Ben, in the World

by Doris Lessing

  Alex turned back to the young women behind the desk, who were waiting for his questions about Ben: they were used to these questions. They had evolved their own ideas about Ben. One said that he had been in a mental hospital, he was a rich person, and had been sent here with a minder. Another said he was obviously a heavyweight wrestler. A third believed some experiment had gone wrong in a laboratory, and said Ben gave her the creeps. All were protective of Ben, helped him with advice, in English, and with gifts of their time, going with him to his room to make sure he had a bowl for his fruit, or to find something—once, his passport, which for a frightful morning he had thought he had lost. That passport now seemed all that stood between him and being nothing—without it who would know that he was Ben Lovatt, from Scotland, thirty-five years old, a film actor?

  Now these smiling helpful faces were concealing a determination to shield Ben from this film director. Dubious and even cruel exploitations were imminent, for they knew Ben to be helpless. When Alex asked, ‘Who is he?’ one said, ‘He’s from London,’ and another, ‘He’s on holiday here.’ But there was the third person, who did not believe Ben was in films, and who didn’t like Alex, and she said, ‘He’s in films.’

  Alex said, ‘Forget that booking. I’ll stay around a bit.’ He went over to Ben, sat down, introduced himself.

  Ben’s grin held, and his eyes darted about, in fear, but then Alex’s friendly ease reminded him of Richard and even of the old woman, and the terrified grin went, and his smile came. Alex took Ben out for a meal, and then to a café, and so that all went on for a day, and then another, and then a week, and all this time Alex, with that vision or dream in his mind of the dwarfs, or whatever they were, was thinking that he would make a film with Ben. But he did not have a story, and above all, no money either. Ideas for stories came and went, each one taking over his imagination for the time they stayed. He was possessed by those creatures—who?—what?—not beasts, for Ben inhabited the forms of everyday life, used a knife and fork, went every day to have his beard clipped and his hair done, changed his clothes—which were beginning to look a little shabby. Alex heard that Johnston had had shirts and jackets made specially for him. Who was Johnston? Ben said that he had cars and drivers and sent people off in them all over London but that he had gone away. Ben was vague about everything. The boundaries of his understanding were narrow enough, and his sympathies and antipathies made even stranger patterns. He talked about the old woman, but not about the cat, about Johnston, but not about Rita, because thinking of her made him so sad. He said he had a family but his father hated him and he did not mention Paul, or his mother. What Alex Beyle got out of all this was only that Ben came to him without strings. He could use him without people coming for explanations or to demand—well, what? He wasn’t going to exploit Ben! He would pay him. He would look after him. Again Ben got specially made shirts and two jackets, a warm one and a thin one and some high-necked T-shirts, in silk, to hide that hairy throat and neck.

  Ben knew that this friend, who was going to look after him, wanted to make a film with him in it: he really was a film actor. He did not like films, they filled his eyes with light, and made him sick. Alex took him to a cinema, a film carefully chosen, as for a child, a good strong story, excitement, danger. But Ben sat with his eyes closed, opening them in quick desperate attempts to see, but he could not see, the clashing invading light was too much for him.

  Alex took Ben to an oculist to get glasses: he was sure the dark glasses were wrongly prescribed. Ben preferred the dusk of evening to light, never sat in the sun, and his eyes were often squeezed up, or squinting. This oculist too seemed nervous. When he emerged from the testing room to speak to Alex, for he had failed to communicate with Ben, he said that these were unusual eyes. They did not adapt well to changes of light. The oculist’s ideas about Ben were nearest to the girl at Reception who said he was a failed laboratory experiment, but he wasn’t going to say so, and get himself into trouble. He said the dark glasses Ben had were probably as good as any others might be, but suggested glasses tinted less dramatically than the very dark ones. Ben’s eyes were watering badly; he was grinning—with embarrassment, the oculist thought, but by now Alex knew what that staring grin meant.

