Incidents in the Rue Laugier

by Anita Brookner

  ‘Cook? Harrison here. Just to let you know that I’ll be with you next Friday. Everything all right? You have? That’s great, thank you very much. Well, I’ll see you on Friday and we’ll decide how to proceed. Excellent, thanks, but the weather’s broken. I’ll be quite glad to get home. OK then, until next week. Goodbye.’

  He shook his head in admiration as he took his cup from her. ‘The willingness of that man to consider himself my employee never ceases to astound me. I guess it’s because I’m young. He probably wouldn’t work for anyone older, anyone with authority. He’s satisfied himself that I won’t presume. I’ll have to start thinking what to do with him. Aren’t you having one?’ he asked, waving a croissant at her. She noticed his strong white teeth, his decisive way with food. When his upper lip lifted like that he looked quite different, she thought, less ingenuous. In time he might be quite an attractive man, but only if he did not have to stand comparison with other more prestigious men. Whatever looks and charm he possessed were perhaps on the modest side, but he seemed kindly; to judge from what she had heard of his telephone conversations he was straightforward. But then, she reminded herself, he only appears to his best advantage in the absence of Tyler. If Tyler were here he would instantly fade into the background, as he had done ever since they had come together.

  ‘… think about going home,’ she heard him say, though her thoughts were sad and her attention intermittent.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said you must think about going home. Don’t you want to telephone your mother?’

  ‘Later. I’ll ring her later. When I know how long I’ll be staying here.’

  He stared at her. ‘Maud, you can’t be serious. You don’t really think Tyler’s coming back, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘My dear girl. I hate to say this, but he may not. Tyler is quite unpredictable. At least he is to women. Men tend not to trust him anyway. I’ve seen him around women: they fall for him, and he treats them badly by way of return. I have to say they don’t seem to mind. But it’s usually a bad business all round …’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘I like him less than I did. I wonder now if I ever liked him. I was always impressed by him—who wouldn’t be? But after three years in the same college I still didn’t feel I knew him. After this holiday I feel I know him better. It’s just that I don’t find his exploits quite so amusing. He’s a spoiler, you know.’

  ‘You’re jealous.’

  He considered this. ‘Yes, perhaps I am. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I don’t think much of the way he carries on. If you knew him as well—or as little—as I do, you might put less faith in his return.’ He knew he was being unkind, and resented the fact that Tyler had left this task to him. But that was part of Tyler’s mythical status, that he left the explanations of his behaviour to others, he reflected, and once again sighed with a mixture of admiration and resentment. To be so free of earthly ties! Again the shop loomed into consciousness, only to be dismissed. Clearly he was not to be allowed to get on with his life until this tiresome girl had been dealt with.

  ‘Tyler loves me, you know.’

  ‘Has he said so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, that is the easy part. If he loves you he can follow you to Dijon, can’t he?’

  ‘I’m staying here. You can leave if you want to. Don’t let me keep you,’ she added politely.

  ‘Forgive me for being blunt, but did he leave you any money?’

  She turned away, but before she did he saw her sudden pallor.

  ‘I’ll stay with you, of course,’ he said. ‘But on one condition. If he’s not back by the end of the week we’ll both go home. And I’ll see to it even if I have to put you on the train myself. Now, what would you like to do today?’ he asked, more gently than he had intended.

  ‘I’d like to walk.’ Her head was high, her expression once more disdainful. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’

  He was suddenly aware of her extreme youth, and of his own. But instead of panic came a certain wry sympathy, not only for the girl but for himself.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll do as many districts of Paris as we’ve got time for. Just walk in a certain direction each day and explore. Until we get tired. Would you like that?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. It was as much as she could manage in the way of a concession. She strode past him to the door, her head held high. He caught a drift of alien perfume from her raincoat. He felt, in addition to his underlying annoyance, a twinge of pity. The perfume had done that. He began to see her as just one more in a line of fallible women, Tyler’s women, all of whom seemed to progress, in a state of discontent, to the dubious pleasures of experience, once they had recovered from the fact of his dereliction. This one, he thought, would be more difficult. Yet if there were to be a contest of wills he was determined that his own should carry the day. With Tyler out of the way this seemed entirely possible.

  For the next two days they followed the pattern they had set themselves, or that he had set for them. He brought the croissants for breakfast, she made the coffee; then she donned her raincoat, and they set out on an apparently aimless walk, during which each was absorbed in thought. They saw little of their surroundings, were aware only of late drops of rain falling from overhead leaves, and of the damp striking through the soles of their shoes. Harrison was acutely aware of Maud’s shoes, which were now stained and shapeless. He felt under unwelcome duress, yet could not consider abandoning her. She strode along silently beside him; once he attempted to take her hand, but after a moment she withdrew it. She had nothing to say to him, although she was glad of his presence. She began to think seriously of her position, shying away yet again from its implications. When Tyler comes back, she thought, I will put it to him. Yet in the rue Saint-Antoine, at the very end of that main artery of Paris which they had traversed almost without noticing how far they had come, a cold fear settled on her, and would not be dispelled by her anticipation of Tyler’s return. She allowed Harrison to pay for their meals. She knew that without him she would have to subsist on whatever she could find in the Vermeulens’ kitchen. She felt alternatively sick and full as she swallowed hastily, anxious to eat as much as was allowed. Watching her, Harrison ate with less than his usual appetite.

