Family and Friends

by Anita Brookner

  Anyway, she is meeting this man Markus for lunch, and rumour has it that he might be useful to her, as he spends half his time in America and that is where Betty would like to go. Although Paris is very beautiful and the adventure has been, on the whole, a success, Betty is ready to move on. And anyway, possessing the artistic temperament as she does, she feels she could bring a great deal of lustre and panache to the screen, and she starts to think of her appeal in wider, more brilliant terms. For those who seek acclaim are in love with the crowd, and, in time, only the plaudits of the crowd will satisfy them.

  Betty has walked all the way to La Coupole, on her obedient, high-instepped dancer’s feet, and the walk has brought out both her colour and that slightly sharp odour that excites some men and is about to have an immediate effect on Mr Markus. Mr Markus, Hungarian by origin, is a dark bulky man with troubled eyes, his heavy shoulders and arms decently shrouded by expensive suiting, his black and silver hair expertly barbered, a large gold ring on the little finger of his left hand which, even at this early hour, supports a massive cigar. Wearily but appreciatively, Mr Markus lumbers to his feet as Betty trips in, bows slightly, and kisses her hand. Despite his saturnine appearance, Mr Markus is a genuine film producer and he is almost entirely preoccupied with images rather-than realities. Nevertheless, his Hungarian eye notes Betty’s immediate animal appeal and his senses register her range of appetite. In this, he is, of course, ahead of her, but Betty is willing to brazen it out until long experience will have made her a genuine expert. After Mr Markus has growled his usual rather extravagant greeting and after Betty has sparkled at him in return they both sit down and study the menu. As she is not paying, Betty orders caviare, steak, and île flottante.

  With coffee, Betty relaxes, inserts a cigarette into a long holder, and leans back, surveying her favourite meeting place through eyes narrowed by smoke. La Coupole is full, as usual, and waiters force their way between the tables with trays held shoulder high; disappointed clients beg vainly for a seat. Betty sinks back against the velvet banquette with a sigh of pleasure. For a moment she has almost forgotten to make an impression on Mr Markus, who, unbeknownst to her, is watching her with genuine amusement. This child, he thinks, with her tiny fragment of experience, has the temperament of a great allumeuse: greedy, probably frigid, good-natured, vicious. Obviously well brought up but happier being less well brought up than her mother intended. Rich, well fed, well cared for: a glossy little girl but able to convey a marvellous impression of dirtiness. Mr Markus applies a match to his dead cigar and smiles, quite kindly. Well, if that is what she wants, he can give it to her. He will make her a bad girl on the screen – but only on the screen. While she half-closes her eyelids and moistens her lips for the benefit of an unseen audience, she will be remote from clutching hands, inviolate. Mr Markus, a man of great sophistication, knows that this will suit her very well for a time. When it no longer suits her, she will be of no further use to him.

  Lifting a finger for the waiter, Mr Markus orders more coffee. ‘I have to wait here until my nephew comes,’ he explains to Betty. ‘I asked him to meet me here. He is my assistant for the time being. My sister’s son.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ replies Betty, uninterested. Mr Markus frowns. He appreciates a show of good manners, even if the good manners are not there. He is a family man who likes to talk about families, but in this city, he finds, no one is interested in his family. Mr Markus sighs, with weariness and with homesickness. This troublesome nephew, whom he dislikes but who is the son of his beloved sister, has been wished on him; there is panic in Europe, a fact of which Betty is unaware, and a general desire to reach America. ‘Take him,’ Margit had pleaded. ‘Take him with you.’ And he had taken him. But the boy is insolent, quick-witted and hysterical, perhaps already unhinged by the separation from his home. Mr Markus, who loves his sister and who makes continental films with an English sound-track, takes the boy with a sigh. Every time he looks at him, he thinks of home.

