Trespass

by Unknown

  She felt hungry. She wanted to say to him: Make me a broth, with vegetables and marrowbones, like Bernadette used to make when we were children. Lift me up and gently spoon the broth into my mouth, with a hand that’s steady and kind. But she refused to ask him to do anything for her. Far better to endure hunger or even thirst than to ask Aramon for any favours.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette. He bent over her so that he could help her up a little in the bed. She had to close her eyes, because his face so near to hers was a terrible thing to see. She lay back against the pillows. Aramon handed her a glass, half full of water, and she drank. And then he turned away and she saw him standing with his back to her, staring at her room.

  ‘It was never up to much, this place,’ he said. ‘Was it?’

  She drank the water, which was tepid. She understood that she was wearing her flowered overall over a blue blouse, but that there didn’t seem to be any skirt underneath the overall. She could feel her naked legs touching the sheet. Aramon turned and sat down on the hard chair near the bed. He drew in his breath and let it out again in a long sigh. ‘Demolish it in an afternoon, you could,’ he said. ‘Walls no thicker than a loaf of bread.’

  Audrun tried to think her way back into the day that was passing or had already passed. She believed that she remembered Marianne arriving with one of her famous tartes au chocolat, but she couldn’t recall whether they’d eaten any of it or not, or whether, even, that had been on a different day.

  It felt to Audrun as though she hadn’t put anything into her stomach for a long time. And now, through the open curtains, she could see that it was night.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Aramon. ‘We know where we stand, now. Eh? The survey makes it clear.’

  He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but she couldn’t find anything to say because she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  ‘I’m calling those agents tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Tell them to send the English buyer back. If he knows this little dump will soon be gone, he’ll pay my price. Then we can all begin again.’

  Begin again . . .

  This thought went whispering round the shadowy room. Audrun could hear the wind rising, trying to drown it out. Her longing for the marrowbone broth was a raging thing now, she felt so starved of anything good. Aramon lit another cigarette and said: ‘Marianne says you can live with her for a bit. I think that’s pretty decent of her, don’t you? But I don’t suppose you can stay there for ever. You have to decide, Audrun: d’you want to build a place in your wood? Or sell up? With what you’d get for the woodland, you might be able to afford an apartment in Ruasse.’

  At the age of eleven, Anthony was sent away from Hampshire to a boarding school in Sussex. Ever since that day, he’d had difficulty falling asleep at night.

  ‘Verey!’ his housemaster, Mr Perkins (known by the boys as ‘Polly’), often snapped at morning roll-call outside the refectory. ‘You look half dead. Straighten up, boy!’

  Anthony had tried to tell Polly that he’d forgotten the trick of how to fall asleep, a trick apparently taken for granted by all the other boys in the dormitory. He watched and heard them perform it, one by one. They turned over and folded their arms around their pillows, or let their elbows lie across their faces, and in moments – in seconds – the trick seemed to be accomplished and they sounded blithe in their rest. But he, Anthony, lay in the not-quite-darkness, listening to all the rhythmical breathing and sighing, envying the sleepers with his whole being, longing to cross over to where they’d gone, but unable to do so. Sometimes, he fell asleep just as it got light, or moments before the morning alarm bell sounded at five to seven, or not at all.

  Verey, you look half dead. Straighten up, boy!

  Over the years, Anthony had devised hundreds of different ways of trying to soothe himself into unconsciousness, but this never-ending management of sleep felt to him like some kind of unjust punishment, some miserable penance which, if Lal hadn’t sent him away to boarding school, he would never have had to pay.

  He sometimes thought that, if his mother were suddenly returned to life, there would be a few things he’d have to berate her for. He’d do it lovingly, of course. He’d hold her hand in his or he’d place her feet gently on his lap and massage them with his long, sensitive fingers, but he’d nevertheless remind her that quite frequently, along the shortish thing that had been her life, she’d committed crimes of thoughtlessness.

