Doctor's Wife

by Brian Moore

  In the dark he moved away and then lifted her up in the bed, positioning her with her back to him, his hands holding her waist. She heard the bed, the rotten bed, grinding and jiggling so loud there was no question the people in the rooms on either side must hear it too. But in her joy she forgot that, she heard nothing, and soon she had to make him wait, hold still, hold still, and then there must have been all the noise in the world as she let him start again inside her, driving to the climax, how many times today, there is no past, there is this, just this.

  Later, she slept. In her dream, Kevin waited for her in the Great Northern Railway Station, standing at the end of the platform under signs advertising the Daily Express and the Belfast Telegraph. There was something familiar and threatening in this waiting, something which told her it had happened before. The station was very dirty and smelled of cigarette smoke, and on the deserted platform lay dozens of crushed empty cartons which had once held fish and chips. She wore black: she was coming home from Uncle Dan’s funeral in Dublin, and as she came up to the ticket barrier she thought she had lost her ticket and was hunting through her purse for it. Kevin would be angry if she had lost her ticket again. When she could not find it, the guard at the gate smacked his chrome ticket punch irritatedly into the palm of his hand, then motioned her aside to let other passengers pass in front of her. She found money and paid again to replace her lost ticket. She hoped Kevin didn’t see her pay. She went out to him and kissed him, but Kevin, looking strange, said, “I heard you were not coming back.” Who could have told him that? “I heard you were off dancing in the dark in France.” “I’m home,” she said. “Then it’s over, let’s go home,” he said. They got into Kevin’s new Audi and drove away from the railway station. It was raining, it was always raining. They were coming up Duncairn Gardens and a Jock soldier stopped them, signaling to them to pull over. The patrol was not doing a search; they were in an awful hurry, shouting in their Scots voices. And then, as Kevin pulled the car in to the curb, the car shook and she saw a big gray cloud of dust or smoke up ahead. It was the Swan pub that had been bombed: she knew the people who owned it, one of the daughters had gone to Glenarm convent with her, years ago, Nan Gallery, a red-haired girl, but her picture in the Irish News next day was black and white. In the black and white picture she did not look a bit like herself. PUBLICAN AND TWO DAUGHTERS KILLED IN EXPLOSION

  It was a dream, she was dreaming it, she had dreamed different parts of it again and again since the bomb in the Swan and the picture in the paper. And now, in her dream, she was on a road in a bus, all alone, no Kevin or Danny, she was coming up to a barrier, it wasn’t a police barrier, it was the Irish border, customs men came out and did not look at her but waved the bus on. She had no ticket. Then there was an English soldier up ahead in the middle of the road. The bus slowed and stopped, with an airbrake noise. The soldier came onto the bus and pointed his rifle at her, ordering her out. She screamed.

  She woke in a dark room. She did not know if she had screamed out loud. She turned on her right side, expecting to see the phosphorescence on Kevin’s alarm clock, but felt her body touch a naked body. There was no clock.

  He was asleep, one arm across his chest as though he were about to draw an invisible sword. In the predawn light coming through the shutters she saw outlines of the dressing table and the imitation green leather armchair. She looked at him again. Asleep, he looked so young. If some English soldier came into the room now with his gun pointing at us, I would throw myself across the bed to protect him. Soon he will slip away and go to his own hotel. And when he does, I’ll get up and wash my hair.

  But she fell asleep. When she woke it was eight-fifteen and he was long gone. She rose, no time for hair washing. She must hurry to get ready to meet him for breakfast.

  As usual, he was first at the table. He stood up when she came through the bar and made as if he would kiss her. But she saw other guests looking at them and shook her head. It was, she knew at once, a stupid thing to have done, so when they sat down she reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m sorry. That was silly of me. When did you go out this morning?”

  “Six-thirty. No one saw me.”

  “Are you cross because I wouldn’t let you kiss me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And so, what will we do today?”

  He looked at her. “Let’s go some place you’ve never been before.”

