A Closed Eye

by Anita Brookner

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he assured her. He could not wait to be out in the air, instead of imprisoned in this train, with his wife whom he loved and occasionally hated for not returning his love. Abroad! He thought. Abroad!

  After calling up to Immy, and getting, as she expected, no reply, Harriet looked at herself searchingly in her bedroom mirror. She had matured late, was even now young in appearance, her hair still dark, her skin unlined. Tentatively she touched the mark; in truth it no longer bothered her. All she could discern in the glass was an expression of anxiety which widened her eyes, yet she was impatient rather than anxious, for the day of her return to Jack, which she saw now with an hallucinatory clarity. The fantasy, if that was what it was, had a sharpness that was surely indicative of something more substantial than imagination. She thought that it was indicative of the life to come, and felt her skin becoming warm at the thought that in a very short time, perhaps a month or two, she would see Jack again. She might even leave home. She laughed. That she, a respectable woman, could contemplate leaving her husband, and the daughter she adored, was unthinkable, yet she thought it. Immediately the laughter faded. It was ultimately impossible, she saw that. She would stay. But nothing, and no one, would stand in the way of her return to Jack, however soon she had to say goodbye to him. Maybe, if all went well, he would wait for her. Maybe he would be a friend, to whom she could turn, for moments of sweetness, in a life that would become more arid. For she knew that however illusory, however transitory it proved to be, she must have love in her life, before the darkness set in. She moved to the bed, tired now. Her thoughts had exhausted her.

  The following morning Freddie, getting up with his usual feeling of dread, straightened himself with an effort, and fell heavily, pulling the bedclothes with him as he went down. The next thing he knew was Harriet’s frightened face hovering above him. She was in her nightdress. ‘You’ll catch cold,’ he tried to say, but found himself unable to speak.

  The doctor, jovial and expansive, a professional optimist, was reasonable and full of explanations. ‘He should be back to normal within forty-eight hours,’ he said. ‘One might have a minor stroke without knowing it. Quite common, you know.’ At your age, was what he did not quite manage to conceal.

  ‘Don’t let Immy see me,’ were the next words that Freddie managed to say. He was aware of his drooping left eyelid, and the rigidity at the left side of his mouth. These gradually diminished as the day went on, a long day, spent in bed, very frightened. To stay in bed meant to succumb: this he knew he must not do.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Harriet, kneeling by the bed in what he recognized as a shaft of late sunlight.

  ‘Better.’

  They longed to believe it. But his speech had improved, and the mouth had slightly relaxed, and later that evening he managed to get up and walk to the bathroom.

  She got into bed with him, to keep him company.

  ‘I never liked Mordaunt,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone says he’s an excellent doctor. But actually, no, I don’t like him either.’

  ‘When I’m better,’ he said heavily, ‘I might try that clinic Sanders told me about. That Swiss place. Stay there for a bit.’ He saw something of his original image, only this time the Mediterranean was replaced by a mountain range. ‘You don’t need to come,’ he said, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

  She looked with pity at his sad and mottled face.

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ she said. ‘As if I’d ever leave you.’

  FREDDIE took one look at the room into which they were shown, and said, ‘No way.’ Harriet, though tired, was relieved. She had been prepared to put up with the brown decor, the two overwhelming wardrobes, and the tiny bathroom for as long as she thought Freddie unequal to the task of providing them with suitable accommodation. She looked on this day of her life as a nightmare from which she wished to be released by a profound sleep. It did not much matter to her where she slept: everywhere was exile. She had been patient, she thought, and sensible. She had obtained from Mordaunt a list of clinics in the Lausanne area, and also an introductory letter, Freddie’s friend having proved disappointing in the matter of directions to and exact location of the place that had saved his life. ‘I couldn’t tell you the way,’ he said. ‘We were driving, from Geneva. I’d know it again, of course. You could ask around. It’s called l’Alpe Fleurie.’ Mordaunt had been polite but dubious. ‘Everything in Switzerland is called l’Alpe Fleurie,’ he had said. ‘You’re as likely to find yourself in a restaurant or a children’s home as in a clinic. You’d be better off somewhere else. As a matter of fact my partner—Strang, you know—has made a study of clinics and spas. I’ll give you a list.’ Harriet had taken it with a sinking heart, seeing them posting from clinic to clinic for month after month, perhaps for years. Mordaunt had saved them. ‘Lecoudray is very highly thought of,’ he had said. ‘Specializes in arterial cases. Got his own clinic near Montreux. I met him once, at a conference. I’ll give you a letter.’

