A Closed Eye

by Anita Brookner

  She telephoned Immy, at the flat, but got no reply. She dialled Miss Wetherby’s number: again no reply. She glanced at her watch and calculated that it was the time at which Miss Wetherby habitually took the dog out. Perturbed that nobody knew where she was, she sent a telegram, giving their address and telephone number. Then she woke Freddie, gave him his pills, and shepherded him into the bedroom, now shadowy in the grey light of the declining evening. Freddie slept again, at once. She herself stayed awake a little longer, then fell abruptly into blackness.

  They awoke, bewildered. A scarlet sun was already creeping over the horizon, although the bedroom was still in shadow. They had both slept so deeply that it took them several minutes to understand where they were. After a moment of panic they settled down to a cautious contemplation of their new situation.

  ‘There’s no need to get up yet,’ said Harriet. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘All right,’ he answered. It was always an anxious moment for both of them. Early morning brought a state of alertness which somehow contained the germ of an emergency. In a flash she knew that if anything further were to happen to Freddie it would be at this hour of the morning, when they were both tousled, unlovely, in an atmosphere of disordered bedclothes, with the rank taste of the night’s saliva in their mouths. She got up, put on water for the coffee, ran a bath. While Freddie sank back into a further doze she went to the telephone and dialled Immy’s number: still no reply. This strengthened her resolve to return home as soon as possible.

  ‘Come on, Freddie,’ she said. ‘Breakfast is ready, what there is of it. Then I think you might ring up this clinic. There is a telephone directory under that table, the one on which two volumes of the works of Voltaire are so carefully placed, between the ceramic plate on the ebony stand and the lamp shaped like a candlestick. With the peach parchment shade,’ she added.

  ‘You seem to have recovered from your fatigue,’ he remarked. ‘By the way you forgot the butter. And there is no jam.’

  ‘No jam at all,’ she agreed. ‘Have you taken your pills? Then I think you should make that call. Then you can come shopping with me, and remind me what I might be likely to forget. That way there can be no mistakes.’

  She walked into the bathroom, surveyed her face in the mirror, put a comb through her hair, and sprayed cologne on her wrists. She was becoming angrier by the minute. She saw that her face was flushed, and willed herself to remain calm.

  ‘Ready?’ she enquired, in a heightened but agreeable tone. ‘Wear your linen jacket. It will get very hot later, if yesterday is anything to go by.’

  They clattered down the stairs, not yet accustomed to the silence of their surroundings. There were no children in this building, that much was certain. Who lived here, besides themselves? She felt coarse, intrusive, saw, yet again, that Freddie was too big, too old, saw also that he was a bad colour. She took his arm, but he moved away from her.

  It was with a certain feeling of relief that she saw another human figure by the glass door of the entrance, a small man, who swept off a broad-brimmed panama hat to reveal a head of flowing grey hair.

  ‘Bonjour!’ said this person. ‘Soyez les bienvenus! La propriétaire m’a dit qu’il y avait un nouveau voisinage. Papineau,’ he added. ‘Joseph Papineau. A votre service.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Freddie repressively, and strode on ahead.

  Joseph Papineau expressed radiant delight.

  ‘But you are English! But this is wonderful! I lived in London for thirty years. I was at our embassy there. I came home, well, back, when I retired. May I enquire …?’

  ‘Our name is Lytton,’ said Harriet, taking the proffered hand. ‘We came here for my husband’s health. That is, we are only passing through. We have taken the flat on a temporary basis. My name is Harriet,’ she said. ‘And my husband is Freddie. At the moment we are looking for the Clinique Lecoudray. Could you direct us?’ She consulted the paper in her hand. ‘Rue du Bois-Gentil,’ she added.

  ‘But my dear lady, you are only five minutes away! I know it very well. Allow me to accompany you. Which one of you is ill?’ he enquired sympathetically. Harriet decided that Monsieur Papineau was no fool.