  Now, in Veronica’s spare room after a late return from the Sardis’ dinner party, Anthony endured it yet again, that old torturing wakefulness, for which there was never any sure remedy. The sleigh bed felt hard and cramped. Anthony’s head ached from drinking too much champagne.

  He had a thirst which water didn’t seem able to quench.

  Images of the beautiful boy, Nicolas, hovered at the edges of his mind. He had an extraordinary longing – not experienced for months – to hold someone, this someone, in his arms, and he didn’t want to let this feeling evaporate.

  He touched himself. He seldom strayed into the traps and delusions of the auto-erotic. This arena depressed him, as though it returned him always and inevitably to the grubbiness of the boarding-school dormitory. But now, Anthony closed his eyes and imagined himself with Nicolas in a spacious hotel suite, in New York City, where the bed was soft and wide and the drapes at the windows heavy and thick. The New York traffic growled and shimmered outside in the street. France and England felt so far away, it was as if there might be no return to either of these places. Nicolas kissed him. The excitement Anthony already felt was intense and it thrilled him to feel such urgent desire once again. He’d been dead, dead in his body for so long, but now he was alive. He laid the precocious boy across the big bed. His young body was tanned and slim and strong. Anthony slowly removed his own clothes, never taking his eyes from Nicolas. The boy held out one arm.

  Naked now and not one bit embarrassed by his ageing nakedness, Anthony climbed onto the bed and kissed Nicolas again and then straddled him and knelt above his face. He didn’t want to hurt or damage any part of such a dazzling being. Beauty like this had to be respected. All he did was touch the boy’s sensual, rosy mouth with his thumb and then Nicolas lifted himself up and Anthony imagined the mouth yearning, open now, like the mouth of an infant yearning for the teat, and it fastened round his cock and began lapping, and in not more than thirty seconds the divine mouth brought him off.

  Afterwards, he lay very still. He felt as tired as a long-distance runner.

  He slept and dreamed of Lal’s dying. It unravelled in the dream exactly as it had been.

  Veronica was away in Italy, on some expensive garden design course, when Lal had at last owned up to her cancer. Lal hadn’t wanted her oh-so-healthy daughter alerted. She said she was having what she called ‘a little bout of sickness’, but promised she would be well again by the time Veronica got back.

  Lal was taken to a hospital in Andover. On the morning of her third day in a blank little private room, with her name, Mrs Raymond Verey, on a card next to the door, Anthony had driven down from London to visit her.

  It hadn’t been far from his thirty-fifth birthday.

  The night before, he hadn’t slept at all. By the time he arrived in Andover, his body was jumpy with exhaustion.

  Lal’s skin was waxy and yellow. Into her frail arm dripped some life-prolonging solution. She was drugged on morphine and drifted in and out of consciousness. Anthony sat beside her and read aloud from her favourite book, Staying On by Paul Scott. From time to time, he knew that Lal was listening because a smile tugged gently at the corners of her mouth and, when he stopped, she once or twice muttered, ‘Go on, darling,’ and so he went on:

  ‘It was amazing how strong even smaller-built women than Lila could be, and how determined. Their sudden inexplicable whims and preferences in what seemed to him irrelevant matters (for example y-fronted underwear instead of the looser cooler boxer-style trunks)
were equally astonishing. It was all part of their charm, of course, not knowing what they’d say or do next, not knowing where you stood with them. Or lay. On the one night he had succeeded in catching Hot Chichanya’s eye in Ranpur and been admitted to her room, she had laughed at his underpants . . .’

  Then it was lunchtime at the hospital and some nurse plonked something down for Lal, a meal Anthony knew she wouldn’t be able to eat, and he left her to go to the cafeteria for some coffee, to try to keep himself awake, so that he could resume his reading of Staying On in the afternoon. But when he got to the cafeteria he realised that he couldn’t keep awake another minute and so he went to his car and climbed inside it and fell asleep.

  He didn’t know how long he slept in the car that afternoon. One hour? Two? He only remembered opening the car door and getting out and seeing a golden sun shining on a low pyrocanthus hedge with fat berries like coral beads, and feeling the beginning of autumn in the scent of things.

