Making Things Better

by Anita Brookner

  As for myself I seem to be on your side, even prepared to go away, to give up my home, simply because your own wishes are so much stronger than my own. I too had elected a companion of sorts, though I now see that I had misjudged her. No doubt at this very moment she is conducting her own affairs without reference to mine. That is my point: how could she know what spurred my actions? How could she appreciate my situation when her own mind is so completely filled with her own preoccupations that she could hardly be expected to give her full attention to what I have become: a virtual stranger, whose life is almost at an end and who relies on further fantasies—of escape—to prolong that life and to bring it into some sort of focus, if only to restore a dignity which is so impaired that it may no longer be within his own control? You see the problem, he would have said. You too may find that you have entered into something which prudence should have warned you against. The dangers implicit in a love affair, whether real or imaginary, are incalculable.

  ‘I was against the letting of the flat,’ Bernard Simmonds was saying, ‘although of course you have every right to take a holiday. But you could simply have gone away for a month or two without coming to this sort of arrangement.’

  ‘I had in mind a longer absence,’ murmured Herz. ‘At one point I thought it might be a solution to my problems.’

  Again he had a brief glimpse of the original image of himself as a sort of boulevardier, taking his walks along the lake shore, smiling appreciatively at women, becoming a favoured companion, or if not a companion some sort of ideal escort. All this was so far from the truth that all that remained of it was amazement that he could have departed so radically from the facts. But there had been that other impulse, the strength of which was not to be denied: the need for a rash act. That act alone was out of character. He knew himself to be cautious, even knew the need for caution, as he proceeded carefully along familiar streets, his hand pressed protectively to the rattle of his pills in their little enamel box. And there were few pills left, which meant another visit to the doctor. This was not to be avoided; he had been converted to his pills. One placed under his tongue at night ensured a painless transition into sleep. He hardly knew or cared what made them effective. His mother had taken one pill for all her ailments, while his brother Freddy’s array of remedies had merely resulted in the suppression of every appetite he had originally possessed. Herz was content to surrender to this need for as long as the need remained. He was in no sense dependent on the pills, he told himself; he regarded them less as a necessity than as some sort of treat. They enabled him to look forward to an untroubled night, and that advantage alone was immeasurable.

  ‘You’ve insisted on references, of course,’ Simmonds was saying. ‘Are they satisfactory?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ They were in fact more than satisfactory; they were ideal. If anything they inclined Herz to further indulgence. They presented the candidate (for so Herz thought of him) as an honourable employee, successful in his profession, and amply rewarded in the course of his duties. These references, if anything, added to Mr Henderson’s peculiar lustre, which in fact did contain some element of the ideal. In addition to his splendid appearance he seemed, if the references were anything to go by, to possess a noble character. This merely confirmed Herz’s wish to protect him, even though this militated against his own interests. At the same time his own interests seemed to take second place to Mr Henderson’s prospects and indeed his entire future. Herz had no difficulty in acceding to the laws of nature: the young must be preferred to the old, whom they would eventually replace. The onerous duties that lay ahead for them must be palliated by the pleasures accorded to them—again by nature—throughout their early years. And Mr Henderson was so splendidly in love that Herz felt he should be denied nothing, that no obstacle should be put in his path. The only obstacle at the moment was his own inconvenient self. It was therefore somehow ordained that he must tactfully disappear. In this mysterious way his own nebulous imaginings had been implemented by necessity. That was what he should have liked to point out in one of those imaginary conversations that would never take place. Yet inferences could be drawn from it, and Herz had no doubt that they were valuable. One simple idea, one wish, could be overtaken by events, so that in the end compromise was inevitable. In his own case sympathy for this stranger would ensure his absence from the scene, when he would have enjoyed and appreciated his presence, if only as spectacle. He must therefore deprive himself of a legitimate interest, even a benevolent interest, simply in order to let the other exist in his place.

  As for Fanny and his invitation to her, he no longer knew what to think, or indeed how to proceed. He could hardly withdraw it now, yet the need for her presence had diminished. The postcard from Bad Homburg seemed to confirm to him what he had always suspected, that she was frivolous, and moreover that she was in receipt of such invitations all the time. Bad Homburg was expensive, yet she had given the impression in her letter that she was in financial difficulties. His plans had taken no account of her situation, though to judge from her letter that situation was by no means clear. The fantasy of their proceeding comfortably into some kind of golden apotheosis thus received a further check. His own funds depended on the eventual sale of his flat, yet if he sold it he would be homeless. He had managed to persuade himself that Fanny would make similar arrangements, and that the two of them would settle down together in the comfortable knowledge that their well-being was assured.

  Now he saw the folly of this assumption. There was no reason for Fanny to give up her present life, any more than he need give up his own. For that brief moment of reckless optimism he was now being made to pay heavily. This too he would point out, by means of the most delicate analogies, to Mr Henderson, in one of those conversations that would never take place. It was the conversation that he now craved, the confidences of the young, the company of the uncompromised. This too was a fantasy, but like his original fantasy rooted in some very real instinct, in this case the desire for a son whose own desire to replace him he would see as entirely legitimate. Instead of which he had condemned himself to further childlessness, since the residents of the Beau Rivage would not be young, would indeed be drawn together by the camaraderie of the impaired. In his so brief visit to Nyon he had had a glimpse of tinctures, of decoctions, of remedies on other tables, had even congratulated himself on being vulnerable only by nature of his own quest.