  ‘My husband has had a very slight stroke,’ she told him. ‘Oh, he had made a complete recovery, but he needs a certain amount of care. And Professor Lecoudray is, I believe, warmly recommended. Our doctor in London spoke highly of him.’

  His hand under her arm steered her to the pavement, where Freddie was waiting. Why did he have to be so truculent? she wondered. This man was harmless, welcoming. Of course, he was a diplomat; he was bound to have excellent manners. He made Freddie seem crude. At the same time she warned herself not to become too expansive. It would be easy to lean on this man, with his childlike smile and his shrewd eyes. As if aware of her difficulty he returned her to Freddie, who was standing morosely in the sun.

  ‘My dear sir,’ said Monsieur Papineau. ‘My dear Monsieur Freddie. You could do no better than consult Professor Lecoudray. The man is a magician! People come from far and wide to see him. And the clinic is very fine. Of course, we are famous for our clinics. If you can walk a little way?’ he enquired of Freddie. ‘Or, if you wish, my car is at your disposal.’

  Freddie brightened. He brightened still more when, after half an hour—Monsieur Papineau’s five minutes—they came to a sumptuous villa set in a sweeping, gently terraced garden. White awnings and blinds protected various balconies from the sun. Utter silence prevailed. ‘Et voilà la Clinique Lecoudray,’ said Monsieur Papineau gently, as if he feared that they might be overwhelmed. It was clear that he had no intention of leaving them, a fact for which Harriet was grateful. They entered a reception hall, their footfalls heavy on the marble floor. Only Monsieur Papineau made no noise, as if noiselessness proclaimed him as a native of the place more surely than any card of identity. A handsome woman of about forty, with blonde streaked hair, dressed in an immaculate white suit, emerged equally noiselessly from a glass-doored office.

  ‘Mr Lytton?’ Her English was unaccented. ‘Professor Lecoudray will see you in fifteen minutes. Would you like to wait in my office?’

  Her office was clinically pure, yet luxurious, grey and white, extremely feminine. Her desk appeared to be a Louis XV table. She wore gold bracelets on both wrists.

  ‘I am Denise Schumacher,’ she said. ‘Professor Lecoudray is my father. As this is your first visit perhaps I should explain what we do here. We have a full range of services,’ she went on fluently. ‘Cell revitalization, examination and treatment of sexual impotence, treatment of varicose veins, plastic and aesthetic surgery, weight reducing programmes …’

  ‘My husband has had a stroke,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Of course, your husband will have a full medical check-up,’ said Mme Schumacher with a touch of sharpness. ‘All our patients have a twenty-four-hour investigation before we undertake any treatment. Professor Lecoudray will probably suggest that he come in tomorrow.’ Her telephone purred discreetly. ‘Ah, I think he is ready for you now. We take all major credit cards,’ she added. In all this, Monsieur Papineau had sat there like a relation, or a family friend, one hand cupped behind his ear, as if intent on catching every word. Harriet was grateful for his company, as she waited for Freddie in the marble tiled hall. Occasionally a woman in a white overall, bearing a pile of spotless white towels, emerged from a door and pressed the button for the lift. Otherwise there was no sign of human activity.

  ‘Don’t you think I might have been allowed to see him, the professor, I mean? After all, I am Freddie’s wife. I have to know what is going to happen to him.’

  Monsieur Papineau smiled gently, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen to Freddie.

  ‘He will want to see you afterwards, I dare say,’ he told her, but idly, as if it made no difference what she was told. ‘He usually recommends a week’s stay every few months. That is what generally happens.’

  ‘And how long does this last?’ asked Harriet.<
br />
  Monsieur Papineau turned to her with his sweet shrewd face. ‘For ever, my dear. For ever.’

  He took her hand, patted it, and gave it back into her keeping. She felt the tears rising.

  ‘I must get home,’ she said. ‘My daughter will be wondering where I am. I must go back to London, to my daughter.’

  Monsieur Papineau turned his head towards her. ‘Of course you will go home,’ he said. ‘But you will come back from time to time. After all, this is a delightful place. It will not be so bad, you will see. You will get used to it.’