  When Betty first sets eyes on Max Markus she sees the cruel-eyed lover of her dreams. Max is a splendid feral creature with a narrow glossy head and dark plum-coloured eyes. He moves through the crowd contemptuously, a cigarette in his mouth, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his feet, in hand-made snakeskin shoes, carrying him effortlessly through the confusion and the press of people, a sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘My nephew, Max,’ says Mr Markus, with a helpless tremor of perception. ‘Miss Dorn.’ ‘Bunny,’ murmurs Betty, extending a hand. Max brings his heels together – a habit he is trying to forget – and bends low over the hand. Betty draws in a quivering breath. He pulls out a chair and sits astride it. ‘Bunny?’ he queries, with a wrinkling of his brow. ‘What kind of a name is that? Is it your real name?’ ‘My stage name,’ murmurs Betty, submissively. ‘My real name is Babette.’ ‘Your stage name? What do you do?’ Max Markus has this explosive and interrogatory habit of speech which makes everything he says sound provocative. Those who wish to rise to the bait may do so; others will have to learn to ignore it. Betty rises. ‘I’m a dancer,’ she says, bristling. Max Markus laughs. He also has a habit of laughing derisively after most remarks made by other people. Quite a lot of people find this offensive. To Betty it sounds deliciously masterful. It would be easy to have wonderful lovers’ scenes with this extraordinary man, who is, she is sure, possessed of a volcanic temperament, and who is, in addition, Mr Markus’s nephew. Half an hour after meeting Max Markus, who has taken his uncle’s more influential surname, Betty does something entirely out of character. She falls in love with him.

  With a sigh Mr Markus heaves himself to his feet, leaving a handful of paper money beside the bill. ‘You will excuse me,’ he says to the preoccupied Betty. ‘I must get back to my office. I will be in touch.’ Then, turning to his nephew and attempting to read some kind of moral admonition into his glance, he suggests that Max should see Miss Dorn to the Place de la Concorde where she can catch a bus. Max accepts the suggestion but otherwise takes no notice. His way of asking Betty if he may accompany her is to remove his long legs from the chair, to sling his jacket over his shoulder once more, and, standing, to give a magnificent yawn, stretching his shoulders and his chest to great advantage. Obediently, Betty gets to her feet, then, recollecting herself, undulates past him, giving an answering display of waist and back muscles. Mr Markus, knowing that he is no longer relevant, lets Betty move ahead; he makes a sign to Max, and, as usual, slips him some money, which Max thrusts carelessly into his pocket.

  Outside, they blink a little in the cold afternoon air. A weak whitish sun is making its last appearance of the season, and leaves fall silently from deserted trees. Max, coat over shoulder, strides ahead: Mr Markus places his Homburg hat over his heart, bows to Betty, and summons a taxi. Betty’s mind is filled with confusion. She realizes that she will never be in control of a man like Max, and for once she does not care. But, not being in control, she does not know how to proceed, how to bridge the gap between walking along the Boulevard Saint-Germain with this stranger and enacting the fantasies which have been in her mind for as long as she can remember, now that she comes to think of it. For a while they walk in silence, Max always slightly ahead, Betty already slightly propitiatory in her attempts to catch up with him. After a few minutes she gives up the attempt and walks several paces behind him.