  He had frequently wondered whether the outcome of that journey had not coloured his subsequent life, and was responsible for his latter-day resolution to return, to replace his failure by a revision of the original test, to recapture a modified version of Fanny, and by so doing to bring to a satisfactory conclusion a series of events that had always struck him as inconclusive, as if the director of this particular comedy or tragedy had made an error of taste in ordaining if not a happy ending then at least an ending which would somehow preclude that lasting regret that Herz had felt from that day to this, and which even now struck him as undeserved.

  One’s fantasies were out of character, he reflected: that was the reason for their being fantasies. One furnished oneself with an imaginary companion, with imaginary offspring, when all the time the unforgiving nature of real circumstances contrived to submerge one. And all the time that disjunction between fantasy and reality brought unwilling recognition of one’s sad limitations. In fantasy he was free to be that dashing figure by the lake who was even now taking on the lineaments of someone entirely different, furnished with a moustache and a silver-topped cane, like an actor seen in some forgotten film. Only in such a disguise could he prove himself to be successful. To demand of his unemphatic self such a transformation was to demand the impossible, just as it was impossible to imagine Matthew Henderson as a respectful audience for his maunderings. The reality consisted of Mr Henderson’s footsteps on the stairs which always ended outside Sophie’s front door. There was matter here for sadness, yet on the rare occasions when they had, all three of them, come face-to-face,
he had felt a warmth of approval for their condition, had smiled unreservedly, and made no attempt to delay them. There were elements here too of an ideal situation, and he would do nothing to disturb it.

  ‘You’d better send those references to me,’ Simmonds was saying. ‘That way I can see if there’s any kind of loop-hole. Otherwise I’d say that you’ve left yourself rather vulnerable.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Mind you, a break would be pleasant. You might even enjoy it. Lovely part of Europe, lovely time of the year . . .’

  ‘It just seems rather difficult to envisage it from here. I have a picture in my mind, but I have a suspicion that it is entirely misleading.’

  That picture, though complete in every detail, was based simply on a memory, of a blurred and peaceful blue dusk, of splendid appointments, of a discreet background to a conversation that had proved tame and unsatisfactory. It was true that on the morning of his departure he had been soothed by the strengthening sun, which had enabled him to postpone reflections on the disappointing days that lay ahead. Even now, in Chiltern Street, the sun was gaining strength, as if it had been brought into being by Mr Henderson’s requests and desires, lighting up the whole flat and transforming it into something wider, larger than it was wont to appear. This again was a metaphor, but for once a metaphor that entirely fitted the occasion. The appearance on stage of the major actor, no longer himself, served to rearrange the cast, so that lesser characters fell into position in spite of themselves. The sun was democratic, could be enjoyed by everyone, even by exiles in distant parts. Herz knew that if given a choice he would have lingered by his window, looking out into the street, watching for the return of the young people, and smiling as he turned away, fearful of offending them by his presence.

  He was conscious of the fact that this evening was proving something of a disappointment to both Simmonds and himself, that he must appear absentminded, forgetful, inattentive to his duties as a host. In fact his own interior drama took precedence. At least his absurd position might stimulate further reflections which might at some point prove useful. For some of those reflections he was indebted to Fanny’s letter, and even more so to her postcard, prompting a reading of her character that was probably more accurate than any he had formed in the past. In the past the knowledge that their natures were different, even antithetical, had not deterred him. Now he was inclined to that loss of patience, that shrugging of the shoulders that should have been available to him as a young man, even as a middle-aged man. Her notional presence by his side was no longer of interest to him: rather the opposite. Together they would have presented a touching but fallacious picture of two former sweethearts reunited by that same passage of time that had robbed them of all their attractions. He had had too recent a sighting of the entitlements of those favoured by nature to think otherwise, and if this was unfair to Fanny that could not be helped. Unfairness was an argument advanced by children. The process by which one was disqualified despite one’s best intentions was rather more arcane. Nor would it be revealed to him for as long as there were more immediate examples of felicity to hand. The secret smiles of lovers put all thoughts of dignified maturity to flight. There was little evidence that Fanny had advanced beyond the conviction that she was owed more than she had received and that this too was unfair. And he had volunteered to listen patiently, to sort out a labyrinthine muddle that was somehow shady, to restore her self-esteem, to express admiration for her resilience! Such was the part that he seemed to have written for himself. It was small wonder that he had envisaged a brutal recklessness that would have overturned all expectations, not least his own. Where this took place was no longer relevant. The important thing was that it should somehow be enacted, made manifest, if only to himself. Above all to himself. Such recklessness would have the beauty of an acte gratuit, without consequences. It is usually the consequences of one’s actions, he would have told any young person who could be persuaded to listen, that spoil the fun.