  At this point Freddie appeared, looking flushed and gratified. ‘He wants me to come in tomorrow,’ he said. ‘For tests.’ He seemed excited by the prospect. ‘Marvellous fellow, very handsome. Speaks perfect English. Of course, they’re all diplomats here. I thought the daughter rather charming too, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Harriet. ‘And now I suggest we have lunch. Won’t you join us?’ she asked, or perhaps begged of Monsieur Papineau. Freddie said nothing. Monsieur Papineau studied them both for a fraction of a second. ‘I should be delighted,’ he said. ‘La Ruche is highly recommended. Won’t you be my guests?’

  ‘No, no, wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Freddie, now restored to good humour. ‘You must be our guest. You’ve been very kind, looking after my wife. Appreciate it. And perhaps after lunch you could tell me where to buy a hat like yours. He told me to keep my head covered.’

  ‘It was rather a long way to come to get that sort of advice,’ remarked Harriet, as they made their way down the hot stone steps of the terrace. ‘I could have told you that for nothing.’ Freddie took no notice. ‘I’ll leave you after lunch,’ she went on. ‘You can go and buy your hat with Monsieur Papineau. As you noticed this morning, I had forgotten the butter. A mistake like that must be rectified as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mais oui, sous peine d’amende,’ said Monsieur Papineau gaily, taking them both by the arm. Under his influence a civilized atmosphere was restored, was sustained throughout lunch in the dark little restaurant, with the fan turning lazily on the ceiling, and the geraniums brilliant through the window. Stirring her coffee, Harriet said, ‘You have been so kind. When shall we see you again?’

  ‘I am here every day,’ he said. ‘Here is my card. Perhaps you will let me call on you tomorrow, when Monsieur Freddie is in the clinic?’

  ‘I should like that,’ she said. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  They both stood up to watch her go, a slender woman in a navy blue linen dress. The birthmark, thought Monsieur Papineau. I thought she was here for the birthmark. The husband, of course, is in ruins. That heat, that colour. He offered his wallet, but politely accepted Freddie’s refusal. ‘If you could walk into Vevey,’ he suggested. ‘Delahaye will have a suitable hat.’ He usually shopped in Geneva, but forbore to say so. He felt a sympathy for the man, whom he saw buoyed up by false hopes. He must not offer advice, he warned himself, although it was in his nature to do so, having held a position at the Swiss Embassy in London for this very purpose.

  Harriet found a bookshop, which made her feel better. She bought some paperbacks, then went back to the flat, where she telephoned Immy. Again there was no reply. But it did not matter; she would be home within the week. She willed the time to pass, had almost forgotten why they were here in this place, but was forcibly reminded when Freddie returned, looking congested.

  ‘I think I’ll lie down for a bit,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, lie down,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

  She sat at the window quietly, her books in her lap. At six o’clock Freddie woke, took a bath, and eased himself back into bed again. She spent the evening sitting on the parrot-green sofa, trying to read, her gaze straying to the window. When the light faded, and the grey shadows she was beginning to know so well invaded the room, she laid aside her book and silently joined Freddie. There was nothing else to do.

  ‘Your daughter is very young?’ enquired Monsieur Papineau the following morning, walking her beside the lake. They had delivered Freddie, who was rather silent, to the clinic in his car.

  ‘My daughter is nearly twenty-one,’ she replied.

  ‘That is not very young,’ he said gently.

  ‘But you see, I love her so much.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  They walked on.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I must seem very silly to you.’

  ‘No, no. I know about love. I had a governess whom I loved very much. She was with me all her life. I still miss her.’

  ‘You must tell me about her,’ she said.

  Across the lake she could see, or thought she could see, a village, perhaps a little town, at the foot of the mountains. The sun lay hot on her shoulders. The village, or the town, lay veiled in a grey mist.

  ‘If I were allowed to pick the flowers I would give you one,’ said Monsieur Papineau. ‘But one is not allowed to pick the flowers here. Not like England.’

