Deaf Sentence

by David Lodge

  In between these humiliations he limited his activities under the dome to swimming around slowly in circles, a few strokes at a time, in the main pool and in the heated open-air pond at the top, keeping well away from the weir that led to the rapids. Nevertheless, even that small amount of immersion and exertion had imparted an agreeable inner warmth, a kind of sensuous lassitude, to his limbs; and now, after a good dinner - coq au vin prepared by Winifred and baked apples stuffed with dates cooked by Jakki - and especially after a generous share of the two bottles of Pomerol which he had prudently brought with him from home, he felt relaxed enough to forget the irritations and frustrations of the day, and let his thoughts play idly over the amorous prospects for the night.

  One of the two bedrooms was a double, and the other a twin. Jakki and Lionel, who had got inside the chalet first, had bagged the double. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Jakki had said, adding with a little smirk, ‘You can always push the singles together.’ ‘I don’t think we’ll bother,’ Winifred had said, which was unpromising. On the other hand, that was yesterday evening, after a drive made tedious by a long hold-up on the motorway and all the effort of unloading the cars and driving them back to the car park and walking back to their chalet, which seemed to be as far from the car park as it was possible to be within the confines of the perimeter fence. He and Winifred were both weary, retired early, and slept soundly under their duvets in the separate beds. But tonight, he thought, Winifred might be disposed to intimacy. Her nervous system would also have been flooded with endorphins released by exercise, she too would be experiencing the same transient but agreeable sense of well-being as himself, and it seemed to him that when their eyes met occasionally across the dinner table hers had a soft and inviting glow, and her smile a genuine warmth.

  It was unfortunate, therefore, that it happened to be New Year’s Eve, so that when, after they had cleared the table and stacked the soiled dishes in the dishwasher (this appliance, Jakki emphasised, being a luxury exclusive to the executive villas, along with jacuzzi baths in the en suite bathrooms and a private sauna on the back porch), and had partaken of decaffeinated coffee or herbal tea, Desmond declared, with a covert wink at Winifred, that he felt pleasantly tired and ready for bed, Jakki and Lionel protested that this was out of the question, and insisted that they must all sit up and see the New Year in. And it was doubly unfortunate that Lionel had brought with him a bottle of single malt to, as he waggishly put it, ‘get the right spirit into us’.

  It was only half-past ten when Desmond’s proposal was ruled out of order by Lionel and Jakki, a decision in which Winifred acquiesced (out of politeness, he suspected, rather than enthusiasm), and there was nothing to do until midnight except make desultory conversation and drink the single malt.Winifred did not like whisky, and Jakki’s consumption of the liquor was modest, so between them the men had accounted for about two-thirds of the bottle by the time Lionel switched on the television.The floodlit face of Big Ben, with its hands at seven minutes to twelve, filled the screen, and the camera tracked the movement of the minute hand with occasional cutaways to noisy expectant crowds in Trafalgar Square and other public spaces around the country, until at last the familiar bass notes boomed out. The crowds in the streets chanted the numbers - ‘one - two - three . . .’ - as the chimes sounded, and on the stroke of twelve erupted in cheers and yells and promiscuous embracing. Fireworks exploded over the Thames. The four of them rose to their feet - the two men somewhat unsteadily - and wished their partners a Happy New Year. Lionel engaged Jakki in a long, snogging kiss, and Desmond attempted something similar with Winifred but she quickly terminated it and averted her face. ‘Sorry darling, but you know I don’t like the smell of whisky,’ she said. ‘Then come to bed and I’ll kiss your other lips,’ he murmured into her ear, causing her to blush crimson and push him away. Lionel and Jakki at last unglued themselves and exchanged NewYear greetings with Winifred and Desmond. Lionel kissed Winifred respectfully on the cheek and Jakki kissed Desmond on the mouth, thrusting her tongue between his teeth and leaning back afterwards to laugh at his startled expression. ‘Happy New Year, Des!’ she said. ‘You can go to bed now.’

