenty of money," said Ruth. "Harry sold the Sydney house. That was a big house."

"I don't know what to say," said Frida. She seemed caught up in a kind of sad, disbelieving relief.

"But you have to leave. You can't live here anymore. You should live in your mother's house and leave me alone."

"I'll go," said Frida. "I'm already going. But I want to make you happy, you understand? I don't want to leave you all alone in this horrible house."

"There's nothing wrong with this house," said Ruth. "Only I worry-isn't it silly? I do worry about that tiger."

"Really? The one thing you're worried about is the tiger?"

Ruth nodded, embarra.s.sed.

"We can't have that," said Frida. "You leave the tiger to me."

"What will you do?" asked Ruth, a little fearful.

"What needs to be done." Now Frida sat upright. "How do I know you won't forget all this tomorrow?"

"I might," admitted Ruth, trying to smooth out the lumps in her skirt. "So I'll write myself a note. Isn't that what people do?"

This prompted Frida into action. She rolled up from the couch and into the dining room; the first writable surface she found was Ruth's detective novel, which she opened to the first page and settled on Ruth's lap.

"Write it here." Frida produced a pen from about her person.

Ruth felt as if she were signing a book she'd written. She tested the pen with a little flourish at the top of the page, then wrote, under the t.i.tle, "TRUST FRIDA."

"What's the date?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Frida. "Tuesday night."

So Ruth wrote, in brackets, "Tuesday night."

"How do we do this?" she asked, blowing lightly on the book. The pen's ink had blotted on the cheap paper. "Do we go to the bank?"

"Yes," said Frida. "But! But! You can't just go into a bank and say you're buying a house. We need George, we need a solicitor, we need all kinds of things. I told him we couldn't rush this."

Ruth, knowing Frida would find a way around these problems, remained silent and waited for it.

"But," said Frida. "But! How about this? You transfer the money to George, I get a written agreement from him-we sort out the details later. The main thing is to get this done before they take the house."

"When do they take the house?"

"Friday."

"I'll write a cheque," said Ruth. "Bring me my book." Ruth had always enjoyed writing cheques. They were so businesslike.

"A cheque'll take days to clear," said Frida.

"Not really, not these days." Ruth remembered Harry's explaining this. "It's only about three business days, these days." And she laughed, because having said days three times made it feel as if those days had already pa.s.sed.

Frida zigzagged up and down the living room. This was her thinking walk. "Three days is too long," she said. "All right, all right. This is what we're going to do. If it's okay by you." She tapped at her forehead as if coaxing her brain. "We'll go into town tomorrow and go to the bank. They know you in the bank, don't they?"

"Some of them might know me. I haven't been to town for a long time."

"Yeah, not for ages." Frida shook her head. "And you can buy cheques that clear quickly. There's a name for that-what is it?"

The word dropped into Ruth's head. "Expedite," she said.

"That's it!" Frida raised her jubilant arms. "Is that how you say it? Say it again."

Ruth cleared her throat. "Expedite." In her mind's eye, she saw ek-sp-dt.

"Expedite!" cried Frida. "And that's what we're going to do. Now what about Jeffrey?"

"What does he have to do with any of this?" Ruth asked, surprised.

"He's coming on Friday."

"So let him come!" cried Ruth. "Let them all come! We'll have a party. If Jeffrey's coming, and Richard's coming, I'll invite Ellen."

"Richard's coming?"

"Yes, of course. I told you about Richard, didn't I-a man I knew in Fiji?" Frida walked impatiently to the lounge-room window. "He's coming for the weekend. He's coming for Christmas."

Frida stood at the window, and because the lights were on and the curtains were open, Frida stood in the window looking back. Her face was so severe; probably she didn't approve of Richard. She was such a prude, really. She drove those naked children off the beach.

"Are you really frightened of the tiger?" she asked.

Ruth only laughed. "Of course, Phil should come, too, if Jeffrey's coming. I'll call him, shall I?"

"By all means," said Frida, magnanimous. "Call Phil, call everyone. Call the Queen, my love. Why the h.e.l.l not."

"I saw the Queen," said Ruth, and they both said together, "In Fiji."

"Jesus, Ruthie," said Frida in the window.

15.

