Expo 58

by Jonathan Coe

‘Hello there, Foley! I was rather hoping to run into you here.’

  Thomas wheeled around. It was Mr Carter, of the British Council.

  ‘Would you care to join me at the bar for a moment? There are a few of us chaps from the Council. We’d like to wish you a fond farewell, bon voyage, all that sort of malarkey.’

  ‘Oh, well . . .’

  Thomas looked helplessly at Emily and Andrey. It was clear that neither of them had any objection to him leaving.

  ‘Fine. Yes. Jolly decent of you. Just a quick one, though . . .’

  ‘Of course, old man.’

  Mr Carter patted him on the back and steered him towards the bar, where for the next ten minutes Thomas was obliged to join a conversation in which he had no interest, with a group of British Council functionaries with whom he had nothing in common, while drinking beer for which he had no appetite. At the end of those ten minutes he glanced across at the table near the doorway – the table which he had believed, not so long ago, would be the setting for his own romantic evening with Emily – and was appalled, but by this stage not especially surprised, to see her leaving the Britannia in Andrey’s company.

  ‘Bloody hell . . .’ he muttered, quite audibly. He put his half-empty glass back on top of the bar and, without even apologizing to the man who was in the middle of talking to him, slid off his bar stool. He was about to follow them when Mr Carter placed a gentle but authoritative hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I say, Foley, don’t go just yet. You haven’t finished your drink.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Thomas. ‘Did you see what just happened? Did you see Mr Chersky and Miss Parker leaving together?’

  Mr Carter nodded. ‘Look, I’m dreadfully sorry. That’s one in the eye for you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just that. We can’t let him – I mean, he mustn’t be allowed . . .’ It was too complicated to explain. ‘The point is, Carter, there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  But Mr Carter was unflappable, as usual. He always seemed to know more than Thomas gave him credit for.

  ‘Well, don’t worry about that. Leave it with me. I’ll make sure that . . . the right people are aware of what’s going on.’

  Thomas wavered, irresolute, as a group of four boisterous Portuguese tourists jostled past him on the way to the bar. Mr Carter stood aside for them, and then offered Thomas some final, well-intentioned advice.

  ‘I should go home and pack,’ he said. ‘Or stay here with us, and get thoroughly sloshed. It’s up to you – but I’d certainly know which one I’d do, if I was in your shoes.’

  The easiest thing

  In the event, Thomas realized that he did not want anything more to drink. For an hour or two, he took a solitary walk around the Expo park, saying goodbye to some of the familiar sights. Then he remembered that he still had a letter to deliver to Anneke.

  There were distant rumbles of thunder in the air as he walked up the Avenue de Belgique towards the Grand Palais; but the rain was yet to come. For the last time (as he glumly reminded himself) Thomas crossed the Place de Belgique in the direction of the Hall d’Accueil.

  The hall was still open; the overhead lights shone brightly and through the glass doors Thomas could see plenty of people passing back and forth across the lobby’s vast floor space. Truly, this had become the city that never slept. At the entrance to the hall he paused and looked back down the Avenue de Belgique towards the Atomium, with its nine spheres brilliantly illuminated, like nine twinkling promises of a better future. It was the symbol of everything he had hoped to find at Expo 58. He couldn’t believe that the adventure was now over; or that it had ended in such a bitter, unthinkable way. Emily and Andrey! Together after all! And in the end, Andrey had not even needed to do anything – not even click his fingers – to make Emily come running. The woman had literally thrown herself at him. Incredible. She had been transformed, within a few minutes, before Thomas’s very eyes, from an intelligent, independent woman into a simpering floozy (yes, that was a good word – an American word, which made it even better) who brazenly whipped out the keys to a hotel room and more or less dropped them in her loved-one’s lap.

  Thomas’s stomach tightened when he considered the possible implications of tonight’s disaster, the possible consequences of Emily’s choice. His attempt to keep her away from Andrey had failed. He had let down his country. He had let down their American allies as well. What would happen next? It was beyond his understanding. Right now, it horrified him simply to think what a dreadful judge of character he had proved himself to be, and how many absurd, escapist fantasies he had built around this woman in the last few days. Images of them living together in a loft apartment in New York, a log fire burning in the grate and the crisp white snowflakes clinging to the windowpanes as winter swept over Manhattan . . . long summers spent in a log cabin on the shores of Tomahawk Lake, watching the sun go down as they cooked the day’s catch over the grill, ochre sunbeams dancing off the waters of the lake . . . All of these visions, and many others, had been passing through his fevered mind this week, usually in the dark hours past midnight when he still lay poised between wakefulness and sleep, the fact of Sylvia’s betrayal continuing to hammer at his unresponsive brain, demanding to be recognized, to be let in . . .

  ‘Thomas?’

  He turned. ‘Anneke?’

  She must have gone into the Hall d’Accueil to get changed out of her uniform, and was now walking down the steps, on her way to the Porte des Attractions, just as he would soon be. She was wearing that blue summer dress again (it was becoming more and more obvious that it was the only dress she owned) and was carrying a grey raincoat over her arm. She smiled at him and offered her cheek for a kiss. He gave it automatically, without even thinking.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, actually, I was just coming to leave you a letter.’