  When he got back to Lal’s hospital room, she was dead.

  Her eyes had already been closed by some nurse or doctor, the pillow taken from under her head so that her jaw wouldn’t drop open. Her little thin arm was already cooling. And yet – horrible thing – the meal that had been brought to her was still there on its plastic tray, beside Lal’s paperback copy of Staying On: two slices of ham going dark at their edges, coleslaw in a vinegary salad cream . . .

  Mixed in with Anthony’s feelings of loss was a rage against the random events which had taken him out to his car, stuck him there, snoring in a metal box, when he should have been here, at Lal’s side, breathing with her, breath for breath, her comforter, the last witness to the completion of her journey. This dereliction was unimaginably terrible to him. More terrible in its way than the fact of Lal’s dying. Because the crime was so plain and manifest: he’d deserted his beloved Lal exactly when she needed him most, and he knew beyond all certainty that he could never ever let himself be forgiven.

  He tortured himself with the notion that perhaps she’d even called his name and got no answer. Perhaps she’d even felt strong enough to say: ‘Go on with the story, darling. Go on about the boxer shorts. It’s such a scream.’

  And then she’d waited for the reading to resume, for the sound of his voice which consoled her, but nothing was heard, and so she knew she was alone and that everything was getting dark.

  The sound of a car starting up woke Anthony. When he got downstairs, he found Veronica alone, making apricot jam, humming as she worked.

  Kitty had already left for Béziers.

  He sat at the kitchen table and Veronica brought him a fresh croissant and some coffee and then she stared at him in her tender, maternal way. ‘Anthony,’ she said brightly, ‘perhaps this house you’re going to see will be the one.’

  He shrugged. He put his hands around the coffee bowl. He was glad he was at last alone with V. He was tempted to tell her about his dream of Lal, but knew she wouldn’t have any patience with it.

  His mobile rang and it was Lloyd Palmer, also sounding breezy. They haven’t seen it, Anthony thought, neither V nor Lloyd. They’ve never glimpsed the face of the old crone in the tapestry, with her lock of black hair hanging loose from the weave . . .

  ‘Lloyd,’ said Anthony in a flat voice. ‘Good to hear you.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Lloyd. ‘You sound ill, or something.’

  Verey, you look half dead. Straighten up, boy!

  ‘No. I’m fine. How’s London?’

  ‘It’s good. Extraordinary bloody weather! You’d think it was June, not April. Benita’s buying Prada swimwear. How’s France?’

  ‘It’s all right. Hot here, too. I’m going to look at another house today.’

  ‘OK. So you haven’t found anything you want to buy?’

  ‘Well, I saw one. It had fantastic potential, but then I discovered it was blighted.’

  ‘What d’you mean, blighted?’

  ‘There was an ugly bungalow in its sightlines.’

  ‘OK, right. QED. Well look, old man, I realise I was a bit tetchy about money the last time we talked. Of course I’m willing to sell shares for you if you want me to. I’ll try and pull out the best, but you’re still going to take a shit-load of losses . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about it at the moment, Lloyd,’ said Anthony. ‘If I fall in love with anything, I’ll call you.’

  They moved on to talking about England. Lloyd said the grass in Kensington Gardens was already going brown in the spring heatwave. He said he was buying Benita a new E-class Mercedes for her birthday. Silver grey. He said he hoped the crack-heads of Ladbroke Grove wouldn’t vandalise the bloody thing before she’d done her first thousand miles.

  Anthony ended the call. Lloyd, he thought, is a good man, a kind man at heart; he just can’t stop himself from sounding smug.

  He went back to drinking his coffee and Veronica resumed stirring her apricot jam as she asked him what he wanted for supper.

  ‘Liver,’ he answered. ‘Let’s have liver and mashed potato, like Mrs Brigstock used to make.’

  Veronica crossed to him and bent down and put a kiss on his springy hair.

  ‘You have to let go of the past, darling,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘I like it there.’