That was the night Frida fought the tiger. He came earlier than he had the other nights: Frida was in the bathroom and Ruth sat up in bed with the lamp still lit. She was thinking about calling Richard, but couldn't be sure of what she wanted to say: something about an invitation to Christmas, and also about hating Sydney because of bad junipers and good pirate plays. She was aware of being very tired and thought she would probably make a fool of herself. So she sank down into the bed and, as she did so, heard the first suggestions of the tiger: the footfalls in the lounge room, the moving lamps and chairs. He had come without the jungle, although Ruth could feel that it was nearby, outside the windows, in a way that reminded her of Fiji. It was like night in their wide, hot house beside the hospital, where the moths knocked up against the windows and the gardens dripped in the dark. The light around her bed stirred like the mosquito netting she had slept under as a girl. Then the tiger: softly at first, his usual nosing and breathing, which was all so quiet that Ruth was inclined to ignore this evidence and a.s.sume he was still banished to the beach. The cats, however, stiffened and stared-a bad sign, a tiger sign-and shortly after this, the tiger began to make a sharp whine, as if he was hungry. Then he was unmistakably the tiger.

Frida was still in the bathroom. Ruth's door was ajar, and she could see light falling across the hall in a way that meant the lounge-room door was open. The tiger was there, in that light! What would it mean to actually see him? Would it hurt? The jungle pressed against the windows, not insistent; only present.

Ruth got out of bed. She felt lately as if she were always heroically rising from bed, mainly because of her back. Tonight it hadn't had the chance to freeze in sleep; it still had the day's limited elasticity. The cats watched her. They were in no hurry to leave the bed. Ruth shook her head at them to say "Quiet!" She crossed the floor and leaned into the hallway. It was empty. Then Frida was at the end of it, and running towards her.

"Did you hear it?" called Frida.

"Quick!" cried Ruth, and she pulled Frida into her room. Frida wore a white towelling dressing gown. She was soft and without shape. "Close the door!"

Frida closed the door. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes," said Ruth. "I think-yes, I did."

They both stilled and listened. He had come into the hallway, Ruth was sure of it. He must have heard Frida, or seen or smelled her, and now he knew with certainty they were there. Now he nosed at the door.

Frida flew against it. "All right, all right," she said. "Think."

They both thought. There was nothing to think. Ruth's mind was blank of everything but the tiger. Frida pressed against the door. Finally she said, "I'm going out there."

"You can't!" cried Ruth. But she was certain Frida would; there was no alternative.

"I can and I will." Frida's face was resolved above the white fluff of her dressing gown. She pressed one ear against the door, listening, but there was silence in the hallway. Ruth waited for a hungry howl.

"Promise me you won't come out, no matter what you hear," Frida said. "And if something happens, promise me you'll call George and tell him about it yourself."

"Frida!"

"Promise me."

"How do I call him?"

"Look him up in the phone book. Look up his taxi. Young Livery. Can you do that?"

Ruth nodded.

Then Frida turned to face the door. She adjusted her robe, took a deep scuba breath, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway. The door closed behind her. Then it was definite: Frida was going to fight the tiger.

"Can you see him?" Ruth asked through the door.

"Not yet. I'm going to find a weapon."

"Get a broom."

"All right, a broom," said Frida. "And maybe a knife."

Ruth heard Frida run into the kitchen in search of a broom and a knife; then came the sound of the tiger's paws on the floor of the hallway. This sound reminded Ruth of the soft rhythm of a particular trolley on the floor of the clinic in Fiji; she heard it pa.s.sing up and down while she waited in her father's consulting room. The tiger was following Frida, but without hurrying; he was a cat in long gra.s.ses; he was hunting. Pressed against the door, Ruth could hear her busy heart, the hunting tiger, and the hospital trolley; then the sound of Frida's finding a broom.

"Frida!" Ruth called. "He's behind you!"

The broom cupboard was stiff with equipment, mops and brooms and buckets all piled in together, and they fell out on the floor as Frida selected her weapon-Ruth heard all this from her room.

The cats jumped from the bed and clamoured at Ruth's feet. They wanted to get out. Frida was swearing in the kitchen now, among the mops and buckets, but she stopped when she saw the tiger and cried "Aha!" The tiger answered with a crisp, proud puff from his nostrils. Then he sprang onto the table-Ruth heard the table sc.r.a.pe over the floor. Frida was in the knife drawer now. Its metals rang. Frida would carve the tiger! But he was ready to pounce.

The house was hotter than ever before. Ruth pressed her sticky hand against the door, as if checking for fire. The kitchen had burned today! Frida was facing the tiger! Did she really stand in the Sausage King's with an empty purse only this morning? Was there such a thing as a bus, a town, a mortgage? The cats clawed at Ruth's legs. Whose side were they on? They were wild with panic and fear, and Ruth could barely recognize them.