  “What sort of place?”

  “A beach. Somewhere we can be without you remembering you were there with your husband.”

  “We could go to the public beach,” she said. “It’s pretty bad, but it’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.”

  “And you weren’t there with him?”

  “Never. He wouldn’t go. He hates a stony beach.”

  “Okay.”

  •

  That afternoon, when they had picnicked and sunned, and been several times in the water, Tom lay, blissful, on the stony beach, his arms around her. “Isn’t this great?” he said. “This is just what I wanted.”

  “Stones and all?”

  “Stones and all. I’m sorry I said that about you and your husband this morning. It’s only natural, you’d talk about when you were here before.”

  “I’m not going to do it any more. I’m going to reform.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. And from now on we’re officially lovers. You can come to my room, kiss me in public, do anything you want.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t this a nice beach? Let’s come here tomorrow.”

  Chapter 6

  • Mr. Balcer did not care for the beach. He did not sunbathe, neither did he swim. Still, every day of his vacation he would walk along the quay after lunch until he reached the public beach, where, slowing his pace, moving along the promenade overlooking the pebbly shoreline, he would observe the sunbathers below. Girls were the interest, and sometimes, the French being what they were (and the Scandinavians more so), he would see a girl in monokini, her breasts bare, or, better, a couple up to something. Although, usually, this did not happen on the main beach but in the rocky coves.

  In this way, on Friday, about three o’clock in the afternoon, he rediscovered the loving twosome from the Welcome. Miss Purdue had commented on them last evening, pointing to the empty table, deciding they must have checked out. Mr. Balcer disagreed: the table was set for two and still bore the same room number. And now, when Mr. Balcer rediscovered the couple in a rocky nook, screened from all but his eyes, he did not at first recognize them. This was because he was not looking at their faces but at what they were doing. In particular at what she was doing. He advanced on them quietly, at first seeing only a man and a woman lying side by side on a big white towel; then he stepped up on a rock, pretending to be looking at a sailboat in the bay. They were too busy to notice him. As he watched, the woman reached out and touched the boy’s crotch outside his swimming trunks. Then, slowly, she began rubbing her hand up and down. Mr. Balcer felt almost as much agitation as though this were happening to him. He could see the growing bulge under the boy’s white trunks. His breath became short. He hoped they would go on doing what they were doing and not notice him. The boy put his hand inside the bra of her blue swim-suit, pulling it down to expose her breast. Then they turned to face each other, and exchanged a long, open-mouthed kiss as Mr. Balcer with all his might willed the boy to pull down her pants. But the boy did not oblige. It was at that moment, with a shock, that Mr. Balcer saw the woman’s face, and realized these people were his table neighbors at the Welcome. At once he became alarmed and, retreating to the safety of the promenade wall, climbed over it, to regain the pavement. Flushed, he continued his walk.

  That evening when, as usual, he joined Miss Purdue at dinner, he did not bring up the incident. The lovers’ table remained unoccupied, although the restaurant was full and there was a line of non-residents waiting to be seated. A little after nine, Ahmed came by, rese
t the table for four, then seated four waiting non-residents at it. Miss Purdue ordered coffee. When Ahmed came, she asked, “Number 450. Has that couple left?” “No, Madame,” Ahmed said. “Office tell me they have booking for two weeks. But they did not come in this evening. If they come later I will give them a table in the bar.”

  “How very odd,” Miss Purdue said to Mr. Balcer. “Imagine paying pension rate and not taking advantage of it. I’m afraid I’m much too parsimonious ever to do a thing like that. It does seem so wasteful. So American.”

  “By the way, have you read who’s supposed to be in Nice today?” Mr. Balcer said. “Cary Grant.”

  “Cary Grant? Oh, he should be worth at least three points. I hope I bag him.”

  “I hope I see him too,” Mr. Balcer said. “I remember him in Notorious.”

  “Do you?” Miss Purdue said. “It must be thirty years since that film.”

