Occasionally there is a spectacular sunset here, and everyone assembles on the terrace, maids included, to view the sight. There are few distractions in Vif, and this one satisfies a fleeting sense of occasion, noticeable even in those who do not appreciate change. But more often than not the sky is overcast and darkens imperceptibly. For that reason it is as well to be indoors, for there is a melancholy even in this healthy place, even in this hotel. It occurs to me to wonder what I am doing here, out of season, when I could be at home, perhaps sitting in Cecily Barclay’s flat sipping a whisky and trying not to pay attention to what she is saying. Her language partakes of that vaguely aspirational order which I take to be common to her profession in these days of raised consciousness and attainable self-esteem. I am too fond of her, and much too lazy, to argue. She believes in easy, or at least reachable, solutions. That is what separates us, a fact that affects her more than it does me. She believes that therapy is the answer to the sort of stalemate at which we have arrived, and I dare not tell her that this stalemate suits me well enough, for I intend to proceed no further. We satisfy each other in a well-meaning sort of way, and we are both too aware that this is something fragile, not to be examined too closely. That is why Cecily is always on the brink of suggesting therapy, and never quite doing anything about it. She knows that we will never marry, but finds it impossible not to believe in happy endings. So one’s archaic nature has the last laugh.
In a couple of days I shall return to London. I shall go back to that chaotic flat in the Edgware Road, take Jenny’s hand, and tell her that I am now definitely on Sarah’s trail, that in fact I caught a glimpse of her, waiting for a train, but as it was getting dark I did not have time to see her face before the train drew in. All I have to do, I shall tell her, is to retrace my steps and repeat the sequence of that particular day’s events. Maybe I shall even believe this. Maybe I shall return specifically for this purpose. And when I see Jenny’s eyes close and am able to tiptoe to the door I shall tell myself that this particular quest has had some validity even for me, that the transformation of an unremarkable affair into a sort of pilgrimage has a certain nobility which pleases me. It was, after all, so banal, so commonplace. But in that mysterious half-light, with the sound of the approaching train, it did seem possible once again to believe in its force. That is why there will be genuine fervour in my voice when I recount this particular episode, for what Jenny will not know is that for an instant I believed that everything might be restored, that the apotheosis might be waiting for me in some real or imagined twilight, at the end of an ordinary day, and that the rush of the oncoming train will signify not the conclusion of the story but its true beginning.
ALSO BY ANITA BROOKNER
“Anita Brookner has staked out a distinctive
territory … and made it clear that she is one of
the finest novelists of her generation.”
—The New York Times
BRIEF LIVES
Brief Lives chronicles an unlikely friendship: that between the flamboyant, monstrously egocentric Julia and the modest, self-effacing Fay, who is at once fascinated and appalled by Julia’s excesses. Thrust together by their husbands’ business partnership—and by a guilty secret—Julia and Fay develop an intense bond that is nonetheless something less than intimacy.
Fiction/0-679-73733-2
A CLOSED EYE
In A Closed Eye, Anita Brookner explores, with compassionate insight and stylistic brilliance, the self-inflicted paradoxes in the life of Harriet Lytton, a woman whose powers of submissiveness and self-denial are suddenly tested by the dizzying prospect of sexual awakening.
Fiction/0-679-74340-5
DOLLY
From the moment Jane Manning meets her aunt Dolly, she is both intrigued and disgusted. Where Jane is tactful and shy, Dolly is outrageous and unrepentantly selfish, a connoisseur of fine things, an exploiter of wealthy people. But as the exigencies of family bring them together, Brookner shows us that we may end up loving people that we cannot bring ourselves to like.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74578-5
FRAUD
At the heart of Brookner’s new novel lies a double mystery: What happened to Anna Durrant, a solitary woman of a certain age who has disappeared from her London flat? And why has it taken four months for anyone to notice? As Brookner reconstructs Anna’s life and character through the eyes of her acquaintances, she gives us a witty study of self-annihilating virtue while exposing the moral frauds that are the underpinnings of terrifying rectitude.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-74308-1
HOTEL DU LAC
In this novel, Anita Brookner finds a new vocabulary for framing the eternal question “Why love?” It tells the story of Edith Hope, who writes romance novels under a pseudonym. When her life begins to resemble the plots of her own novels, however, Edith flees to Switzerland, where the quiet luxury of the Hotel du Lac promises to restore her to her senses. But instead of peace and rest, she attracts the attention of a worldly man determined to release her unused capacity for mischief and pleasure.
Winner of the Booker Prize
Fiction/0-679-75932-8
INCIDENTS IN THE RUE LAUGIER
One muggy summer in 1971, a young Frenchwoman and two English boys share a flat in Paris’s rue Laugier. Out of their volatile chemistry—one of longing, sensuality, and betrayal—the Booker Prize-winning author creates a novel that is as stylish, deeply knowing, and delightfully surprising as any she has yet written.
Fiction/Literature/0-679-76512-3
ALSO AVAILABLE:
The Debut, 0-679-72712-4
Lewis Percy, 0-679-72944-5
Look at Me, 0-679-73813-4
Private View, 0-679-75443-1
Providence, 0-679-73814-2
VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES
Available at your local bookstore, or call toll-free to order:
1-800-793-2665 (credit cards only).
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