  On the third day they got no further than the Tuileries. The excursions seemed to have been halted, or come to an end. Around them the day was gray, inert. Tourists, of whom Edward had been one, had disappeared indoors, into the Louvre, where he had previously spent his time longing for company. Now he longed for solitude, and for home. He had no idea what to do with the girl, yet his eye was drawn to her, as she stood with her back to him, surrounded by a maze of unwaveringly geometrical flowerbeds. In her straight back he perceived a solitude far greater than he, perhaps mistakenly, aspired to, a revelation that was unwelcome to him. He watched as she slowly turned to face him, and in the downcast face at last had an intimation of what kept her here, a prisoner, apparently in his power.

  ‘Maud,’ he said, guiding her to a seat. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I mean, forgive me for asking, but you are on the Pill, aren’t you?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘But why ever not?’

  ‘It would have meant going to the doctor. Our doctor is old, he looked after my father. He would never have dreamed … It’s not easy in France, you see. And anyway, I didn’t know … I hadn’t met Tyler then, you see.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well, of course when I tell him …’

  There was a silence while he digested this. Then, ‘How late are you?’

  ‘Twelve days.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Of course not. And you mustn’t say anything. I’ll explain when he comes back. Promise me you won’t say anything.’

  ‘I doubt if I shall
have an opportunity,’ he said, as drily as he could manage. He felt rather than saw the afternoon darken around them, but in reality the darkness only presaged another shower of rain.

  ‘He should have asked you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no. That would have spoilt everything.’

  He understood her, understood her need to meet her lover unthinkingly, without calculation. Calculation would have made her another kind of woman, a practised practical sort of woman, rather than the dazzled girl she had turned out to be. Behind her haughty face swarmed the usual fantasies, in which the desire to be mastered, to be taken over, was paramount. He had thought her superior, whereas in reality she was even less experienced than he was. And even his uncomplicated liaisons, his slender hoard of sexual knowledge, had made him aware of his status as a man, and of his responsibilities. While she, he thought, knew nothing, and was paying the price of knowing nothing, however desirable that ignorance may have been.

  ‘I’m cold,’ he said heavily. ‘Let’s have tea.’ And seeing her face again, however unwilling he was to meet it, he added, with an attempt at good cheer, ‘I’ll take you to Angelina. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘What is Angelina?’

  ‘It’s a tea-room. My parents used to go there before the war. It used to be called Rumpelmayer. Come,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘It’s only across the road.’ Her hand in his was cold, unresponsive, but this time she did not withdraw it.

  In the hot steamy clattering room, ignored by sharp-faced waitresses, they sat silently, while he tried to look about him, and failed. He was aware of a company of worldly women, and was repelled by their hammering conversation, the sharp descent of their forks into the masses of cream and chocolate on their plates. The air was thick with smells of sugar. Maud sat huddled in her wet raincoat, her head bent, making no attempt to drink her tea. Two tears slid down her face. With an effort she wiped them away, sat up straight, and composed herself. Watching her covertly, he was relieved to see something of her old resolution return. Yet he was aware that she hardly noticed his presence, and was surprised to discover how much this hurt him.

  ‘Shall we go?’ she asked.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Back to the flat. I’m tired. Aren’t you tired? I think I’d like to lie down.’

  But despite their fatigue, his now as well as hers, they walked back, up the Champs-Elysées, not speaking. At some point he was aware that more tears escaped her, that she wiped them away almost angrily. She took his arm, but he thought that was simply because she was tired. He was aware of her chill face, her hair beaded with moisture.

  ‘You ought to have a hot bath,’ he said, as he shut the door to the flat behind him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think I will. What will you do? Will you go upstairs?’

  ‘No, I’ll wait down here for a bit.’

  She disappeared. He sat in the salon, trying to ignore the damp patch his shoes had made on the yellow carpet. He wanted to summon help, but did not know whom he could ask. Tyler had been too clever to leave a telephone number. For Tyler he now felt an immense hatred. Perhaps he had always hated him. No, that was not true. He had liked him, been amused by him, though always aware he was not to be trusted. He would have continued to like him, to be amused by him, had this situation not arisen. For that, Maud was to blame as much as Tyler. He tried to hate Maud, and for a brief moment succeeded. Then he remembered her trembling figure beside him as he had manfully tackled his cake—and expected her to do the same—in the tea-room. So much for his treat, he thought, with a poor smile.