  But they had come, first, to Nyon, for no good reason other than Freddie had thought he might stumble on the clinic from which Sanders had so signally benefited. It was the hotel room that decided him. Anger at being cheated of his vision of balconies and woodsmoke had restored a certain vigour. ‘Bring that bag, Harriet,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down and order a taxi.’ ‘Are we going to Montreux?’ she asked. ‘Not directly,’ he said, with some cunning, for the mirage of the perfect hotel was still vivid in his mind, and he knew that it had to be somewhere undiscovered, far from urban life. Dazed, she sat in the back of the taxi, watching small stands of trees give way to fields of yellow rape. Nyon was left behind, forgotten, cancelled. So, in due course, were Rolle (Hôtel Regina) and Morges (Hôtel du Mont Blanc). ‘Freddie, I am very tired,’ she said, watching a red sun descend slowly into the grey waters of the lake, as they speeded past. ‘Lausanne, vous connaissez?’ asked the driver, who was now far from home. Without waiting for an answer he unloaded their bags in front of the Beau Rivage, casually mentioned an enormous sum of money, and got back into the car. Through plate glass windows what looked like members of a seminar or conference, all men, were dining. Freddie saw them too. ‘We can have something sent up,’ he said, already disappointed. It was his fourth hotel of the evening, and none had corresponded to his original, his ideal hotel, in which, somehow, he would be the only guest, honoured and prized by the proprietor, who would be a discreetly attractive woman of a certain age, perfectly silent unless he wished to talk. He saw a younger slimmer version of himself; he saw appreciative glances from villagers who knew their place. He did not want chandeliers, in which, inevitably, the bulbs, although numerous, were too weak, and long airless corridors, and waiters whipping silver domes off plates of unfamiliar fish. He wanted to feel at home, and wondered how he could ever manage to do so again. At that point he felt unwell, and put his hand to his heart. Harriet was at his side, vigilant.

  ‘It’s been a long, tiring day,’ she warned. ‘Tomorrow we take it easy.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, in a voice that wheezed slightly, ‘we look for a flat. Furnished. Rent it by the month.’

  She did not have the heart to argue with him.

  Both slept badly. Harriet woke early, worrying about Freddie, worrying about Immy, who, she thought, had not been given sufficient warning of their departure. When would they get back, to reassure her? More important, how long were they to be away? She had not taken seriously Freddie’s suggestion that they look for a flat. This was not their home, nor was it ever likely to be; she had in mind a visit to this Lecoudray, and then a swift return to London, where they were, or would be, safe. She thought that this might be accomplished in the space of a week, but intended to keep her thoughts to herself. She saw Freddie stirring, watched him carefully as he made his way to the bathroom, and ordered breakfast. She had to admit that he looked better, acted more like a man. This adventure, or initiative, had served the purpose of reviving him, of reminding
him that he could make certain choices, could pay effortlessly for certain mistakes. The rejection of all those hotel rooms, which, though doleful, had not been entirely impossible, had stimulated him; he would now bend the country to his will until he was satisfied that it met his requirements. The sun rose magnificently and imperviously outside the window; inside, all was discreet luxury, infinitely depressing. Both the discretion and the luxury annoyed Freddie, as did the noise of trolleys in the corridor, and the cars starting up in the car park. It was already hot. Suddenly, Harriet herself wanted air, and silence. She would have liked to be alone, but suppressed this thought. She watched him pick up the telephone, order a taxi. If I let him have his own way in this adventure, she thought, then maybe it will be my turn to have mine, one day, when we are home again.

