Free Crowned Heads by Thomas Tryon Page B

my acquaintanceship with Vi.
    “‘She sent the countess a book I wrote,’ I said. ‘From London. Did she get it?’
    “Fedora’s head whipped around and she gave me a narrow, scrutinizing look, then she burst into laughter; the washerwoman’s laugh I remembered from the Louvre, but somehow harsher, almost vulgar.
    “‘Viola sends many books. Which was yours?’
    “I supplied the title and she gave a scornful nod. ‘The countess—yes, she was deli-i-i-ghted—deli-i-i-ghted.’ I could hear the calculated note of sarcasm. And she had known all along which book, because in the next breath she said, ‘You are not as goodlooking as your picture; they touched it up, yes?’ Another laugh, the ring of brass, and I wondered where the joke was, it all seemed to amuse her so. When I said I was also acquainted with Willie Marsh, she again scrutinized me carefully. I remarked that I had interviewed Willie some years back and that he had spoken affectionately of her.
    “‘Ah, yes, Little Willie,’ she returned with a mocking slur, ‘a man of taste and discernment. And Bee—how is she, dear Bee?’ Another, more prodigious gale of laughter; Bee, it seemed, was quite the funniest thing.
    “‘Sorry; I thought they were friends of yours,’ I said.
    “Her look darkened and she shook her head. ‘I have no friends,’ she stated lugubriously, as if pandering for my sympathy, pity even. She seemed terribly weary, of everything—me, herself, the world—but I sensed that the fatigue encompassed a physical debilitation as well, spirit and body together. She had herself planted with spread feet on the rise, arms straight down and clutching the handles of the basket, but her stance seemed not so much an effect of defiance as an attempt to stabilize herself. I remembered the stories about the dope bust in Nice and wondered if she might be high on something. Or was it only wine with lunch? She momentarily lost her balance and when I reached to steady her she pushed my hand away. ‘Do not touch me,’ she said indignantly. Then she gave me a crafty look. ‘You do not say what you are doing here.’
    “I’d already concocted the fiction that I was having a leisurely holiday, I wanted to be alone and think, and that Crete seemed a good place for it. ‘I must say,’ I went on offhandedly, ‘I didn’t expect to have you for a neighbor.’
    “‘They usually don’t…. But you lie. You came here to see me.’
    “‘Actually, I came to see the countess Sobryanski.’
    “‘You waste your time—she will not see you. You seek information, isn’t it so? You spy on us with a glass. Don’t deny it—we have seen you. Shall I tell you how to go about your snooping? We are three old women, you see, all alone. We long, we pine. You must woo us. You must write us billets-doux and send us baskets of fruit and serenade our windows, make our hearts flutter, and then we shall let down our hair to you. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair—you remember that little fairy tale? That is what you must do. Make love to us, three old ladies, inflame our cold hearts, and we shall let down our hair and tell you all the stories you care to hear.’ She wheeled and stumbled down the other side of the rise. I watched her until she reached the path and went from sight around the bend. ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,’ I heard, and shortly afterward, the Citroën engine. A moment later I heard something else as well—the sound of a sharp metallic impact—then the car drove away. I grabbed my things, rolled up the towel, and hurried along in her footsteps, already knowing what I would find.
    “The bicycle was not as badly damaged as I expected, but she’d run over the front wheel and it was bent, the spokes were mangled, which made riding difficult. I walked the bike up the hill and had trouble explaining to Mrs. Vasos, who had to ride it down again, what had happened. She tapped her temple, indicating that Fedora was crazy in the head and what