  Once inside their bedroom he tried to undress Winifred, starting with the zip at the back of her dress, but she shook off his hand. ‘Stop, you’ll break it.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you in the mood for love?’ ‘No, I’m not,’ she said, stepping out of her dress and speaking in a low but emphatic voice which he could just about hear. ‘And if I were, it wouldn’t be any use because you’ve had far too much to drink.’ ‘We could have some foreplay and see what happens,’ he wheedled, pressing up behind her and cupping his hands over her breasts. She removed his hands and turned on him. ‘What did you mean by saying that in front of Jakki and Lionel?’ she said angrily. ‘Saying what?’ ‘About lips.’ ‘They didn’t hear it.’ ‘They would have to be deaf if they didn’t - as deaf as you.’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Oh well, I don’t think they would have been shocked. Jakki gave me a French kiss just now.’Winifred stared at him as if doubting his word. ‘Did she? Then she obviously had too much to drink too.’

  She carried on briskly preparing herself for bed, but he could tell that the information had piqued her a little, planted a tiny seed of resentment which might work in his favour. When he said he would push the single beds together she did not assent, but she did not demur, and retired to the bathroom while he carried out this operation - which was just as well, as he found it surprisingly difficult. The beds were of light construction, mounted on freewheeling castors, and cannoned around the room disconcertingly when he gave one of them an over-enthusiastic push, and he almost suspected the other one of deliberately tripping him up at one point, but eventually he managed to line them up next to each other - in the middle of the room, where admittedly they looked a bit odd, more like a catafalque than a double bed, but the night table between them was screwed irremovably to the wall so there was no alternative. He covered the combined bed with the duvets to make it look more inviting, threw a red polo shirt over the bedside lamp to create a dim romantic glow, and turned off the other lights. From the bathroom he heard the sound of the shower running, which was an encouraging sign. He undressed and lay down on the bed in his underpants, waiting for Winifred to finish, so that he could nip into the bathroom and quickly hose down his own nether parts. He gazed at the ceiling in happy anticipation of the intimacies to come, and fell fast asleep.

  He woke with a stiff neck, a throbbing head and a dry mouth, chilled from lying on top of, instead of under, his duvet, got up, and groped his way in the dark to the bathroom.The light, bouncing off the white tiles, made him wince when he switched it on, but showed by his wrist watch that the New Year was four and a quarter hours old. He peed, but did not flush the toilet, to avoid waking Winifred. He allowed a segment of light to escape the bathroom door and saw that she had pushed her bed back to meet the head-board, which was fastened, like the night table, to the wall. His own bed was still marooned in the middle of the room, its pillow on the floor, doubtless the reason for his stiff neck. There was no cup or glass in the bathroom and the stiff neck inhibited him from bending and twisting his head to drink from the tap. Anyway, mere water could not slake his burning thirst; there was a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator which might do so. He tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door carefully behind him, and made his way to the open-plan living room/kitchen. On the way he passed the door of Jakki’s and Lionel’s bedroom. He realised that he had fallen asleep with his hearing aid on, and, in his fuddled state, not yet thought of removing it, when he heard through the cheap hollow-core door muffled sounds of unmistakable import. Four-fifteen and they were still at it! What stamina. What insatiable lust. It was the final seal on his own sexual failure. He slunk back to his bedroom without going to the refrigerator to quench his thirst, afraid that he might be heard moving about by the lovers and suspected of voyeurism, or whatever its auditory equivalent might be
called. He went into the bathroom, removed his hearing aid, and swallowed four Nurofen caplets, washing them down with water sucked from his cupped hands. He did not attempt to manoeuvre his bed back to the wall, but crawled immediately under the duvet and, clasping the pillow like a lifebuoy under his head, fell asleep again.

  When he woke, at eight-thirty, he was alone in the bedroom. He put on his dressing gown and put in his hearing aid and went into the living room. Jakki and Lionel were having breakfast, dressed in what might have been nightwear or sportswear, it was hard to tell. ‘Good morning, Des,’ Jakki said. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘Where’s Fred?’ He had a dreadful fear that she had left Gladeworld, taken their car, and gone home, leaving him to be ignominiously brought back to Rectory Road by Jakki and Lionel.

