by Paul Theroux
A croaky-voiced yokel on my car radio said, "If you don't care where you are, you're not lost," and I laughed angrily.
Like the other wandering men I saw, I was anonymous—or rather, most of them looked like me, hunched over, kicking the dirty snow and wearing misshapen caps, their hands in their pockets. They were lost explorers waiting to be rescued. We were ignorant and illiterate and sick; we had a vague sense of needing another life. The only cure for my disorientation was to go far away and start again. There was no rescue for me here.
Arriving at midnight at my own house on the Cape, I was not consoled. It was chilly inside and the low temperature made the damp air greasy. I switched on the lights and turned the thermostat up. Just then I heard the ping of my answering machine, indicating that it had taken a message. Two messages, so the window blinked to me in a yellow number. After almost three days away from here, only two messages, and the first one began, You bastard, don't you dare —at which point I hit the skip button, making the words quacky and meaningless.
The second message was strangely formal after the sudden abuse of the first one. It was like hearing a different language. I could tell from its hesitation and twittering and the howling wires that it was probably transadantic.
—This is a message for Paul Therouxfrom Mr. and Mrs. Laird Birdwood, it began—female voice, submissive and secretarial. They wonder whether you are free for dinner at their house in London on February twelfth. A few details. Black tie. Arrival at seven-thirty sharp—the timing is rather important, I'm afraid. We'll fax an invitation when you've confirmed that you can make it. We very much hope you can. Please ring back when you have a chance.
It was a complete statement—precise, confident, efficient, and clearly enunciated.
I listened to the message again, looking into the bedroom mirror. I was pale, unshaven, the tip of my nose was pink, a scab of snot clung to one nostril, my hair was twisted into spikes from my wearing a tight knitted wool cap. I had not changed my clothes for three days; I had slept in them.
Black tie. Arrival at seven-thirty sharp—
Another certainty in my condition was knowing what was possible and what was not. Dinner in London was out of the question. I could not think of a single reason for going. It would simply be a matter of working out the time difference between the Cape and London and then calling during office hours to convey my regrets.
I had a bath. I shaved. I drank green tea. I got into bed and read some pages of Malinowski's Coral Gardens and Their Magic. Sleety rain had started to patter like sand grains against the window. I fantasized about disappearing in New Guinea—no lumpy clothes, no gloves, no frostbite. I warmed myself with my tea and my reading and, warmer, I was soon asleep.
In the morning I called Birdwood's number in London to say I could not make it. I got his secretary, the polite woman who had left the message.
— I am so sorry, she said. I know Mr. and Mrs. Birdwood will be disappointed. They were very keen for you to come. Whatever is that noise?
— The wind, I said. It was last night's storm, still blowing, tearing at the shingles. It's just that it's quite a trip from here to London for dinner. And it's rather soon.
— Quite. But it's going to be a special occasion.
— Oh, I'm sure. But—
— I think that you ought to know that the guest of honor is Her Majesty the Queen.
— Yes, I said. I could not look at my face in the mirror and still make sense of these words. The Queen?
— And Prince Philip, of course. They've never visited Mr. Birdwood's home before. Everyone's very excited, as you might imagine.
— The Queen, I said. I was smiling, standing naked in my room, yesterday's clothes in a pile, looking like the carcass of a large animal. The word "Queen" called up her portrait on the postage stamps, her slender neck, her dainty chin, her perky nose, her crown prettily tipped on the back of her head.
— For security reasons we have to have our final guest list fairly soon.
— I'll be coming alone, I said.
Flying into London on my low-season fare using frequent-flyer miles, my only luggage my tux in a bag, I reflected that what I needed was the solace of anonymity in a place where no one knew me. In the meantime, feeling like someone on the graveyard shift on his way to work, Mr. Half-Life carrying his shabby uniform, I was setting off to meet Her Majesty Elizabeth II, the Queen, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of her other realms and territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.
I was in coach. Carl Lewis was in first. A bossy, buttocky flight attendant—male, wet-eyed, twitching to be noticed—blocked my way, allowing the Olympic runner off the plane. From my humble place in the steerage line I noticed that Lewis had the smallest ears I had ever seen on a human being.
In the Underground I realized that, having left two years before, and with no good news to report, there was no one I wished to see in London. I did not want to be asked how I was doing or what I was working on. I had no answers. I craved the company of strangers. The teenagers in Medford had not worked. I liked the idea of naked illiterate islanders grinning in my direction and seeing me (so Malinowski had said) as someone who did not belong to the human race.
The Birdwoods were almost strangers to me. Charmian was English, "the Queen's cousin," people said, as they said about many people, from one of those families—but perhaps this royal visit was the proof. Laird was a wealthy American, a breeder of horses who needed to be near Newmarket. He prided himself on his stables (he had twice won the Grand National) and on his library of first editions—look under T and you would find editions of my books that even I did not own. Years before, during Ascot Week, he had invited me to dinner with Princess Anne, and he had sat me next to her. Daddy had a go at the Daily Express, the Princess Royal had said. After dinner, her husband— the Captain, as she called him—had complained about her trips to Africa to visit hungry villagers. What I say is, charity begins at home. He had broken his leg in a riding accident. It had not stopped him from attempting a foolish little jig as he wearily kicked his plaster cast while the Princess Royal sighed and suffered. They were separated now.
