by MARY HOCKING
Chapter Five
Rose had a flat off what she usually described as a square. In fact, it was a small, enclosed courtyard with a few lean trees in the centre; on three sides of the courtyard were apartment houses which were poorer than Rose cared to acknowledge, and on the fourth was a church which lent some dignity to the area, although Rose found it depressing and sometimes felt like screaming when the bell tolled all night. The flat consisted of a bedroom and a small, un-ventilated cubicle which served as a kitchen and which was also fitted with a shower. The whole area smelt of stale food. The bedroom was very large, high-ceilinged, and had probably not been redecorated since the building was first erected. Rose had hung curtains over the patches on the walls where the plaster was most badly cracked. The furniture was very old—‘rather languorous, plenty to lie on and nothing to sit on’, Rose had once complained. There was a couch under the window and a huge iron bedstead with a frayed silk cover in pale blue, patterned with pink roses. The carpet was blue, stained, and faded near the window. The furniture was white, scratched and chipped; the dressing table had been burnt by cigarette butts and marked by wet saucers and glasses; the mirror was speckled. It was a sordid room, but seemed to the two girls to have more atmosphere, and therefore to be infinitely preferable to a clean, well-ordered room.
Frangcon, who had just washed her dark hair, was sitting by the open window brushing it and letting the last rays of the sun bring out the copper streaks. Rose wandered in and out between the bedroom and the kitchen. She was saying:
‘But one has to be so careful, the Spanish wouldn’t like it.’ She picked up a damp bathing towel and went out to the precarious balcony to drape it across the rails. ‘Their ideas about the relationship between the sexes are quite mediaeval.’
‘Have you had many affairs, Rose?’ Frangcon asked, tilting her head back and enjoying the pull of the brush against her long heavy hair. Rose paused, her hands on the rails; in the sunset light her arms and shoulders glowed a deep bronze.
‘There was a boy at college. Then there was Derry—the sub-lieutenant I met in Portsmouth—remember?’ She turned from the window and settled herself full-length on the couch. ‘But they weren’t like Raoul, not so mature.’
‘He didn’t seem mature to me. I thought he was rather ill-at-ease and insecure; he talked like a duellist, continually on guard. What do you see in him, Rose? He doesn’t seem your kind of person, somehow.’
Rose, who only saw other people in relation to herself and her needs, was at a loss for an answer. Frangcon, never impatient, sat quietly, enjoying the last of the light, while Rose thought about Raoul. She was remarkably incurious about him, perhaps because his greatest value to her lay rather in what he was not, than in what he was. The boy at college had been clumsy and had sharpened an inherent fear of physical contact of which Rose was ashamed. It was only with Raoul that this had been overcome; he was not considerate in the more comforting sense, but he was fastidious and he had a tact which had been lacking in the emotional encounters of her childhood. He had given her assurance of a kind, had made her free of a small area of pleasure, neither broad nor deep, but enough for her. She did not really understand this, and even if she had it was not something which she would have confided to Frangcon. She said:
‘He’s mature in his love-making. It makes a difference, you know.’
Frangcon was silent. Rose looked up at her friend. Frangcon’s face was dusky, shadowed by the slats of the shutters; but Rose could see the eyes, abstracted, intent on their own dream.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ she said softly. ‘You’re very wise, Frangcon. You’re so different from me. Much more deep and intense. I’m sure it’s better for you to wait. After all, you want love, don’t you?’
Frangcon paused, the brush held against her cheek, and looked at her friend.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘What about Raoul? I always imagined that Spaniards were very passionate.’
‘Raoul?’ Rose considered Raoul, wriggling her toes lazily. ‘I don’t think Raoul knows what love is. And he certainly isn’t passionate . . . not where people are concerned, anyway.’
‘But children . . . surely you want children. Rose?’
‘No. I had enough of family life with Mother. Too much undiluted emotion! My earliest memories are of Mother hugging me and kissing me, or raging at me because I couldn’t respond. I don’t want any more of that.’
‘But love isn’t always like that. Rose.’
‘Whatever it’s like, it’s not for me. I want to enjoy life.’
Frangcon thought about this, brushing her hair straight up from the back of her neck, which produced a pleasant, tingling sensation in her scalp.
Out in the courtyard a woman was carrying a heavy pail of water; the water slopped over beneath the trees and Frangcon fancied she could smell the grateful freshness of the earth. It was still; as magical as the dawn in a northern country, this hour when day turned to night, when the stretched nerves waited for the balm of evening. The church bell began to toll. Frangcon repeated softly, drawing the brush very slowly through her hair:
‘How many loved your moments of glad grace
And loved you with love false or true.
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.
And loved the shadows of your changing face.’
‘I would so like someone to say that to me.’
Rose watched her, shadowy now by the window; an ample shadow, the curves full and heavy, yet with some quality, indefinable to Rose, that belied the sensuality of form.
‘How strange you are, Frangcon!’ After a moment, she asked:
‘Do you like my Cousin James?’