  When he had finished his coffee and said good evening to Miss Purdue, Mr. Balcer set off on an after-dinner stroll. The doctor had told him to walk as much as possible; it was good for his heart. But unless a walk had a purpose (like the girls on the beach), Mr. Balcer found the exercise boring. Halfway across the square, he decided to go up to the top of the town to see if those Brazilian cigars were in yet at the cigar shop on the main Nice-Monaco road. Normally, he found the climb too steep. But tonight, with a goal in mind, he set off at a good pace, navigating a flight of steps which came out on a square midway through the old town. As he crossed this square, passing a café on the ground floor of a small hotel called Les Terrasses, he experienced the thrill of a hunter who comes on sitting game. There they were, holding hands and talking, over the remains of a meal. The Irish lady wore a white dress and a red carnation pinned to her right breast, that breast Mr. Balcer had earlier seen nice and round and nude. She was very good-looking, he decided, but too tall, must be five ten or eleven; she and the boy towered over the other diners. Mr. Balcer eyed her figure. I wouldn’t mind fucking her myself. I’d like to have her put her hand inside my pants and rub my prick. It was more exciting, somehow, when you thought of some nice-looking respectable lady doing things like that to you. Stiff in his pants, slower than before, Mr. Balcer resumed his walk, going all the way up to the Corniche road. The shop was still out of Brazilians, so he bought himself a nice Schimmelpenninck Corona instead, then went back down again, recrossing the square. Their table at Les Terrasses was empty now, a wine botde upended in the ice bucket. As he went by, a light came on, on the first floor of the hotel above, and from habit, he glanced up. The window was open, tulle curtains floating out, and there in the lighted window was the Irish lady with the boy behind her, both of them looking down at the lights of the port. For a moment he was puzzled: what were they doing up there, when she had a room at the Welcome? Ah! This must be the boy’s hotel. He walked on. He must tell that to Miss Purdue tomorrow. When he reached the Welcome, the TV was over for the night, the public rooms deserted. He took up an old Paris-Match and sat in the TV lounge to finish his cigar before going to his room. There, all alone in the quiet, he heard someone’s footsteps in the lobby. A woman’s voice.

  “Were there any messages for me?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “No phone calls?”

  “No, Madame. I have been here all evening. No calls.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Balcer, rising from his chair, saw her in the lobby, the white dress, the red carnation pinned on her breast.

  “Do you wish your key, Madame?”

  “Yes, you may as well give it to me now. I’m just going out again for a breath of air before I go up.”

  “Alors, bonsoir, Madame.”

  “Bonsoir.”

  Going out again, was she? Off for more fucking? Intrigued, Mr. Balcer came from the TV room and passed by her, as though going out for a stroll himself. And, sure enough, outside in the shadows, waiting like a prowler, was the boy. Mr. Balcer, puffing on his Schimmelpen-ninck, strolled across the square and soon heard the light, rapid sound of her footsteps as she hurried past him to rejoin her lover. Mr. Balcer slackened his pace and drew on his cigar, pretending to savor its aroma. He watched the young man emerge from the shadows.

  “All right?”

  She nodded. “No calls.”

  “So he’s not coming tomorrow.”

  “Looks like it. He might phone in the morning, though.”

  “Are you worried about him calling during the night?”

  “No,” she said. She kissed the boy’s cheek. “Let’s go back to your room.”

  Mr. Balcer, tonguing the tip of his cigar to glue the wrapping leaf which had loosened, watched them climb up the steps toward the square. He thought again of her fingers rubbing the boy’s prick outside his pants. He touched his hand to his own and felt it grow stiff. Turning, he went back into the Welcome.