The seating arrangement had worked. I was American, a writer, the soul of gratitude and politeness; and I was harmless. Being socially unclassifiable helped solve the problem of a royal seating arrangement. A presentable American created no class conflict. It was much better that I was obscure, that we were all strangers to each other, even the hosts. And it was easier returning to London this way, a visit as parody, the guest dressed as a waiter.
In eighteen years of living in London, I had never stayed in a London hotel. Only the out-of-towners truly understand a city's hotels. It did not matter—I had lost my money and so I no longer had any choices. I got off the Underground at Earl's Court and found a Vacancy sign in the window of the Sandringham House Hotel. It was as cold and dirty and poorly lighted as the house I had just left.
Eight o'clock on a winter morning in London, the forty-watt bulbs burning so feebly in the foyer they cast no shadows. An Indian in a sort of teller's cage signed me in, took my money in advance, and welcomed me. A plastic nameplate gave his name as R. G. Pillai.
Then he said, "Room twenty-two. It is not ready."
"Do you have any that are ready?"
"Not available."
"I've just flown all night."
"Check-out time is noon. Maybe then."
Interrupting me in my protest, he said, "Take breakfast in lounge."
It was not a lounge. It was a drafty rear room on the second floor, colder than the foyer, with velvet drapes, tables too close together, and an electric heater in the fireplace. A flickering red light on the plastic ornamental log had been switched on, but not its burners.
The waiters were Indians in stained white jackets. I sat for a while, watching people at other tables being served. Soon the paraphernalia was brought to my table—an empty jam jar with a dusty lid, a sa
ucer of two butter pats, a toast rack (two slices), a sugar bowl, milk jug, teapot, pot of hot water, tea strainer and tea-strainer holder, spoons, forks, tongs for sugar cubes. It all had the look of what was left of the family silver and the last cracked crockery in the family, and it filled the table like the clumsy old tools of a barber-surgeon. The waiter apologized as he set this stuff out, and by the time he had finished, the tea had gone lukewarm and the toast was cold and damp. Elsewhere in the room the rattle-clink of silver and porcelain took the place of conversation.
A heavy-faced Englishwoman scowled at me as she walked past. This was Betty, Mr. Pillai's wife. Her false teeth were very white and slightly crooked in her mouth. She wore a hair net, and when she saw me she chewed and worked her doggy jowls.
"Yes?"
"Is there any jam?"
"If you don't see it, we don't have it."
That was the commonest catchphrase in shopkeeping England, yet I knew it to be untrue of English life: what you did not see existed profoundly in the society, the whole culture was its invisible essence. Nothing showed—not attitudes, nor texture, nor feeling. It was enigmatic in an almost Oriental way. In other words, there was raspberry jam but you had to know how to ask for it, in the English world, where everything important was hidden.
I envied the people at the other tables, the way they sat, quiet couples, man and woman together, reading the morning papers or silently communicating—smiling, that wordless intimacy of marriage that was mine no longer. This subtle affection depressed me, the handholding, the meaningful looks, the familiarity. I did not want that. I wanted savages and strangers.
I sat alone, nibbling at my awful breakfast, regretting the life I had lost, hating the effort I had made in coming all this way, on a fatuous errand, just another desperate remedy for my loneliness.
At last I was led to my room by a wordless Indian, up a stinking staircase, down a passageway. Every footfall squeezed a creak from the loose floorboards under the worn carpet. Passing a bedroom door, I heard a furious accusatory woman's voice.
— I don't want you here!
After that was a man's inaudible murmur, then the woman again.
— You've done nothing but complain since the minute I entered this room!
It startled me, but the Indian leading me showed no sign of having heard it. Five doors on, he slotted the latchkey into an old lock, played with it a bit, and pushed the door into a narrow room. He gestured, he did not enter, he was like a guard showing a new prisoner to his cell. I drew the drapes and lay in the semidarkness, and fell asleep.
My reverie was shattered by a sudden shouting from the next room, so loud it penetrated the plaster.
— I don't want to hear any more of this!
That was a woman's voice, shrill and almost hysterical.
A man's voice said, If you'd only let me explain—and he was quieter, even reasonable-sounding.
Was it that women in such arguments yelled because they faced the physical threat of a man? In these walls, women screamed, men grunted. Neither of these voices matched the voice I had heard down the corridor.
— I don't want that bitch in our marriage! You wouldn't have done it if you cared for me. And her, of all people!
— She's not the problem. Don't you see it reveals a deeper—
— That's all bollocks! Go get your little whore. You'll be sorry. You'll see that it's the biggest mistake you've ever made.
The man murmured. It was not audible, he was hushing her.
The woman then cried out, Don't touch me!
In a low, severe voice the man said, Pack it in—
— Leave me alone, you bastard!
The rest was murmurs, then tears, and a slammed door. I was fully awake now, but I soon subsided into sleep, until I was woken by voices from the other wall, egging each other on.