  Max is in fact wretched and is covering up his wretchedness with bluster. He can only outwit circumstances by mocking them and by mocking everybody else. The more settled and secure they are, the more he interrogates them, laughing with incredulity at their polite replies. He desires a great deal yet it is not in him to ask for anything, so that when Betty suggests a cup of tea, he assents with a show of indifference which he does not feel. Naturally, Betty has chosen to desire a cup of tea outside Rumpelmayer’s, which she vaguely remembers from Sofka’s reminiscences, and once they are seated, under the pink shaded lamps, and they are both tackling the chestnut meringues which they find very much to their taste, she relaxes and retrie
ves her self-assurance. ‘Are you in the film business too?’ she asks, applying a violet georgette handkerchief delicately to the corners of her mouth. Max Markus utters a brutal and derisive laugh, designed to disconcert. ‘Of course I am,’ he replies. ‘Did you think I was an accountant?’ Actually he is a sort of office boy, but there is no doubt that he has capacities of some kind and the assurance that goes with accomplishment, whether it is real or only in the mind. It is homesickness that makes him coarse, and having to live up to his looks and be polite to his uncle, on whom he is dependent. In fact, fortunately for them both, Max Markus and his uncle see eye to eye in the making and framing of images, and when they walk along a street together, in this foreign Paris, and when the uncle points his cigar at an odd doorway or a cat creeping around a concierge’s feet or a child carrying a long stick of bread the nephew assents eagerly, and, without words, describes with his hands, and a little advance or retreat, how it should be seen. They are in love, already nostalgically, with the life of the street, which they will transport to America. In this way, Max Markus finds himself studying Betty who, with fork poised, slowly turns a rosy pink under his gaze. Actually, what he sees is the outline of her hair against the lamp from the next table, and the deep indentations of her eyes, which he would light from beneath. Then he looks again, as Betty desires him to, and sees, with little surprise, that this young woman is in love with him and that he will be able to do with her what he wants.

  What he wants, it appears, is roughly the same as what Betty wants: a full-fledged love affair lived entirely on the surface. In the darkening late afternoon he walks her back to her flat, he with his hands in his pockets, she with her hand through his arm. They stop at a bar for a drink and already they are launched on the pattern of their future behaviour: they are rather like that apache team that poor Frank is supposed to be thinking about. It takes them a very long time to get back to Betty’s flat, and the words they have exchanged are entirely preoccupied, Betty with her thoughts, Max with his. In Betty’s flat, their eyes brilliant with the progress of the evening, they finally turn to one another and take each other’s measure. When they kiss, they are passionate, knowing. Max has been passionate and knowing since he was fifteen years old but Betty has not. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Max utters one last laugh, this time ruminative, reflective, before pulling Betty down beside him, and silencing any protests she might have been about to offer for the rest of the night.

  8

  ON THE EVE of the move to Bryanston Square, Sofka sits in her drawing-room for the last time, and with uncharacteristic nervousness, twists a handkerchief between her hands. It is not that she regrets leaving this house, although it has seen her happiest times; but the house has recently witnessed an unpleasant incident which makes it uncomfortable, as though it were a witness to a life of ease which is no longer appropriate. One afternoon, Sofka has been disturbed by a sound of voices at the front door, and then by the housekeeper asking her if she will come. Sofka, surprised, has gone to the door and has seen there, standing patiently on the step, a woman who seems vaguely familiar. This woman is dressed in decent black, a black coat which has been very expensive in its time, a rather stylish black straw hat, and a silk scarf, in excellent taste, open at the neck. All this bears the signs of stringent upkeep, perhaps beyond the bounds of its natural life. The woman’s face is pale, expressionless, but composed; the pitiless blue eyes are direct. From a large tapestry bag at her feet, the woman produces some pieces of exquisite lace: collars, handkerchiefs, a shawl. ‘Madam,’ she says to Sofka. ‘I have these things for sale. I have no money. You understand.’ And with great dignity, and still with the pitiless gaze, she waits for Sofka’s response.

  ‘Irma,’ says Sofka, after a long pause. ‘Irma Beck. Is it you?’

  At this the woman’s face crumples, the eyes close, veiling the hideous gaze, and her body sways towards the open door, righting itself only as helping hands assist her and support her into the drawing-room. With a great effort, equal on both sides, Sofka and the woman sit with coffee-cups and discuss in measured terms what is to be done. Of the past, by common consent, they do not speak. It is too dangerous, too painful. Collapses might take place, youthful hopes might be remembered, wave after wave of reminiscence might be activated, and the woman gives Sofka to understand that nothing now must be cherished; only a dry appraisal of the possible is to be allowed. At last, and fearfully, Sofka enquires, ‘Your children?’ For the first time the woman relaxes, and smiles. ‘Safe,’ she says. ‘Here.’