  •

  The bed in Les Terrasses was small, its mattress worn and hollowed by thousands of previous occupants. To get out of it without disturbing her fellow sleeper seemed impossible. She eased herself up carefully, hearing the bed-springs groan as she stood. Moonlight came through the tulle curtains, lighting his face. He did not wake. She negotiated the armchair and bidet which, with the shower, was on the left of the bed, and went to the window to look out at the deserted square. Beyond its rooftops she could see the moonlit bay and the millionaire’s yacht at anchor. For hours she had been unable to sleep, her state one of excitement and a concomitant unease. In a few days all this would end. It could end the moment Kevin phones to say he’s coming. Oh, please, God, let him not come.

  She had thought “God.” The word usually came to her lips these days as a meaningless ejaculation. She no longer prayed. She remembered when all that had changed, at the time of Pope John. It had begun when people lost their fear of hell and damnation. If you no longer feared damnation, you no longer had to believe in heaven. It was, she sometimes thought, a bad joke that when the people at home no longer believed in their religion, or went to church as they once did, the religious fighting was worse than ever.

  She remembered what had happened two years ago: Danny noticed that his father no longer went to Mass, and one Sunday he suddenly refused to get dressed for church. “Daddy doesn’t have to go, so why should I?” And when Kevin laughed and was not angry at Danny, she said to herself, They’re both right, why do we keep on with this compulsory church attendance, when was the last time I knelt in a church and actually prayed? We don’t believe, any of us. We don’t have to go to Mass or communion, or any of it. And so they all slid out of it, and now never put their feet inside a church door except on great occasions like a wedding or a funeral. Just like Protestants. Of course, she had to lie and make excuses to the parish priest when he came around a couple of times a year with his hints and veiled reproaches about not seeing them at church functions. And of course, if anyone asked her, she would still say she was a Catholic. In Ulster today, to declare that you were no longer a Catholic was to risk being thought a turncoat. But she did not think of herself as a Catholic. Not any more.

  Yet tonight, having said “Please, God” to herself, she remembered how, once, she had asked God’s help in everything. She thought of her old fears, her familiar sins, and thought how, long ago when she was a schoolgirl, she would feel a special happiness after making her confession. And how, the next Sunday after Holy Communion, she would walk down the aisle to her seat knowing that if she died at that moment she would go to heaven, her sins confessed and forgiven, her soul purged and in a state of grace. It seemed like another life, that long-ago time of rules and rewards, when prayer and sin were real. Yet tonight, in the quiet of this moonlit room, that feeling came back to her, that pure Sunday communion peace. It filled her, shocking her, for wasn’t this sin, here in this room, committing adultery with this boy, how could this be that same state, that pure feeling of peace? Yet it filled her, it possessed her totally. It was as though wrong were right. Her former life, her ma
rriage, all that had gone before, now seemed to be her sin. These few days with Tom were her state of grace. She turned, went back to the bed, and lay down beside him, holding him in her arms, pressing against his warm body. She closed her eyes. I am in grace. In my state of grace.

  Chapter 7

  • Next morning, after breakfast, they went down to the Welcome, ordered a picnic lunch, and, at the desk clerk’s suggestion, walked across the peninsula of Cap Ferrât to explore the public beach at Beaulieu. Again, they drank a whole bottle of wine with their lunch and afterward a Belgian boy came up and asked if they wanted to play catch. Soon, they stood, all three, in a triangle, tossing the ball, absorbed as children. She felt careless and content, tossing the bright-pink ball in the air. She knew she must be putting on weight, eating these big lunches and drinking so much wine, but she didn’t care, and now Tom, unexpectedly reversing the order of throwing, threw the ball, not to the Belgian, but back to her. Determined not to be the first to miss a catch, she ran, splashing into the shallows to make the save. Both males applauded. She stood, small waves lapping her calves, wondering which one to throw to. Both began to signal, vying for her attention, so she feinted, pretending to throw the ball back to Tom, but instead hurled it hard in the direction of the Belgian boy, who caught it stylishly, using only one hand. He did not throw it back but hesitated, then asked what time it was. Tom said it was after three. The Belgian boy smiled and shook hands with both of them, saying his parents were waiting for him in town. Arm-in-arm, they watched him run off up the beach.