  Their driver, this time, was a younger man, placid and relatively cheerful. He seemed to understand instinctively that Freddie was both rich and unwell, yet did not take undue advantage of the fact. Instead he drove them carefully along the lake shore, from which they could see small yachts, like tidy children, bobbing at anchor in minuscule boat basins, and municipal flowers, gravely chosen with an eye to maximum contrast of colours, blooming obediently in equally small flower beds. Yet as the sun rose high in the sky and flooded the lake, without in any way piercing its opacity, they began to see a more benign landscape, bushes and trees of lilac and wistaria cascading over low stone walls, a glimpse of snow on distant peaks, and, spreading outwards and upwards, green hills dotted with peaceable houses, each with its own view of life below, in the valley, and its own sloping meadow to isolate it from its neighbours.

  It was absurdly scenic, and yet it was properly domesticated. It would, Harriet saw, be possible to live here, to take an evening walk along the lake shore, watching a great red sun sink into those grey waters; it would be possible, and even desirable, to turn, eventually, towards home, and to sit on a balcony until the light had finally faded. The bed, ultimately reached, would be white, austere. This life would be possible with a lover, with whom in fact it would be idyllic. She imagined the silence, like the silence at the end of the world, which would unite two lovers after the long disparate journeys which had eventually brought them together. How they would turn, from the balcony, in the fading light to that white bed! Even now, in the hot car, with Freddie’s heavy body beside her, she saw the rightness of that conclusion, after which she would be indifferent to death, or punishment. If only, she thought, circumstances and her own nature had favoured a more decisive way of life. Yet she could see that somehow her own unconsummated longings had derived an odd beauty from the very fact of being unconsummated. In whatever dreams and desires she had entertained she had always seen herself as free and unencumbered, neither wife, nor mother, nor daughter, whereas her very real situation had militated against her taking any definitive steps to free herself. Outwardly conventional, she could now see that she was inwardly conventional as well. And now there was the additional worry of Freddie’s health, for if he were to die she would be faced with the very real dilemma of choosing her own life, of acting on her desires, of abandoning Immy to her young fate, and becoming what she had never been, a vagabond, a fugitive, an escapee. She did not doubt her capacity to become all or any of these things. But that, she thought, with a flash of realism, is because I have never tried to be independent. It is all in the mind, magical thinking. Whereas reality is the heat from Freddie’s body, the bristling blonde hairs on the back of the driver’s neck, and the shafts of sun dazzling on the waters of the lake.

  They drove on, inexorably. Lutry was passed, Saint Saphorin, Vevey. On the outskirts of Vevey the car stopped and the driver courteously suggested that they might like to lunch. He himself, it was clear, was dying for a beer. He indicated the terraces of two hotels and said that if they agreed he would pick them up again in two hours’ time. Had they, he enquired, any particular destination in mind? Montreux, said Freddie, but they were in no hurry. In fact he himself was agreeably impressed by the quiet of the place, a sort of suburb, he supposed, populated by a sparse and docile citizenry, with the great silence of the lake on one side and the spreading green hills above. I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, he thought, and felt vaguely comforted. ‘What is the name of this place?’ he asked the driver. La Tour de Peilz was the answer. The air shimmered; in the boat basin the little craft were motionless on the tideless waters. Tiny brown waves spread over the cobbles below the wall on which they leaned, momentarily dazzled. ‘All right, Robert. Come back in a couple of hours,’ he said, handing the driver money for his lunch. All was silent in the midday heat. Reluctantly they made their way to yet another hotel, where they ate more fish.

  ‘You should get a little exercise after lunch,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s not good for you to sit in the car all day. Can’t we stop here? At least for the night. I’m awfully tired, Freddie. Could we get a little air, do you think? It might be cooler down by the lake.’

  Freddie was now gloomy. It no longer seemed to him to matter when he saw Dr Lecoudray, whose address was safely in his wallet. Now that Dr Lecoudray was within reach there seemed to be no particular urgency in reaching him. The impulse of energy which had brought him to this place was ebbing away; he felt the gradual invasion of an immense discouragement.

  ‘Have you got my pills?’ he asked fretfully.

  Harriet suppressed a sigh. ‘You know I have. Come on, Freddie, let’s walk.’

  They strolled past the notice which proudly proclaimed that they were on the voie fleurie, raised their eyes towards the impalpable cloud that clothed the mountains on the far side of the lake, and lowered them again to the careful lawns and flower beds of the municipality. They turned inland, away from the lake, up a little street which lay open and deserted in the sun. Freddie stopped, straightened up, looked about him.