  Rather than submit the woman to the indignity of receiving money, as if she were a beggar, Sofka arranges to visit her the following day, having carefully noted her address and calculating in her mind that she will use Lautner as an agent to transfer funds to this woman. In the meantime, they will continue to be two ladies who used, in the past, in another country, to know one another very slightly and who will keep up the acquaintance in as civilized a manner as can be guaranteed by the circumstances in which they find themselves.

  As the woman, with bag intact, rises to leave, she extends her hand, and Sofka takes it. Then, wordlessly, the two women move into each other’s arms and embrace, and wordlessly, composing themselves, they part.

  Since that day Sofka has felt a tremor when she sits in her drawing-room or when she hears a step outside the front door. She has been able to ignore the two foreign girls in the kitchen, because they are young, and although given to outbursts of sobbing when certain pieces of music are being played, are also impudent and ruthless and beautiful, and will make their way in life. Indeed, in this house, they are more or less at home; under Sofka’s guidance they are learning to be excellent maîtresses de maison and although they are not of an age to take pride in these things they will soon be very accomplished cooks. The housekeeper grumbles about them but she is near retiring age and is allowed to grumble anyway; she has been doing so for some time. When they move from the house to the flat in Bryanston Square, Sofka will take the opportunity to release her from service, with a handsome present that will enable her to go home to Somerset, as she has long wanted to do. She will take the two girls, Lili and Ursie (Ursula), with her to Bryanston Square. It will be a reduced household, and a rather different one. But the girls, Lili and Ursie, harsh hectic girls with unpredictable moods and extravagant loving impulses, have long fulfilled some emotional need of Sofka’s; they serve in a sense to replace those children of hers who have gone, and they supplement, in some vital way, the excellent qualities of those children who remain.

  It is, of course, the children who are gone whom Sofka mourns. Handsome Frederick and wicked Betty have taken all her heart with them, the one to Bordighera, the other to America. Of course, she is happy that they have married, although it seems to her terrible not to have been at Betty’s hurried wedding in Paris, completed in a rush just before catching the boat. And to hear about it in a letter! It all happened so fast, pleaded Betty, and I am so happy. Promise you will come to America as soon as the war is over. Max sends love. Evie, in Bordighera, sends love too, and a request for various English commodities, not knowing these to be in short supply. Evie, as might have been expected, takes care of all the correspondence, leaving Frederick with no voice, maintaining him as an agreeable presence with no adult obligations other than to be charming and to amuse. In this way, Evie has proved to be the ideal wife for him. It is Evie, even when heavily pregnant, who is the guiding spirit behind the Hotel Windsor (soon to be cut off from all communication with home) and who busies herself with supplies and with staff and with matters of fuel and maintenance, while Frederick is usually to be found in the bar, a welcoming and hostly figure, to whom the ladies gravitate, their faces upturned like sunflowers when they hear his voice. He is particularly accomplished at the kind of flirtation which assumes deep inward intimacy but which never strays beyond the accepted formulae; his long years of practice have made him adept at this, and also untouched by it. He is, in many ways, completely happy. />
  It seems a little hard to Sofka that it is the most interesting of her children who have disappeared. She sees no connection between these two factors, although it is a connection often pondered, in deep secret, by Alfred. Unlike Frederick, Alfred has retained his looks, but the various discomforts which kept him aloof as a young man have intensified; he is now handsome, prosperous, and unforgiving. His years of unimpeded hard work have put a great deal of money into the bank but have brought no joy to him. With the disappearance of his brother and sister he feels the burden of unshared responsibility descend upon him; he is usually described as a devoted son. Certainly his gravity, his composure, would seem, to the uninformed observer, to suggest the acceptance of a way of life to which he has contributed so much. Even a certain testiness and a tendency to issue orders, at home as well as at the factory, bear witness to the cares and burdens of a man of affairs. Those affairs are, even now, secret and important, as the factory has been requisitioned, and Alfred with it. He is working for the government, and not even Sofka knows what he is doing. With the information that he would not be allowed to join the army but must do this essential and secret work at home, Alfred’s last hope of escape disappeared. He was looking not so much for a means of serving his country as for an honourable discharge from family matters.