  ‘She’s gone for a cycle ride,’ Jakki said. ‘I lent her my bike.’ He sat down at the table, poured himself a tumbler of orange juice, and drank it in a single draught.

  ‘You needed that,’ Lionel commented redundantly. The morning sunlight gleaming on his bald crown hurt Desmond’s eyes.

  ‘I’m afraid you boys had too much to drink last night,’ said Jakki, pouring him a cup of coffee. ‘Lionel fell asleep while I was brushing my teeth, and then he had the cheek to wake me up in the small hours and start molesting me.’

  ‘Jakki!’ Lionel protested weakly.

  ‘Well, it’s true . . . and Winifred says you created havoc with the beds before you passed out yourself, Des.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t have a very clear memory,’ he said. He drank the coffee greedily. Things were not quite as bad as he had feared. His wife had not left him and Lionel had not after all performed a four-hour sexual marathon.

  ‘We thought we’d go to the spa this morning,’ said Jakki.

  ‘Good way to get rid of a hangover,’ said Lionel.

  ‘You mean, drinking the water?’ he asked.

  ‘What would you want to do that for?’ Jakki said, with a frown.

  ‘He’s pulling your leg, again, Jakki,’ Lionel said. ‘It’s a really nice place, Des. Saunas, steam rooms, a warm-water outdoor pool . . . Pricey, but good value.’

  ‘We’ve got our own sauna here,’ he observed, ‘which is free.’ It was a small wooden structure, with room enough for perhaps two people, on the deck at the back of the chalet, which they had heated up yesterday to dry their swimming costumes and towels. Outside was a primitive douche in the form of a wooden tub filled with cold water, suspended from a beam and operated by a rope.‘That? That’s nothing,’ Lionel scoffed.‘The spa has three kinds of sauna, and four steam rooms with different themes. Roman, Japanese, Indian . . . ’

  ‘I can see how that might appeal,’ he said.

  ‘And you can have all kinds of massage and beauty treatments,’ Jakki chimed in, oblivious to any innuendo.

  Winifred came in at this point, rosy-cheeked and looking pleased with herself. ‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ she announced. ‘It’s years since I rode a bike. I’d forgotten how nice it is, if you don’t have cars and lorries to contend with.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked. He wasn’t really interested, but it was a way of making her speak to him.

  ‘Oh . . . round the boating lake, through the woods . . . It was idyllic. There weren’t many people about.’

  ‘I would have come with you if I’d been awake,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well, you were sleeping rather soundly,’ she said drily. ‘Oh, and I passed the spa,’ she said, turning to Jakki.

  ‘We thought we might spend this morning there,’ Jakki said.

  ‘Super,’ said Winifred.

  When they were back in the privacy of their bedroom, and while they were restoring it to some kind of order, he apologised for the debacle of the night.

  ‘You drink too much, Desmond,’ she said. The ‘Desmond’ was an index of her displeasure. Even an acidly ironic ‘darling’ was better than ‘Desmond’.

  ‘It was Lionel’s fault, producing that bottle of malt.’

  ‘You didn’t have to drink it. Anyway, it’s not just last night, it’s most nights. You’re getting addicted.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It’s not nonsense.’

  ‘All right, I’ll prove it,’ he said. ‘I won’t have a drop to drink today.’

  She looked at him appraisingly. ‘You know we’re eating out tonight - at the soi-disant French restaurant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you won’t have any wine?’

  ‘No.’>

  ‘Even if the food is not up to much?’

  ‘Even if it’s horrible. As I confidently expect.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, if you keep to your resolution, darling, I’ll be amazed - but delighted.’

  He was pleased with his strategy. His vow of abstinence had made a favourable impression on Winifred, and put her into a forgiving mood. A dry day would do him no harm - in fact, a world of good. Furthermore, if he succeeded in keeping his promise - and he was determined to do so - he would be in the best possible shape to claim as a reward the sexual intercourse he had forfeited the previous night.