  She smiled. ‘You are so kind.’

  ‘Not kind,’ he said. ‘I am like you. Lonely.’

  ‘YOU’RE SURE you’ll be all right, darling?’

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ said Immy, with elaborate patience. ‘What can happen to me? You’ll only be away a month. We went through all this last year, if you remember.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t like to think of you alone in this house.’

  ‘Wetherby’s downstairs, isn’t she?’

  ‘Miss Wetherby, darling. And I hardly think she’d be much good at defending you.’

  ‘There’s the dog. And anyway I’m out most of the time.’

  Where do you go? She longed to ask, but said nothing.

  They were in Imogen’s flat, tidying up. Harriet’s presence was allowed on such occasions, even welcomed, although Imogen’s general mood was one of disaffection. She had not asked about her father’s treatment, for which Harriet could hardly blame her: she thought it farcical herself. The prospect of sitting in that elaborate little room while Freddie solemnly booked into the clinic for his vitamin injections filled her with despair. Yet she was intent on behaving well, went along with his obsessions, his little manias, which were becoming more pronounced, resigned herself to the company of Monsieur Papineau, who remained devoted but who now wished to talk about himself and his memories of London, an ideal city, as he saw it, and one which did indeed seem ideal to Harriet as she sat obediently on a public seat overlooking the lake, improving her French from the book in her lap. A terrible calm had fallen on her life, as if the lake were indeed an inland sea in more ways than one and she herself adrift on it. Three times a year she and Freddie went to Switzerland, where Freddie, looking complacent, received his injections. The mere touch of Professor Lecoudray’s hand was apparently enough to restore him; she had to admit that he was better, was even rather well. But she distrusted Lecoudray, suspected him of advising Freddie on the desirability of sexual activity, for several times his hands had fumbled over her, in a way which was now repugnant to her, and he took to watching her when she was bathing, sometimes hitched himself up in the bed to pull at the straps of her nightdress. She regarded this as a form of senility, although it seemed to put Freddie into a genial mood. She thought that he must have conversations with Lecoudray of which no woman would approve. Certainly he came back to the Résidence Cécil rejuvenated, with stories about his nurses—Colette, Irène—which were supposed to excite her. She knew that the younger girl, Colette, was superbly attractive, as he repeatedly told her. Irène, a middle-aged woman, was handsome and stern, and was thus another source of anecdotes. Harriet had found Irène sensible: the sternness seemed to proceed from a certain disgust with several of her wealthy patients, for whom she was obliged to perform services which they should have performed for themselves. She regarded Harriet with a sympathy she did not bother to disguise. Yet Freddie continued to flourish, and Harriet saw them condemned to spend longer and longer abroad, while Immy became more and more unkno
wable. For she had to admit that she knew nothing of her daughter’s life beyond the fact, the rather surprising fact, that she continued to work at her advertising agency, that she was increasingly beautiful, and that she had an extensive social life which was somehow a secret.

  Imogen did not enquire after her father’s health, or take even a polite interest in his progress. She found him, if anything, pathetic, but had done so for a long time. Harriet could not bear her to know of her father’s intimate behaviour, felt indeed that her daughter must be protected from all suggestions of stain, of soil, although she knew, but knew without the support of any fact, that Imogen was no longer innocent. So long as it is only Julian, she thought, waiting in vain for Imogen to confide in her, as she thought other women’s daughters must do, although she had never confided in her own mother when she was young. On the contrary: there had been between them that electrically charged sense of things unsaid, and the mute appeal that she should free them all from their difficulties by marrying Freddie. As she had done. But these were old thoughts, which she usually suppressed. What she could not suppress was her yearning, her longing that her daughter would somehow emerge from her silence, her offended silence, it sometimes seemed, and express joy, anticipation, fervour. Instead of which there was this curious indifference, which she suspected was only assumed for the benefit of her parents, as if it were essential that they should be kept at arm’s length.