— You're always doing that. Well, two can play that game.
I thought: Apologize and this will end. Say, Yes, I am sorry I hurt you. I will never do it again.
But the man said, You're pathetic. Look at yourself. You don't know what you're talking about.
I thought: Say, I've suffered. It made me miserable. But we can overcome this.
But the woman said, I hate you. God, do I hate you.
I covered my ears and shut my eyes. There was a quality in the darkness that gave the room a terrible smell—of fur and flesh, and not feet but hooves. It was like being in hell. I slept again. There was more of it in the night—shouts, accusations, a struggle, a man on the phone, thumps, and pleading; but by morning—I woke early, remembering that this was the day of my dinner with the Queen—there was silence.
Morning again, the lounge again, breakfast again. But these words were all approximations; they did not really describe the day, the room, or the meal. The gray sky seemed to hover a few feet from the chimneys on the next roof, and electric lights in old wall fixtures—sconces, as I now knew them to be—burned yellow in the shabby dining room, casting unhelpful shadows. There was jam today, but the light was so poor it was impossible to tell what flavor it was. In this bad light all the jam was black.
The same tea ritual, the same paraphernalia looking like obsolete science, the cluttered table, the lukewarm tea, the damp toast.
Betty served. She carried a bowl on a brown plastic tray. She said, "Fruit compote?"
I said yes. The answer was prunes.
The silent couples in the room ate neatly, and their silence was like hunger and gratitude and obedience. Two read newspapers, no one spoke. The nighttime darkness had been full of voices, mumbled accusations, obscenities; the closets shrieked, the pipes gushed with collapsing water. When I had switched on the dim bulb beside my bed, my room was lit, and the picture on the wall spoke: it was the Yorkshire Dales, a rushing stream, a bare mountain, some pines, a glorious landscape inhabited by an angry quarreling couple. But here in the pale light of day the spectral residents of Sandringham House ate in silence and read the papers, and once again it was like being in hell—not a Catholic hell of bonfires and molten lava and cackling devils, but the secular English hell of stinks and shame and narrow clammy rooms. Rattle-clink.
Walking to the bus stop after breakfast, I was almost run down by a large green Range Rover.
It was she again, the bony-faced woman I had always encountered in London traffic—lovely hair, neck scarf, sleeveless quilted Barbour jacket. Dressed for the country, impatient in the West End, she did not glance at me, didn't have to—she knew I was stepping off the curb. It was not merely that she was in a hurry to get to the motorway; the point was that she was on the phone, the thing clapped to the side of her face while she steered the vehicle with her other hand. She had been doing this to me for years. She muttered under her breath, she drove on, still talking on the car phone. She missed but managed to splash me.
I took a bus to the King's Road, then walked down Beaufort Street to the river. I was heading for Clapham, but halfway across Battersea Bridge I realized I did not dare to look at the family house. I knew in advance there was no one home, but more than that I did not belong there. I could not go in. I would be on the sidewalk staring at the bricks, my old windows. My London had been my house and my family; I'd had nothing else. And now, an unwelcome ghost, haunting this place, I had no friends, and no longer a family. I had never really lived here. I had pitched my tent in London, and now it was folded, and I had stolen away.
So, walking in the rain, I lost my nerve, but out of curiosity I went to the Fishmonger's Arms for a drink. The licensing hours had changed, and pubs in London were now open all day. Cigarette smoke, a damp carpet, the gluey smell of spilled beer, the underwater honks of a spinning fruit machine. A man sat at the bar, smoking over his pint of beer. A boy stood next to him in a school uniform, probably his son.
It pleased me that I knew the barman's name—Dermot. He smiled at me.
"You've been scarce."
"Been away."
"Good trip?"
"Som
e hassles."
"Fuss is better than loneliness," Dermot said.
That was all, after my year's absence. It was an Irish pub, everyone was friendly, but it was no more than alcoholic bonhomie. He didn't know me well enough to ask me anything else. I ordered a half pint of draft Guinness.
"Let's go, Dad," the boy said to the man drinking next to me.
"Can't you bloody wait, Kevin?" the man said. He was drunk and irritable. He sipped at his beer—the sipping was his way of showing that he would not be hurried.
I said to the boy, Kevin, "Where do you go to school?"
"Emmanuel."
"Studying for exams?"
"A-levels are next year," he said, sounding weary.
"What subjects are you doing?"
"English, history, and French."
As he spoke, his father squinted at me, sizing me up.
"I've got a history question," I said. "What do you know about the divine right of kings?"
"It's Jacobean—well, James the First wrote about it. The French monarchy had more developed ideas of it than the English, but the English believed it. You know about 'the king's touch'?"
"Tell me."
"The king could cure certain diseases," Kevin said. "Scrofula. That's the one they always talk about."
"Whatever that's supposed to be," his father said.
"It's inflammations." Kevin smirked. "Also, it means degenerate."
"I was just wondering—say, the present Queen. Isn't she supposed to have a little bit of divinity?"
"She's head of the church," Kevin said.