  He badly wanted to leave all this and go home, but when Maud called to him from the bedroom he rose swiftly and went to her. She was naked, he could see, under the sheet. When she stretched out her arms to him he got down on one knee beside the bed and gathered her up. She pulled him to her, and he embraced her, awkwardly at first, then with rising excitement. When she kissed him, he kissed her back, feeling the tears on her face. His sadness did not surprise him. If he was aware of anything it was of descent into an even lonelier condition. He did not then, or for some time afterwards, identify this as love.

  Gently, as gently as he could, he pushed her away, disengaged himself.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘I’ll marry you.’

  Later they lay very still, side by side. ‘Did you know this would happen?’ he asked. ‘Did you intend it to happen?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she replied, and he believed her, for was not ignorance an essential component of her behaviour?

  He raised her up and looked at her, at her full and as yet unaltered body, her face so marked by pain. He fell in love with her then, or he supposed it was love, although it was for him a mournful moment, full of regret. He saw with relief that the colour had come back into her face, though there were lines round her mouth. He saw how she would look when she was older, as he supposed he would see her as time took charge of them.

  ‘You’ll telephone your mother?’ he said, and then, as the tears started once more, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’

  What united them at that moment was a sensation of unwanted maturity, of irrevocable and necessary compromise. They had reached a psychological watershed, in which love and even trust were irrelevant. He was aware of his crumpled shirt, she of her nakedness. She got back into the bed, feeling that she should cover herself. She did not quite understand what she had done, only that instinct had guided her. She felt like Eve after the Fall, remembering the stricken agonised figure in Masaccio’s fresco, which Jean Bell, on one boring afternoon in Dijon, had excitedly explained to her, caressing the plate in her father’s volume on Florence that she had been so glad to discover on Pierre-Yves’s shelves. The book had lain unopened for years, since neither Maud nor her mother had been sufficiently interested to open it. Masaccio’s Eve had seemed bent over in grief, her mouth apparently open in what could only be a howl. Maud understood, in the space of seconds, how one reacted to what was unalterable. The tears coursed silently down her face as she digested this knowledge. She was aware of Harrison standing silently beside the bed, looking at her. She was grateful to him for not speaking, not for insisting that her gaze meet his. Gradually she felt warmer, fell into a lethargy. As she slid into sleep one fact remained with her, a fact that would not be dismissed. When he had held her in his arms, and moved into her, she had felt nothing, even though she was aware of his arousal. That would be the way of it now. She had tried, and she had succeeded, somewhere along the line; she could not now remember whether she had willed her actions or not. As sleep overcame her she realised that this was a matter she was genuinely incapable of deciding. If she had acted unwillingly, the fact remained that she had acted. She could reproach Harrison with nothing; he had been entirely honourable. It was not his fault that he was not Tyler: bodies are not interchangeable, nor are feelings. But she had felt nothing, and the only alternative to this realisation was the deeper unconsciousness to which she now surrendered herself.

  When she awoke it was to find Harrison again standing by her bed—or had he been there all the time? He sat down beside her, and with an awkward hand smoothed her hair back from her face. She willed herself not to draw away. ‘I made some coffee,’ he said. ‘Would you like some?’

  She nodded and sat up, drawing the sheet around her to hide her nakedness. She drank down the coffee, felt its heat suffusing her face. This was almost a blush; she felt embarrassed. ‘Talk to me,’ she said.

  ‘In a moment, when you’ve had your coffee, I’ll telephone my mother. You’ll love my mother, everybody does. And my father. And my sister. You’ll love Bibi. You’ll have to speak to them. Can you do that?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said.

  ‘But you’ll have to meet them.’

  ‘Of course. And I suppose you’ll have to speak to my mother. You remember her—well, of course you do.’

  ‘I remember her,’ he said, with some distaste. He wondered what had prompted this
sudden coldness.

  She smiled faintly. ‘You don’t like her.’

  ‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Though as we shall be living in London that hardly matters.’

  ‘Tell me about your home.’

  ‘Well, my real home is by the sea, where my family lives. I only have a rented flat in London. Though that can be changed. In fact, if you like I’ll go on ahead and look for something bigger. Then you can join me. You’ll have to go home to Dijon, you know. In fact when I’ve telephoned my mother you’d better telephone yours. You know you must do that, don’t you? After all, time enters into things now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed.

  ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said, gathering up the cups. He was absurdly sad. I am too young for this, he thought. I was never meant to be a married man. I was going to see the world, when I had summoned up the courage. But this has taken even more courage. At the same time he remembered Maud’s body, and knew that he would never let her go. He knew that she did not love him, had known that she would never love him when he had watched her with Tyler. That had been love, blatant, shameless, the real thing. At the back of his mind, behind the sadness, was a small feeling that he was owed something. This he resolved to suppress for as long as he decently could. He would respect her; he would not act like Tyler, who took no heed of reluctance, or refusal, or any of the other reactions that indicated caution, hesitation. He had not inherited a violated woman. She had been all willingness, all eagerness. But not for him. He had not misread her hopelessness when he took her in his arms. But his mind was imprinted with the image of how she had looked when she had reached out to him, not loving, but longing. On that image he would hope to build.