  When Alex heard that Ben’s hotel was paid for, for another week, and heard about the money in the safe, he was relieved. Every little helped. He had to get money for development from somewhere. He spent hours on the telephone to Los Angeles, New York, other places where films were bred, and finally persuaded the producer who financed his last film to give him enough. He did not have one story: he had several. When he described Ben there was enough of bafflement, of wonder, of excitement in his voice to extract that development money.

  And now Alex had to find his story. The trouble was nothing that appeared in his mind as film matched in seductive strangeness that vision of the band of creatures in the cave mouth, looking across chasms of time—millions of years?—into the face of Alex, their—he supposed—descendant. If he was. Did their genes linger in his body somewhere? Did Ben and he share genes? Sometimes he thought that of course, yes, but there were moments when he understood how alien Ben was to him. Alex was saying quietly to himself that Ben was not human, even if most of the time he behaved like one. And he was not animal. He was a throwback of some kind. If the company of ancient men were only a kind of animal how was it that Ben could live the life of human beings—well, for most of the time?

  What made Alex uneasy was that when the film was made, when all that was over, there would be Ben, and he needed looking after. For the time being it was all right. Ben spent his days with Alex and part of his evenings. Alex had friends along the coast, and in the little towns up in the hills and he did try to take Ben on visits, but it was difficult and strained and he did not try again. And what did Ben do, on the evenings when he was abandoned by Alex? He went into the town carefully, as if hunting or stalking, to look for a female. He did find one, but again was called bête and cochon, but he knew only that he was being rejected.

  And now Alex had an idea. He would go back to South America to make his film. This time, Brazil. He knew people there, had even made a little film, had directed a play. He would set his story not in Northern Europe, with its association of dwarfs and gnomes and trolls, and brownies, and—more delicately, fairies and elves—he would jettison all that cargo, and go south, into forests where…But he had not worked it out, no tale lingered in his mind. He would go to Rio, and take Ben out into those forests where butterflies the size of thrushes flew about and where the history was as ancient and savage as in Europe—and then he would let what visions come into his mind that would.

  He described South America to Ben, described Brazil, and Rio. As always he did not know what Ben understood. He got into the habit of watching for that grin that said so much. Ben asked if they were going on an aeroplane, and said he had been on a plane, a little one. He described looking down on London. He had seen where the old woman lived and the street where Johnston worked—where he had worked but he had gone away. He did not mention the plane from London to the South of France because he could not be persuaded he had been on it. Was Brazil far away, he asked? Far away from where? Alex wanted to know, but did not ask. He was feeling guilty about what he was doing. Well, he promised himself, he would see that Ben came back, either to here, or to London, where his friends would care for him.

  And so Ben took what remained of the packet of money, and the two of them flew off to Rio de Janeiro.

  But that was not as easy as that sounds. First, they had to take a plane to Frankfurt, for a connection to Rio. Ben stood in a line of people, Alex just in front of him, with his passport in one hand, his holdall in the other. Outside the Mediterranean sun dazzled off panes, cars, leaves, clouds. But Ben had his eyes half shut, even though he wore dark glasses, and he was grinning. Perhaps I am going home? he thought, as he stood at the check-in desk with Alex beside him saying that Ben wanted a window seat. When the
y got on to the plane this time he knew it was one, and in the window seat, with Alex beside him, he was able to match what he saw with what he had looked down on from the tiny plane in London. Then cloud enveloped the plane and he was looking down on a white that shone and hurt. He shut his eyes, leaned back and Alex said, ‘It’s only an hour, Ben.’ Meaning, to Frankfurt, but there it all happened again, the crowds, the escalators, the strong lights, walking along corridors and then waiting at the gate, his boarding card in his hand. He shuffled along beside Alex, grinning.

  Alex watched this despondent fellow and felt doubt, real apprehension. He would have clapped him mightily on the shoulder—‘It’s OK, Ben, you’ll see’—but yesterday, giving him a friendly clout, as he would have done a male friend, in America, he saw those green eyes convulse, boil and rage, and those fists…Alex did not know how near he had come then to being crushed in those great arms, with those teeth in his neck. He did know it was a dangerous moment, though.