Frida wielded her broom-she was trying to herd the tiger out the back door. But he wouldn't run tonight. Frida commanded, "Out! Out!" The broom battered the shutters and walls, but he stayed put. Ruth had seen the cats hunting birds in the garden; she knew the tiger's whole rusty front would be still and low, and his back paws would be lifting, lifting, beneath his undulant tail. Then-the table moved again, sharp against the floor-he flew at Frida. She lifted her broom, which cracked against something hard. They were both so quiet; Ruth marvelled at it. Every now and then, Frida produced an "Oof," but there were no shouts of pain or whimpers from the tiger; only the noise of furniture s.h.i.+fting, and periodically a shatter of gla.s.s. Ruth closed her eyes. The tiger was stronger than Frida and determined to fight.

But Frida was fearless. She didn't give up any ground or lose hold of her weapons. She struck! And now the tiger gave out a high squawk. The cats went mad at the door, and Ruth-her eyes still closed-opened it for them, quickly, and closed it again. They ran through the kitchen, through Frida and the tiger, and outside. Their flight was enough to distract him; Frida struck again. Now he ran. All through the hospital the tiger fled, into the house and the hallway and through the clinic, and as he ran, the patients sat up in their beds, even those that couldn't sit, as if the trumpets of the resurrection had sounded and their souls were rising from perpetual sleep. Someone began to ring a bell, which might summon the fire brigade; it might wake the doctor with his canny, flimsy hands and bring him running in expectation of surgery. It might wake the whole town, the whole island; it might bring the sea to a halt, waiting, waiting to see the tiger run by. He ran into Phillip's room and out of it again, and everywhere he ran, Frida followed him with her broom and her knife and her battle cry. Ruth heard, along with the bell, a new sound-the beating together of the compost-bin lids, sailing across the sand. Children fled from the beach. Children in the wards began to cry out, but not in alarm; they called "Frida! Frida!" Lights came on in every room. The bell rang. Lights disappeared and came on again in every room. The tiger ran blindly into furniture. His claws skidded over the floors.

"Oh, no you don't!" called Frida, and Ruth called-everyone called-"No you don't!" along with her.

The tiger was trapped in the hallway. Ruth pressed against her door; her heart struck again and again. There he was in the hallway, there was his snarl and the fury of his breath. The cats cried out in the garden. Now Frida began to roar; she was magnificent. The tiger answered-he roared, and his roar was a stone flying over water. Then Frida struck. The speed of her striking arm lifted a wind in the house. The tiger yelped in surprise-a startled domestic little yelp-and then he was in the jungle again, or of the jungle, and enraged. Ruth felt for a moment on the verge of understanding exactly what the tiger was saying when he roared. He wasn't concerned for his safety, but for his dignity. There was a sense of enormous injustice, not quite conceivable to him. But you must take Frida seriously, thought Ruth. She found herself pitying the tiger. He was fighting to save his territory, but Frida meant to finish him off. Then he roared again, a war cry, and she stopped trembling for him. She was never afraid for Frida.

Something heavy fell against the door; it was unclear which of them it was. But the tiger must have struck because Frida cried out in rage and pain. She fought back. There had been no beginning to Frida and the tiger, and now there would be no end. They both snarled and bared their teeth. Frida called out the strange syllables of a warlike alphabet. Her voice grew louder, but the tiger's slowed. He still roared, but his roar seemed full of static, like the roar of a tiger on television. It came and went. Frida's broom rattled. The bell stopped and all the lights went out. There was no hospital and no house; only Frida and the tiger. Ruth leaned, terrified, against the door.

Now the jungle began, sudden and synchronized: insects tucked in trees, and a high peal of hidden birds. The wind died out among the foliage and became instead a hot, damp gag, barely moving, and carrying something wet whenever it did. Frida had the tiger down near the coatrack now, and she was holding her ground. Probably his ears were flat against his head. His tail moved to and fro. There was the sc.r.a.pe of his claws on the wood of the floor.

"Frida!" cried Ruth, and when she did, there was the sound of falling bodies, more cries, more knocks of the broom on the wall, but it was as if nothing more serious than a scuffle were taking place, a closing-time fracas, until there came at last a screech-the sound of a cat whose tail has been trampled. Frida grunted; she was pus.h.i.+ng something hard. She called out, and then her body-or his body-a heavy body-fell. The hallway was quiet. Then light came in under the bedroom door.

"Frida?" said Ruth. Frida groaned. "Are you hurt?" Frida rapped on the door with the end of the broom. "Can I come out? Are you all right?"