Frangcon frowned, not wanting to talk to Rose about James. She did not ask herself why this was so, because it was not her habit to analyse her feelings; she simply knew that something would be spoilt if she talked about him now. So she said:
‘Shall I wear my hair down tonight? Or will it be too hot?’
‘It won’t stay up, anyway—not when it’s just washed.’
Frangcon went on brushing her hair and Rose watched and wondered whether she should grow hers. Then she became bored, yawned, and stretched out her hand for the clock on the dressing table, turning it to face her. ‘Good Heavens! Do you see the time? We’ve got to meet them in just under half an hour.’
Frangcon made no movement and Rose padded away to the kitchen to shower. Frangcon remained still, watching the people moving in and out of the porch of the church, the women putting shawls over their heads as they went in, taking them off as they came out, like dark birds folding and unfolding their wings.
She felt on the window ledge for a comb, dropped it and explored between the ledge and the couch. Presently she found something and hauled it up. She was studying her find when Rose returned, a towel draped around her, sarong-fashion.
‘Who is he, Rose?’ Frangcon held up the passport. ‘He looks a little like Raoul.’
Rose stood quite still, the towel pressed against her chest; she was pale and the freckles stood out on her nose and under her eyes.
‘Where did you find that?’
‘It must have slipped down behind the couch.’
Rose held out her hand for the passport.
‘Don’t mention this to anyone, will you, Frangcon? I brought one or two things home from the office because I was in a hurry and there would be an awful row if anyone found out; we aren’t supposed to do it . . .’
‘Of course I shan’t mention it.’
But she looked as though she was going to brood about it.
‘You’ll have to wear your hair down,’ Rose said sharply. ‘There simply isn’t time for you to put it up.’
Even so, they were late arriving at the Granada. James, Raoul and Milo were waiting for them. Raoul looked tense and James looked bored. A nice evening this will be! Rose thought. Milo, however, was disposed to enjoy himself. He bought drinks all round and soon
he was laughing with Frangcon over his attempts to pronounce her name.
The bar was empty apart from their group. James looked through the glass door to the foyer beyond which he had a glimpse of the street. The desire to get out there into the surge of life stirred him, an undertow pulling strongly: unusual in a man who had so often at home longed to get away from the crowds. Raoul said softly:
‘Is it the drink you don’t like or the company? If it’s the drink, I daresay we could get whisky; but if it’s the company, I don’t see that there is much we can do about it.’
‘It’s the background. I didn’t come all the way to Spain in order to stand about in hotel bars.’
‘It would be interesting to know why you came.’
‘Spain was an unknown quantity. I suddenly found that I was intrigued by it.’
‘In that case it is strange that you should decide to stay in Barcelona, which is by no means a typical Spanish city.’
‘It was the last thing I expected to do. But then the unexpected has a certain charm, don’t you think?’
Raoul glanced at Frangcon.
‘I don’t know that charm is the word; but there is something, I agree.’
‘You tried that approach last night and it didn’t work. You will have to vary your tactics.’
Rose put her glass down on the counter; she was angry, but also a little afraid. It was as though there was some obscure conflict which brought these two men close. Rose, drifting on the surface, was insecure, feeling the current move beneath her. She looked across at Frangcon.
‘James is complaining that he is bored. We can’t have that, can we? I have an idea for the evening.’ Since nothing really came to her on the spur of the moment, she sounded calculating. She turned to James. ‘Does Picasso bore you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘There is an exhibition at the Museo de Arte Moderno. Why don’t we go there?’
‘Picasso!’ Milo rolled his eyes and screwed up his mouth.
‘You needn’t come,’ Rose said quickly.
‘But I feel just the same,’ Frangcon assured Milo comfortingly. ‘Let’s go along and see if we can get with it.’
He did not understand the phrase and by the time that she had finished explaining to him the little party had moved out into the street and Milo was once more enjoying himself, insisting that Frangcon should try to express herself in Spanish. The other three walked behind them, crossing the Ramblas and making their way into the quieter streets which led towards the park where the museum was situated.
‘You asked Milo to join us,’ Raoul said to Rose. ‘Why try to get rid of him?’
‘I thought that that was what you wanted.’
‘I should prefer to do it my own way.’
James, who usually avoided becoming entangled in the quarrels of others, observed:
‘You don’t seem to be very successful in ridding yourself of people.’
Raoul did not answer immediately. They passed a small, dark square with a fountain playing in the centre. The street narrowed again; his voice came rather sadly out of the soft, warm darkness:
‘I’m not sure that I wanted to be rid of you. It is good to talk to someone who has a mind, for a change; I had almost forgotten what it was like.’
Ahead, Milo was saying:
‘Dos. The “o” is more like in “go”, you see . . .’
Frangcon tried again and he laughed and said, ‘no, no!’ and put his arm around her shoulders. Rose, now uneasily isolated between the two pairs, suddenly discovered that she must have another drink before she could cope with Picasso. They stopped at the first café they came to, small, with only a few seats at a table facing the park. Rose was determined to regain the initiative.