  Ben’s rage had blanked out his vision with red, and his fists had filled with murder—he had only just subdued this dangerousness, only just held himself in. He must not ever let that rage loose, he knew it, but when Alex hit him like that…the unhappiness that had been deepening in him since he knew that the old woman had gone, and Johnston and Rita too, had rage as its partner. He scarcely knew whether he wanted to bellow and howl with pain, or to go berserk and kill.

  There were long winding descending corridors and then the door to the interior of the plane: Ben found it hard to believe this was a plane: it was so big. He could hardly see how big. And he understood that he was not going home, but somewhere in that mind of his that was always wrestling with itself to remain in control, to understand, he was telling himself that he had been promised he would go home, and that he had been betrayed and that Alex was part of this betrayal. Brazil. What was Brazil? Why did he have to go there? Why should he be in a film?

  This time he did not look out of the window, because he knew he would see only white cloud and a painful dazzle. Eleven hours flying—what would Ben do for that long cramped time? They were flying economy: Alex could not afford to waste money.

  Around came the drinks. Alex told Ben he must drink some water, and Ben drank. Should Ben be given sleeping pills? But perhaps his metabolism was not amenable to drugs: like a cat given human painkillers or sleeping pills, he might be harmed, or even die. But the problem was solved, for Ben went to sleep again, clutching tight to his seatbelt, which he hated. The violent tensions in his body were too much, he could not bear them, and when he woke during the trip to stare and look around him he soon fell back into sleep.

  In Rio it was morning and the light had a brazen violence that woke Ben. He was clutching his genitals and trying to struggle up. Alex got him to the lavatory in time. He was thinking, this is like looking after a child—he did have one, a son, from a marriage ended by divorce.

  The hotel was no problem. Ben understood what it was, and stood in front of the reception desk with confidence. Then—and Alex saw what was happening and was angry with himself—it was a new language, it was Portuguese, and Ben had become accustomed to at least the sounds of French.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked Alex, rough, sorrowful, angry. ‘What are they saying?’

  Alex explained. He had spent a lot of time telling Ben about Brazil, about Rio, how beautiful; about forests, beaches, the sea everywhere, but he had not thought to say that people would be talking Portuguese.

  Alex would have liked a room to himself, but he had been afraid to let Ben loose in the mysteries of this new hotel, so they were sharing a room. Only for one night: it is not difficult to rent a flat in Rio, and the next day they would move into one.

  Alex was desperate to sleep, having stayed awake on the plane to keep an eye on Ben, but knew he must remain awake, for now Ben who had slept and was fresh was moving about this room like an animal taking the measure of a new place, trying the bathroom—the shower, the lavatory—opening and shutting cupboards and drawers. They were high up in the hotel, and Ben looked out and down and did not seem upset, although he had not liked the lift. He lay down on his bed and got up again, while Alex watched, in a daze of jet lag.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Ben.

  Room service brought steaks and Ben ate Alex’s as well as his. This was a country of wonderful fruit, and Alex ordered some. Ben grunted with pleasure over the pineapple but got the juice all over himself. Alex was impressed that he took himself off to the shower, without being told, and there he stayed a long time. Alex listened to sounds—what were they? Was that singing? That rough grunting chant? The water splashed about everywhere, and Alex had to mop it up.

  It was still only midday.