  ‘Really? You’ve written me a letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took it out of his jacket pocket. It was quite crumpled by now.

  ‘What does it say?’

  Thomas was on the point of handing it to her. Then he thought better of it, and replaced the envelope in his pocket.

  ‘I should probably tell you in person,’ he said; and, taking her arm, he began to walk slowly beside her along the Avenue des Attractions, the gloomy bulk of the Heysel Stadium rising up to their left.

  ‘What I wanted to tell you,’ he began, ‘is that I’m going home.’

  ‘Back to London? When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Anneke stopped walking and drew back from him. She was shocked.

  ‘I know,’ said Thomas, ‘it’s very sudden, isn’t it?’

  But this was not what had shocked her. ‘You were going to tell me this in a letter?’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘That,’ said Anneke, with quiet understatement, ‘would not have been a pleasant thing to read.’

  ‘I know. I see that now. It’s a good thing I ran into you.’

  He moved on, and Anneke followed him, but she did not take his arm this time.

  ‘Shall I tell you something about myself?’ Thomas said. ‘I believe that I’m . . . a very confused individual.’

  ‘I believe so too,’ Anneke said. ‘I’ve often found . . .’ And then she hesitated. She was about to say something bold, and this did not come naturally to her. ‘I’ve often found your behaviour towards me very hard to understand. In fact, it has been starting to make me angry.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘Yes. I have been angry with you. You never make your intentions clear. You invite me to your party, you come out with me and my friend, we have a lovely evening together – we have lots of lovely evenings together – but then I never know what you are going to do or say next. And then you start to take an interest in Emily, which
of course I can understand, because she’s very beautiful, but you can’t be honest about it, you have to take me out for an expensive dinner and tell me this stupid story about how Mr Chersky is a spy and two strange men in raincoats and hats have asked you to look after her and protect her from him. At least Federico would never make up a story like that. At least with him, the intentions are always clear. I only met him two weeks ago and already he has asked me to marry him twice.’

  ‘Really?’

  Thomas could not help smiling. They looked at each other and laughed. The tension between them dissolved momentarily, but Thomas soon felt it begin to re-establish itself.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘a lot of that is true. I do owe you an apology. But when I get back to London I’m going to start sorting things out. A lot of things in my life are going to change. I might even leave my job, move to another place, maybe even to a different country . . .’

  They came to a halt, having reached the Porte des Attractions.

  Anneke said: ‘Why do you always talk about the future? What about now?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m not a shy young thing,’ she continued. ‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me like one.’

  They stared at each other. Then Anneke took Thomas’s face between her hands and kissed him, full on the lips. It was a long, tender, melting kiss; and when, after a few moments, it came to an end, they continued to cling tightly to one another as the last remaining visitors to Expo 58 drifted past them on their way back to the outside world. Anneke stroked Thomas’s hair and smiled up at him, her lovely, wide, open smile, and said: ‘You see? It’s not so complicated after all. It’s the easiest thing in the world.’

  Thomas was worried that they might be stopped by the Joseph Stalin lookalike in the reception hut, but Anneke had the solution: apparently there was a hole in the wire fence leading to the grounds of the Motel Expo, which was well known to many of the hostesses. They found it without too much difficulty, and squeezed through without being seen.

  In the cabin, while Thomas was drawing the curtains, Anneke turned on the bedside lamp. The light was harsh and unforgiving, so she pulled her dress off over her head, and draped it over the lampshade, suffusing the room with a cool, pale-blue glow.

  When this was done, Thomas stood and gazed at her, while she sat on his bed, half-naked in the turquoise light, waiting for him to come closer. They looked at each other for a long time, savouring the moment, the electric joy of anticipation.

  The storm was coming closer. They could hear the thunder, and glimpse flashes of lightning, but there was still no rain over the Motel Expo. The heat, however, was stifling. The duvet had long since been swept to the floor. Thomas and Anneke lay on the bed together, uncovered, hotly entangled.

  Thomas was wakeful, as usual. Anneke was breathing softly and regularly beside him. He had often imagined what it would be like to lie next to Sylvia in this way: not in a room shrouded in respectable darkness, not with their nakedness hidden from the disapproving gaze of non-existent spectators by layers of sheets and blankets, but glorying, without shame or embarrassment, in the fact of their intimacy. And now it was happening – but not with Sylvia: with another woman altogether; a woman who was not his wife. To Thomas, it was a shocking as well as glorious realization. Frankly, he would not have believed himself capable of this. He turned his head to look again at Anneke, feeling a wave of affection for the woman who had made it so easy, who had given herself to him tonight with such freedom and generosity. His lips brushed against her hair. It was only a tiny movement, but the warmth of his breath must have been enough to wake her, for she looked up, and her eyes flickered open, and she smiled a drowsy smile, and pressed herself against him even more closely.

  ‘Not sleepy yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Very happy, though.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Anneke, and planted a gentle kiss on his mouth.