  ‘Some decent building here,’ he said. ‘Good sensible domestic architecture.’

  He saw balconies, shutters, pitched roofs, shadowed entrances, secrecy and order. He was attracted, and saw, with an intimate thrill, that he was about to make a significant personal choice, in which Harriet would have very little to say. The car, and Robert, were waiting by the lakeside.

  ‘Robert,’ said Freddie, choosing to make this announcement to his chauffeur rather than to his wife. ‘We are looking for a furnished flat. Is there an agency around here?’

  Robert brightened. ‘My cousin,’ he said. ‘In Vevey. He is the best. He will find you what you want.’

  By the late afternoon they were installed in the Résidence Cécil, a white concrete building in a daring but not outlandish Art Deco style, reassuringly small, promising all modern comforts. Their apartment, which belonged to a wealthy widow, was furnished with an extravagance, a shamelessness which Freddie found immediately reassuring. Harriet opened all the windows, took a deep breath of air, and turned round to view, with stupefaction, the parrot-green sofa, the yellow and white striped armchairs, the black coffee table complete with large Japanese ashtray and a flowering gloxinia in a ceramic pot which might have been left there only that morning. Green garlands studded the cream coloured carpet, and flowered chintz of staggering munificence was looped and draped at the windows. Cushions, in the same chintz, were placed primly in the angles of the cockatoo sofa. Freddie sank into one of the striped chairs, visibly exhausted. That happened nowadays, the sudden expiring of energy. Harriet went into the bedroom, which was less dramatic, was in fact rather prim, with toile de Jouy wallpaper and a plain carpet. She turned back the toile de Jouy counterpane, revealing a heavy white duvet. Then, abandoning the still unpacked suitcases, she went and stood at the window. After a few minutes of reflection she walked back into the sitting-room.

  ‘How long did you take this place for, Freddie?’ she asked.

  He looked shifty but resolute. ‘Five years, actually,’ he said.

  ‘Five years?’

  ‘Be sensible, Harriet. If I’m to have any treatment I’ll have to come back for c
heck-ups, won’t I? It all takes time, you know. And I’m sick of hotels. Cheer up, old girl. We don’t have to live here all the time, just spend part of the year here.’

  ‘I can’t leave Immy on her own.’

  ‘Miss Wetherby is there, isn’t she?’

  ‘But she might want me, need me.’

  He looked at her coldly. ‘Don’t be a fool, Harriet.’

  She was obscurely aware that he would have his way whatever she said, that he was exacting his revenge on her. It was as if he had divined all her secret thoughts, had known for ever that it was for love of her daughter that she endured all the rest. And yet he knew her to be blameless. He resented her technical innocence, which meant that he could not punish her more directly. All this she knew, and knew that he would not forgive her. Time was short for him; he would be ruthless. Goodbye, my life, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘There is nothing to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he said. ‘A sandwich would do. The shops must still be open. Why don’t you look around?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She was anxious to get away from him, out of the oppressively tidy room, out into the air. The evening was beautiful, and she must not let him see her anger.

  She found a small supermarket, bought bread, coffee, and mortadella. To buy more would be to acknowledge that she was putting down roots in this place, for which, nevertheless, she felt a bewildered sympathy. Dogs were now being walked by the lake, along the voie fleurie; passing cars signified the end of the working day, the beginning of the long benign evening. If we find the clinic tomorrow, she thought, and make an appointment for a consultation, there is no reason why I should not go home immediately afterwards. There are things to do, clothes to pack. And yet she knew that she would not leave Freddie. She did not know how ill he was, had chosen to trust Mordaunt’s optimism. This uncharacteristic behaviour must have tired him mentally, as well as physically. She did not know how long he could last, was unwilling to make demands. What he had done—and she was uncertain as to how deliberate his actions were—was to remove them from a life in which she might have made an independent decision. She respected his desire for health, for safety. She respected his instinctive urge towards a longevity which might, even now, be fatally compromised: she could not help but respect this. At the same time she permitted herself a glance beyond his life, beyond his death. I shall not weaken this time, she thought, and so thinking walked back to the Résidence Cécil, where she found Freddie, still in the yellow and white striped chair, and now fast asleep.