  Alex began telephoning friends. He had many in this city. Some he had worked with on the play he had done, some had been with him on the film, done in Colombia and Chile. Some were friends of friends. He had to keep awake. He knew that if he fell asleep, he would not wake until tomorrow. An early dinner was arranged. Meanwhile Alex and Ben would see the town. It was hot, light bouncing off the sea, and Ben stumbled along, clutching at Alex, his eyes almost closed. So Alex took him back again to the hotel, having elucidated from Ben that in Nice they had gone for walks in the evenings, and once, when it was cloudy, in the day. They sat at a table outside the hotel, and drank fruit juices, and Ben huddled there in his chair, not grinning—Alex was thankful to see—but so intent, his head turning this way, that way, as deep in the shade of the sun umbrella as he could get, sizing up these new people, trying to understand the new sounds. As people came and went, or sat at the other tables, just as everywhere Ben had been, they tried to comprehend what they saw. A first casual general glance taking in the scene—but left in their minds was something not assimilated, a question. A second look, much longer: well, that’s just a big man, that’s all—no crime to be large, to be bulky—but what shoulders, say what you like, those shoulders…Having turned away, a third look, surreptitious, quick. Yes, that’s all it is, he’s built big, but he’s no beauty. And then a final open unconcealed stare, as if Ben’s strangeness licensed the bad manners of staring. Yes, but what is it? Just what am I looking at? The hot afternoon went past, and Alex was being tortured by the need to sleep. Then, he couldn’t stand it, and made Ben go with him back to the room. Ben did not want to go, he liked it there, watching, listening, and besides, there were females who smiled at him.

  In the room Alex flung himself on the bed and was asleep. He had not even taken off his shoes.

  And now Ben was on his own bed, but did not lie down. He sat on its edge and stared at Alex. He had not shared a room since the old lady, and he had not needed to examine her, or stare: the night Rita had allowed him to stay he had been too grateful to want anything but be there. But this was a male, who had brought him here, to this place, where he never asked to be. He did not like Alex, though he seemed to be kind: Ben felt that Alex had tricked him.

  The defenceless man lay with his arms flung out, legs apart, face turned towards Ben, eyes so lightly closed he seemed to be watching Ben. Ben could kill him as he lay and Alex would never know it. Ben could feel the rage, fed by sorrow, strengthening in his shoulders, his arms, his fists. He could lean forward and bite hard into that throat that was presented to him there…But Ben knew he must not, must control himself. Even while rage darkened his eyes, another voice was telling him, ‘Stop. You must not. It’s dangerous. They could kill you for it.’

  But Ben sat on there, letting the sorrowful rage sink down while his fists unclenched.

  He was thinking of Richard: now it seemed to him that Richard had been a real friend, and that he liked him.

  Ben sat a long time, legs apart, fists on his knees, leaning forward, looking. Once he held out an arm, the thick arm with big fists, and put it close to Alex’s arm, that was lying loose there, so close. Alex’s legs were hidden inside his jeans, but Ben knew that his own legs were like tree trunks in comparison, filling trouser legs.
That face there: compared to his own it was so small and so fine; the chest visible in the carelessly closed shirt had little hair on it. They were so similar, this Alex and he, and yet so different…For one thing, he could crush Alex in his two arms and Alex would not be able even to move.

  Ben stood at the window. It hurt to look into the glittering caverns of the sky, so he looked down. Five storeys up, they were. Not as high as the old woman. Down there people were moving about, and they were using the new language, a slushy slurry way of talking, like sugar in the mouth.

  The telephone rang. Alex did not stir. It went on ringing. Ben picked up the receiver and said in English, ‘Alex is asleep.’ A voice, a woman’s voice, said that she had heard Alex was in town and she was coming over. Alex woke. Ben said that a woman called Teresa was coming. Alex, though he was still deep in tiredness, jumped up saying, ‘Oh, Teresa, wonderful, that’s just great.’ He showered and came back in clean clothes. It was about six. Alex took Ben down to the foyer, and there people came, more and more, until eleven of them set off to the restaurant that Alex said Ben would like, because it served mostly meat.

  All of them tried to talk to Ben. Where are you from? Are you working with Alex? Have you worked on film or in the theatre?—that kind of thing, and Ben’s replies silenced them because they were not to the point. For instance, asked where he was from he said, from the Excelsior Hotel in Nice, and when this friendly and curious person persisted, said he wasn’t from Scotland, but didn’t know the name of his home town. So they all treated Ben carefully, though kindly, trying not to stare at him. But Teresa, Ben knew, was really kind: he could feel she was.