  In a few moments, she was asleep again. Thomas lay holding her for a while longer, enjoying the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the soft pressure of her breast against his ribs, and then carefully released himself from her embrace and rose to his feet. He went into the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and sat on the toilet for some minutes. More than ever, it felt unusual – and liberating – to be performing these actions in the nude.

  Suddenly there was a bang from somewhere – a clap of thunder, possibly – and a small but unmistakeable scream from next door. Thomas ran into the bedroom and found Anneke sitting up on the bed. She was clutching her dress so that it covered most of her body, and the glare from the bedside lamp was painful to the eye.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Thomas.

  ‘I saw a flash,’ said Anneke. ‘Up there.’ She pointed to the skylight.

  ‘Lightning?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. But then there was a noise as well – as if something was falling off the roof.’

  Thomas pulled on his trousers, opened the door to the cabin and stood, bare-chested, in the doorway, looking up and down the pathway between the rows of buildings. For a moment he thought that Anneke might have been right, and that he could hear a faint noise: something like distant footsteps. But the sound was soon gone, and there was not enough light to see anything clearly.

  He stood there for a few more minutes, breathing heavily, until he felt the first drops of rain on the palm of his outstretched hand.

  He locked the door and climbed back into bed. Beneath the duvet, Thomas and Anneke finally drifted into an uneasy sleep at around four o’clock, just three hours before his alarm was due to go off. In his dreams, hearing the thick summer rain slap tirelessly against the skylight, Thomas mistook it for the sound of the audience at the Grand Auditorium, giving a prolonged round of applause as Ernest Ansermet stepped forward in front of the Suisse Romande Orchestra to take yet another triumphant bow.

  Well and truly over

  Thanks to the time difference between Belgium and England, Thomas’s nine o’clock plane landed at London Airport promptly at 8.45 – fifteen minutes before it had taken off.

  It was shortly after eleven o’clock when he arrived home, weighed down by his two over-filled suitcases. He knocked on the front door but there was no answer. He let himself in.

  Inside the house, everything was silent. He left his suitcases in the hallway and sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, listening to the gurgling of the water pipes and the intermittent hum of the new fridge switching itself on and off.

  Thomas soon became impatient. The task which awaited him next door was not a pleasant one, and he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. There was nothing to be gained by waiting a minute longer.

  He left the house and marched up the garden path to the Sparks’ front door. For once – perhaps because he was light-headed from lack of sleep, or still swooning from the thrill of the night he had spent with Anneke – Thomas was not troubled by any traces of doubt as to his next course of action. His blood was up, and he was going to do exactly what Emily had urged him to do: give Norman Sparks a punch on the nose. It was nothing more nor less than the swine deserved.

  He rang the bell, and then had to wait a long time before it was answered. Finally, through the frosted glass of the front door, he could see a figure coming slowly towards him. It was Judith, Mr Sparks’s invalid sister. She was wrapped up in a thin cotton dressing gown with a floral pattern, and her face wore its habitual blotchy pallor. She blinked at him as if her eyes were not accustomed to the daylight.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Sparks. I was wondering if your brother was available for a few minutes’ conversation?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Foley, he’s down at the garage. The car’s having its service. I’m sure he’ll be back before long. Would you care to wait?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve only just returned from Brussels, and I haven’t even spoken to my wife ye
t.’

  ‘Well then, I’ll ask him to call on you, shall I?’

  ‘If you would, yes.’

  Deflated, Thomas wandered back to his own house – with a last, lingering, futile glance at the Sparks’ front door – and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He had only been there a few minutes when he heard the door being unlocked and pushed open. It was Sylvia, struggling to manoeuvre Gill’s pushchair over the doorstep and into the hallway while carrying a heavy wicker shopping basket. The two suitcases in her path didn’t help.

  Thomas emerged from the kitchen and there was a moment of stillness and wariness as their eyes met for the first time. It was almost two weeks since Thomas had discovered his wife’s infidelity and in that time they had exchanged only a few words, over the telephone on Wednesday night when he had called to tell her, briefly and politely, that he would be coming home at the weekend. Doubtless she was offended, Thomas thought, at what she must perceive as inexplicable remoteness on his part: whereas he was feeling something far worse than offence; and with a good deal more reason.

  ‘Hello darling,’ she said. ‘You’re back already.’

  ‘Yes. Couldn’t you have waited in for me?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be home for another half-hour at least.’

  She unstrapped Gill from the pushchair and set her down on the floor. The little girl began to waddle unsteadily towards her father, looking up at him with no obvious signs of recognition on her face. Thomas scooped her into his arms and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Hello, little one,’ he said. ‘How have you been keeping?’

  Sylvia squeezed past her husband as he cradled their daughter in the doorway of the kitchen, and put her shopping basket down on the table with a sigh of effort.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Shops.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘If you’re making a pot of tea I’ll have one.’

  Without looking at him, she began to empty the shopping basket: tins of vegetables, tins of soup, some slices of ham from the counter at the supermarket, some packets of sausages. Thomas’s heart sank when he saw them, at the thought of resuming a British diet. Sank, too, at the coldness of this homecoming. He really could not stand this atmosphere a moment longer. It was time to start the long, painful process of resolving the issue.