  ‘And your own plans, Bernard?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh, I suppose we shall go away at some point. Next month, perhaps.’

  ‘You and Helen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re still living at home, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ His expression was moody.

  ‘And your other friend?’

  ‘Well, she’s at home too. Her husband’s in Singapore on business. We could have seen each other, if Helen hadn’t insisted on our being together all the time. As it is I don’t see her nearly enough. Don’t look at me like that, Julius. I see from your expression that you don’t approve. As I remember you came down rather hard on me the last time we met.’

  ‘Yes, I regretted that. It’s just that I live more or less out of the world these days. How do you see your future?’

  ‘I don’t see it at all, that’s the problem.’

  ‘Well, I can sympathize there. The future is a problem for me too.’

  ‘It need not be. I’ll need an address for you, of course, and a telephone number. And I’ll need to know your dates.’

  ‘Dates?’

  ‘For when you intend to return.’

  ‘So you see me returning, then?’

  ‘Almost certainly. I’m sorry, Julius. I shouldn’t be discussing my own troubles with you.’

  ‘I asked, you remember.’

  ‘It’s just that you were always such a good listener.’

  So were you, Julius thought. Those benign meetings in the past, their shared experiences, were somehow too at an end. He felt the familiar discomfort, felt his breath getting shorter. ‘Shall we go?’ he suggested. ‘You must be tired after your day’s work.’

  Simmonds looked up. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He paid the bill with as much composure as he could muster. ‘Don’t wait, Bernard. I’ll take my time here.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  They parted with mutual expressions of regard in which genuine affection and a slight feeling of discontent played equal parts. Herz sat quietly until his breathing returned to normal.

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘If you could just get me a cab.’

  The elderly waiter guided him to the door, a hand under his elbow to steady him. ‘We haven’t seen the lady for some time,’ he said. ‘Such a pleasant person.’

  ‘My wife? Yes, a very pleasant person.’ He handed over a five pound note. ‘Thank you.’

  The night, or what he could see of it, was unusually serene. There were no sounds in Chiltern Street to disturb him. Sophie’s windows were dark. He was aware of his awkwardness as he scrambled onto the pavement. This was now a humiliation to which he had become accustomed, together with many others. There was a flaw in the divine system, he reflected: the body, and its own inexorable processes. He longed only for bed. Yet the night hours, which usually consoled him, would on this occasion fail in their duty. He might ask the doctor for a sedative, since that was surely allowed. He made a note in his desk diary to book an appointment. I am going away on holiday, he would say, glumly aware that this was the truth. So kind of you to fit me in.

  ‘Mr Herz,’ said the doctor. ‘An admirer of Freud, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Less so these days, perhaps. But I do agree with him about dreams. That they are about desire. Or the lack of it,’ he said, reminded not quite comfortably of his most recent interpretation.

  ‘Quite so. Just roll up your sleeve, would you?’

  Herz sat obediently, his pale arm across the doctor’s desk. From a distant room he could hear the high encouraging voice of the practice nurse, which reminded him of Josie. He noted that the watercolour he had so disliked had been replaced by a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, as also supplied to his dentist’s waiting-room. ‘I wonder you don’t have something more relevant,’ he said. ‘The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Tulp, for example. That would give you an opportunity to mention the enormous technological improv
ements made since Rembrandt’s time, the scanners, the keyhole surgery, the pills. It was about the pills that I came, as a matter of fact. I am going away, you see.’

  ‘Just give me a moment,’ said the doctor, rewinding the cuff round Herz’s arm.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s very high. Have you been taking your medication?’

  ‘Well, not recently, perhaps.’

  ‘You need to take it every day.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I will. And if you could let me have some more of Dr Jordan’s pills. I don’t use them, but being away . . .’

  ‘Have you been experiencing discomfort?’

  ‘Just occasionally. A slight breathlessness, nothing more.’

  ‘I had better examine you.’

  The cold stethoscope was applied to his chest, to his back. He willed his poor unguarded heart into obedience.

  ‘There is an irregularity. I’d like you to have a further investigation.’

  ‘When I come back, certainly. Only, you see, I leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, it would take some time to make an appointment. How long will you be away?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It doesn’t do to neglect these things.’

  But Herz knew that his heart was in some ways his ally, would prolong his life no longer than was necessary. His own endurance would see to the rest.

  ‘Come and see me when you return. Avoid stress, that goes without saying. Perhaps it would be better if it did go without saying. Stress is unavoidable. Well, enjoy your holiday.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I will.’ Scot-free, he said to himself; no more questions than I expected. He thanked the doctor profusely, made a clumsy exit, aware that he was being watched. He had exhibited signs of morbidity, and had thus proved himself not to be a time-waster. But he longed for the outside world, as he had never longed for it before. To be on the street was to be delivered from the watchful detective he now knew the doctor to be. But this was always going to be difficult, he reminded himself. And at least he had his prescription. He felt as if he had been identified as a fraud, his cover blown. As it had been. He had escaped, but only just. The next time would be more difficult.