Crowned Heads by Thomas Tryon Page A

gave the place the full once-over, and finally muttered, ‘I wondered what this place looked like.’ When she turned again I saw that her eyes were puffy, and I thought she must have been crying.
    “I said, ‘Would you like to sit down?’ but she didn’t want to. Just kept hovering, moving from the table to the window, and stopping to check the view. ‘The same as ours,’ she declared glumly. The spyglass was on the sill and she picked it up to inspect it, then put it down without saying anything; but she gave me a look, then took my reading chair and let her wicker basket fall beside her. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me something? You don’t make much effort, do you?’
    “‘I haven’t got much, unless you’d like some wine.’
    “‘What sort?’ She narrowed her eyes appraisingly. I brought a bottle from the refrigerator and showed her the label. She glanced at it, then produced a comb from the basket and began combing her hair. ‘It’s not Vouvray, if that’s what you still drink,’ I told her. She stopped combing for an instant and gave me another look, but different, more speculative, penetrating. I thought she was trying to figure how I’d come by that information.
    “‘Anything would be better than Greek wine. Greasy, don’t you think?’
    “I said I thought it was all right, and if she wanted me to open the bottle … She made one of those Fedora-imperial gestures, which I took for yes, then dropped the comb in the basket and made a show of settling back in the chair. She had deliberately pushed the lamp aside when she sat, as if the idea of light were repugnant to her, and it shone now not on her face, but on the red shirt. It was old and worn, shabby even; a button was missing on the placket, another on the flap; but I was sure it was the one I had brought to her in a cleaner’s bag in Paris.
    “‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
    “‘I was just admiring your shirt.’
    “‘It’s very old. Very.’ She sniffed at the shoulder. ‘And smells.’ She idly drew the buttonless threads through her fingers. ‘Hardly something to admire. Admire me if you choose—here I am, à voire service, La Scandalosa in person. Look your fill. Do you find me ravishing? Ever young? La Déesse ? No, say—you can be frank; one will not hold it against you.’ She turned her face, offering the fabulous profile to the light. The opportunity was irresistible, and at the risk of more hostility, I asked:
    “‘How do you do it?’
    “‘I am a sor-r-r-ceress; it is my single greatest piece of magic. Infallible. A trick, you see. One I was taught.’
    “‘Whose trick?’
    “She became secretive, put on her Mona Lisa smile, hoarding her mystery. ‘Somebody …’
    “‘They say—’
    “‘I know what they say. Emmanuel Vando—yes, a devilish magician. I am his handiwork, am I not? Exhibit Number One. But even a magician’s tricks can fail. The rabbit does not always pop out of the hat.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘But presto, see how the magician is unmasked as a fake…. I owe nobody in the world for anything.’
    “She waved away her cigarette smoke and helped herself to the bottle, but making a face to let me know the wine was not to her liking. Then she stubbed out her cigarette in the dish and wanted another. I fished out my pack and offered one. ‘I don’t smoke Camels anymore,’ I said, striking a match. Her puzzled look indicated that my cigarette preferences were of no concern to her, and her fingers clamped around my hand, positioning it exactly where she wanted it, and I could feel tremors along the length of her arm. ‘I hate those damn Greek things. Viola brought American ones, but they go fast. I have an allotment’
    “‘Who allots you—yourself?’
    “She jerked her head toward the wall. They do. They allot everything up there. Are your eyes troubling you?’
    “‘No.’
    “‘Then stop with that squinting at me. One is not something to be squinted at.’
    “I had in