  The spa session contributed to his plan by being thoroughly enjoyable, if mildly absurd. It was a large, self-important establishment, staffed by immaculately manicured and coiffed ladies in white coats, architecturally eclectic (Greek temple crossed with Taj Mahal), its interior walls clad in a plausible imitation of marble, and its floors covered with non-slip ceramic tiles. There were fountains and foot-baths and replicas of classical statuary in the central area, off which various themed saunas and steam rooms were situated.They sampled the Roman Laconium, the Tryrolean Sauna, the Turkish Hammam, the Indian Blossom Steam Room and the Japanese Salt Bath. They meditated in the Aqua Meditation Room and, wrapped in the towelling robes provided, trod the stepping stones of the Zen Garden in their bare feet.They cleansed and closed the pores of their sweating bodies under the multisensory showers which shot jets of icy water at them from all angles, choosing from a range of options, including tropical storm with thunder and lightning effects, and mint-flavoured mist. Then they floated languidly in the warm outdoor pool, which periodically became a giant jacuzzi, pummelling their muscles therapeutically with its forceful bubbles. Between these experiences they reclined in loungers and sipped water and read or simply relaxed. There was, he was told, piped music of a gentle inoffensive kind, but he of course could not hear it. The others went off for various massages - reiki for Winifred, shiatsu for Jakki and Swedish for Lionel - but he was happy to stay in the relaxation area with the novel he had brought with him. He found a cosy nook containing a kind of ottoman covered with a shaggy artificial hide, a seat such as Tamburlaine or Genghis Khan might have lolled on after victory on the battlefield. If Waterworld was a kind of benign hell, he mused, the spa was a very acceptable kitsch heaven.

  They spent several hours there, ate lunch with voracious appetites in its café, and then went ten-pin bowling, ‘where half the fun of the simple and repetitive game,’ he remembered some writer saying, ‘lies in watching the machinery set up the pins and return the balls’. Neither he nor Winifred had ever bowled before, but they acquitted themselves well - Winifred indeed showing real aptitude and achieving the highest score. Then they returned to the chalet at four in the afternoon for a cup of tea and a rest before going out to dine at Gladeworld’s premier restaurant, which Desmond now referred to as Soi Disant. It was all going so well, when with a self-indulgent remark he turned the conversation, and events, in an ill-starred direction.

  ‘The spa is fine in itself,’ he said, when they were discussing its merits, ‘but of course having to wear swimming costumes is a nonsense. You really need to be naked in a sauna or a steam room to get the full benefit.’ ‘You’re right, Des,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s not very comfortable sweating into a pair of trunks.’ ‘But then they’d have to segregate the sexes,’ said Jakki, ‘which wouldn’t be much fun for couples like us.’ ‘I’ve been
to a public sauna in Germany where everybody was naked, men and women together,’ Desmond said, ‘and nobody turned a hair.’ ‘Not even a pubic hair?’ Lionel quipped. ‘Is this another of your jokes, Des?’ Jakki asked suspiciously. ‘No, it’s true,’ he said. ‘It was in Bremen. I was on a British Council lecture tour.’ It pleased him to remind the company that he had once been a well-travelled, sophisticated citizen of the world. ‘Well, we’ve got our own private sauna on the back porch,’ said Lionel. ‘What are you suggesting, Lie?’ Jakki said, slapping him playfully. ‘That we all prance about in the nude out there?’ ‘After dark, nobody would see you,’ Lionel said. ‘We could give it a go when we come back from the restaurant. Not all together - one couple at a time.’ ‘Bad idea,’ said Desmond. ‘You should never have a sauna straight after a meal.’ ‘Well, it’s nearly dark now,’ said Lionel. ‘We’ve got time before we go out.’ ‘I’ve had quite enough hot air and cold water for today, thanks,’ Winifred said. ‘Count me out.’ ‘Yes, me too,’ said Jakki, in womanly solidarity. ‘You boys can, if you like.’ ‘What about it, Des?’ said Lionel. It seemed wimpish to decline after having set himself up as an expert on saunas. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea, darling?’ said Winifred. ‘You might catch a chill.’ There was a steely edge to this ‘darling’ which he pretended not to notice. ‘Impossible, if you have a cold douche afterwards,’ he said airily.