‘Frangcon must see the mountains while she’s here,’ she said to Raoul. ‘There aren’t any good coach trips that I know of just now. Can you fix something up?’
‘Coach trips!’ Milo became theatrical. ‘You think you can see the mountains from the windows of a coach?’
Frangcon was more interested in attracting the attention of the waiter so that she could get some ice and it was Raoul who took up the suggestion.
‘Milo is an expert on the mountains. Perhaps he would act as guide?’
Although he was excited he sounded very casual and he did not look at Milo as he spoke. Milo, however, glanced at him and saw how tensely he was awaiting the reply. He turned away to summon the waiter for Frangcon. Rose said to James:
‘Would you like that?’
James, his mind on the Picasso exhibition, said that he would like it. The waiter came with ice. When he had gone, Raoul said:
‘Or perhaps Milo could find someone else to take us . . . if his mountaineering days are over.’
Milo was lighting a cigarette; as usual his hands shook a little. He looked up when he had got the cigarette going and saw Raoul watching his hands. Slowly Milo spread the fingers of both hands out in front of him; they trembled still, but the eyes, watching between the spread fingers, were steady enough. Raoul said: ‘Well, Milo?’
‘I will take you if you like.’
He turned his head away and Raoul studied his profile thoughtfully, noting with contempt the sagging muscles at the side of the jaw, the puckered flesh beneath the eye.
‘I’m surprised about this exhibition.’ James was determined not to be side-tracked. ‘I didn’t think Picasso was particularly well thought of here.’
‘This is one of Spain’s “outward-looking” phases.’ Raoul stubbed out his cigarette. ‘It happens now and again, when circumstances warrant it.’
‘And do they warrant it now?’
‘There is to be a visit by a French minister shortly—for trade discussions. So just at present, we are very liberal and culturally minded.’
‘Has Spain got much that France wants?’
Rose scraped back her chair.
‘Are we going to this exhibition or not? The museum closes at ten. We can’t hang around here talking politics all night.’
The Museo de Arte Moderno was nearly empty and their feet rang on the stone floors, making them feel a little self-conscious. They drew apart, approaching the paintings warily. Raoul, standing in front of two portraits of Jacqueline Roque, one in cubist style, one naturalistic, beckoned to Rose.
‘How would you prefer to be immortalized?’ he asked her.
‘I should prefer to have the usual features assembled in the usual way,’ she retorted, regarding the cubist painting with the antagonism which all things beyond her reach aroused in her.
Frangcon studied the portraits in bewilderment. She turned to speak to James, then checked herself, surprised by the glow of pleasure which transformed his face. He looked suddenly much younger; there was a raw, rather vulnerable quality about his enthusiasm which touched her. Behind him, Raoul was talking knowledgeably about perspective, his eyes screwed up as though he was himself engaged in solving the technical problems. Frangcon walked down the gallery, past a painting of three musicians whose liveliness appealed to her. She thought about James and marvelled that this diffident, reserved man should respond with such warmth to paintings which failed to touch her emotions.
She lingered for a time over the blue and rose periods, finding more to attract her here.
‘Now what could be better than that?’ she said to Raoul as they came together in front of ‘The Old Jew’.
‘What indeed?’
‘Then why didn’t he carry on like that?’
‘He did these when he was young. What was he supposed to do for the rest of his life? Repeat himself, just because people like you find this kind of thing easy to appreciate?’
The thin mouth was suddenly cruel, the eyes unfriendly; she winced and turned away. He followed her down the gallery.
‘Did I upset you?’
‘There was no need to speak to me like that. As though I was selfish and . . .’
‘But we were talking about painting! It wasn’t personal.�
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‘When you talk to another person, it is always personal.’
‘I don’t accept that. But I’m sorry if I upset you. Am I forgiven?’
She stared unhappily at what seemed to her to be the side of a dull, sepia wall, although the title insisted that it was ‘Soldier and Girl’.
‘Does it matter whether I forgive you?’ she said, searching in vain for the faces. ‘I don’t think you care much about people.’
‘Perhaps not. But I do care about other things. We don’t all live by our emotions. Have you ever thought, for instance, that your dismissal of the explorations of the mind might hurt?’
It had not occurred to her. They stood side by side, stiff and angry, surveying the sad, grey composition until he relented and, leaning forward, pointed out here a moustache, there an epaulette.
‘To me, that’s of no more value than a trick picture in a magazine!’ she protested, but added apologetically:
‘Now, tell me what it is that I fail to appreciate. I promise to try.’
But he began to talk about the need to break up the form and penetrate beneath the surface, and she was glad when Milo and Rose joined them. Milo, who had enjoyed the riot of primary colours, was disgusted. ‘All grey!’ Rose complained because her feet were hurting her. They moved on, past the landscapes, some of which they thought quite nice, and paused for a moment to laugh at the ‘Bathers Playing with a Ball’. There were a few of the Negro period at the end of the gallery and, finally, one or two sketches for Guernica. James had been looking at these sketches for some time and, one by one, they joined him.