  Anthony stood in front of the dressing-table mirror in his bedroom and looked at himself. Strong daylight from the nearby window shone on him and he stared at the lines on his forehead and at the narrow little pinched slit that his mouth had become.

  He thought about Dirk Bogarde playing Aschenbach in the film of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, getting his hair dyed and lips made up, so that . . . so that what? So that the exquisite boy Tadzio would return his gaze for just a fraction longer? So that the evidence of his own mortality wouldn’t offend both himself and Tadzio in quite such an awkward and debilitating way?

  Anthony saw that the face in the looking glass was much too old to be attractive to Nicolas Sardi. Even if he managed to create a room of exceptional beauty (in a house of exceptional beauty) in which to receive the young man, Nicolas would surely never ever set foot inside it, because he, Anthony, was too flawed and damaged by time to be of interest to him.

  He examined his teeth, which were the colour of beeswax candles. Should he pay for some expensive whitening treatment when he got back to London? Or would such a costly step prove to be as vain and pitiful as Aschenbach’s hair dye?

  He turned away and straightened his back. At least desire had returned.

  That was the first step towards something, wasn’t it? In his imaginary New York night, he’d felt wonderfully potent and alive.

  Whenever Aramon went down to the small general store in La Callune in the early morning, which he did perhaps twice a week, he bought a copy of the local paper, Ruasse Libre.

  Back at the Mas Lunel, he’d make himself coffee, put on his spectacles, spread the paper out on the table, and spend the rest of the morning reading it from cover to cover. If he was lucky, there would be some gripping murder story to spice up all the rest of the mundane content: news of another protest by farmers against the high cost of diesel; the arrival in the region of a genetically modified strain of drought-resistant maize; reports of local fêtes, bullfights, pop concerts, art exhibitions, boules championships and car boot sales; surveys of river levels, forest fires, campsite numbers and falling infant-school attendance . . .

  It amused Aramon to read how the world still danced about in its whirl of pointless endeavour. It cheered him to imagine the meandering crowds at a car boot sale, buying up mutilated books and brass trinkets and bits of crockery – when they could have stayed at home, like him, and saved their money.

  Sometimes, he considered buying a ticket for a bullfight. He used to enjoy the atmosphere of terror, and the ear-splitting brass instruments glinting in the heat. The courage of the bulls, the way they never tired, even when their necks were running with blood, always moved him, somehow. But in recent years,
he’d begun to find the matadors ridiculous: their strutting pride, their sequined arses. He now longed for the bull to kill the bullfighter, to see him dragged away to a slaughterhouse through the dust . . .

  Today, a headline on the front of Ruasse Libre caught his eye: Displacement of local people by foreigners must end, says Mayor. The article included a graph showing how house prices in the Cévennes had risen in the last ten years, mainly due to ‘foreigners’ and quoted the mayor of Ruasse as saying:

  Enough is enough in our beautiful region. Encroachment has gone too far. The sale of property to non-French nationals must now be closely monitored and possibly made subject to quotas. We do not condone racial discrimination, but we find ourselves now living in an age when our own young people, born in our villages, can no longer afford to buy or build houses here in the land they know and love, because of the invasion by Belgians, Dutch, Swiss and British, in search of second homes. And so I think we have to ask: why should these fortunate people have the right to second homes, while our children are effectively deprived of their right to homes of any kind?

  Aramon read this article several times, until his eyes hurt. Seldom did anything written in Ruasse Libre appear to be talking to him – but this was.

  He thought about the €475,000 that was out there waiting for him – waiting to release him into a new and blameless life – and he saw that, with one stroke, the interfering mayor of Ruasse might have put his whole future in jeopardy. He banged his fist on the table. ‘Idiot!’ he barked aloud. ‘Arsehole!’

  He picked up the telephone and called the agents. He wanted to tell them to send the English art collector back fast, to say that the question of Audrun’s bungalow was all settled and taken care of, but he knew that it was no use lying about this. He could lie to Audrun, because she didn’t grasp one single thing about how the world worked, but the bossy, know-all agents would surely demand to see the surveyor’s report, and there was no report because no boundary markers had been found.