by MARY HOCKING
While he tried to eat his breakfast, his thoughts broke free of the ties of bodily pain and he began to ask why he was in this appalling condition. The last time it had happened to him there had been a very good reason for it; then he had been wise enough to avoid asking questions. But now his sense of danger had been blunted and the questions were more insistent. Why had he done this? Whatever inconvenience he had caused Miriam Kratz, a gesture of this order was quite unwarranted; the nature of his involvement with her scarcely justified his behaviour up to yesterday, and from then on his actions were beyond justification.
His stomach rebelled against the food; he looked at the half-eaten roll on his plate and decided not to struggle any more. He had struggled too much and for too long to digest the unpalatable. That was probably the simple answer to his extraordinary behaviour. He wasn’t suited to the kind of life he had been living over the last years. He had done well enough when strength and zest and a feeling for adventure had been what were primarily required, but the climate of feeling had changed now. He had never liked an east wind. He supposed that he was soft, temperamentally if not physically; no doubt that explained why he fell such an easy victim to the desperate appeal of Miriam Kratz. He had always been prone to pity. But unless one intended to do something about alleviating suffering, pity was a useless thing, a way of making up to other people for one’s own inadequacies. In all the years in Berlin, who had ever really benefited from his pity? And was pity the final explanation of his extraordinary behaviour? It would be nice to think so. But he knew that when he challenged The Great Arturo, he had not been moved by pity and he had not been thinking of money. He had wanted the pain. For some incredible reason, he had felt an urgent need to suffer for Miriam Kratz.
He moved uneasily in his chair, wishing that he had a cigarette, reluctant to fetch a packet because that meant starting on the agonizing return journey to the bedroom. He hoped Burke would not come in. Burke had a quite astonishing mental agility; he could sum up a situation with bewildering speed and the swiftness with which he made decisions and passed judgment was breathtaking. Much though Mitchell admired Burke’s mental gymnastics, he had no desire to submit himself for judgment at the present time. There were things that he had to put right before he had another encounter with Burke.
He gripped the sides of the chair and levered himself to his feet. He must see Miriam Kratz and put an end to all this nonsense. It had been stupid to imagine that he could help her; with people like Miriam Kratz there could be no half-measures, one must leave them alone or travel with them to the end of their dark road. He went back to the bedroom, groped his way along the corridor to the toilet and was sick. He felt better after that. He took the rest of the day easily and late in the afternoon he went to see Miriam Kratz.
She must have seen him coming up the hill, because she came out to meet him. She stood in the dusty road, waving and laughing as though she was glad. The sun had brought her to life. If he had not known otherwise, he would have thought her an Italian; she seemed to have all the Latin warmth and vitality at this moment.
As he came closer, her eyes looked at him directly, expressing pleasure without fear of rebuff. The last time they met, a barrier had been removed; she had talked about her husband and felt that he understood. He had not realized how her imagination would feed on that moment so that the next time they met she would feel that there was a bond between them.
He stood beside her, one hand to his side, breathing heavily; he looked down, exaggerating his exhaustion to give himself time. She laughed at him and spoke with a teasing familiarity.
‘What is the matter? You came up the hill like a crab.’
‘I had a fight and strained my back,’ he snapped.
‘You were attacked?’ Fear snuffed out the laughter. She put out her hand and touched his arm. The gesture, and the concern in her voice, were exactly what he had craved a little earlier: now he was afraid to accept them. She felt him stiffen.
‘I am sorry I laughed at you.’ The old anxiety crept back into her voice. ‘Come and sit down, there is a seat here.’
She led him across the long grass to the bench at the side of the terrace where he had found her on a previous visit. When they were seated, she looked at his battered face but she asked no questions. On the terrace two toddlers were playing with an inflated rubber ball. Mitchell watched the children. The ball was too big for the girl, and every time she threw it she fell over on her back. What superb natural comics children were! And what a fantastic range of feeling they could command, passing without pause for breath from ecstatic pleasure to the blackest despair. Mitchell studied the children because he liked children and because he wanted to put off the moment when he handed over the money.
‘Are they brother and sister?’ he asked.
‘I think so. They sit at the same table.’
She answered abruptly and he noticed that she did not look at the children. He supposed she was annoyed that his attention had been diverted. He must give her the money now, before the situation between them became more difficult. He put his hand in his pocket; the movement jerked his shoulder and he winced.
‘I am so sorry!’ she said quickly. ‘Was it because of me?’
She looked at him. She was indeed sorry, but nevertheless she wanted him to have suffered for her. Her eyes examined the bruises on his face, hating them and loving them; a pulse began to beat in her throat. He put his arm round her shoulder. She said softly, ‘You must not endanger yourself for me.’
The danger was that she should think of herself as playing a central part in his activities. He said, ‘It’s over now.’ He meant to add that he would not be coming to see her again, but he paused too long and she spoke first. She spoke in a voice he had never heard before, nor ever heard again.
‘Oh, these last few days! You can have no idea how wonderful they have been. At first, I hated having nothing to do; I envied the hotel staff because they were so occupied. And then, I stopped hating or envying . . . I just dragged myself about feeling so tired, so desperately tired, although I did nothing. I could not think, I was too lazy even to ask the time or to turn my head to look at a clock. Almost, I forgot who I was . . . And then one morning when I woke I jumped out of bed at once, without any reason, except to make sure that the sun was shining and it would be a good day. I felt so eager as I drew the curtain, so hopeful. Hopeful . . .’
She leant her head against his arm, marvelling at the miracle he had wrought for her; while Mitchell cursed himself for leading her on until the way out was harder than ever.
‘Have you made any plans?’
‘Plans? No . . . I . . .’ She was confused by the matter-of-fact quality of his voice.
‘Haven’t you any relatives?’ he asked desperately. ‘Mikail has a brother in Austria.’
She sat up and Mitchell moved his arm; the movement hurt, but neither of them acknowledged the fact this time. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘No.’
‘But perhaps he would help you?’
‘Perhaps.’
Her voice was dull; he did not look at her face. Instead, he fumbled for the money and handed it to her.
‘This will help you to get to him.’
There was silence. Then she said in a tone that was utterly despairing, ‘I’ve never had so much money. I shan’t know how to use it.’ She fingered the notes, counted a few, and cried out, ‘What shall I do with all this?’
He felt something hit his leg and looking down he saw the rubber ball rolling between his feet. He picked it up, glad of the diversion. The little girl was stumbling through the long grass towards him. When she reached the seat she lost interest in the ball, sat down and scratched at a scab on her leg. She had flaxen hair, well-brushed and expensively shaped; her clothes were expensive, too. Mitchell said to Miriam:
‘Is she Swiss?’
‘German.’
Her hands clenched over the roll of notes; the knuckles looked sharp and cruel and he was
suddenly concerned for the child. The little boy was crying desolately on the terrace. Mitchell rumpled the flaxen hair and said, ‘Your brother wants you.’ The child looked up and her face dimpled in a smile that was enchanting and quite heartlessly unconcerned; then she took off her shoe and threw it into the long grass. Her mother, Mitchell suspected, must get tired of that gambit. He looked at Miriam. Her face was like a stone. Mitchell did not like to leave her with the child.
‘I’m afraid I can’t pick up that shoe,’ he said. ‘I really have hurt my back.’
She got up and walked across the grass. It was only when he saw her bend to pick up the shoe and stand for a moment looking down at it, that he understood. He went across to her.
‘I’ll put it on.’
She shook her head. ‘You mustn’t hurt your back, must you?’ She walked past him and knelt in front of the child; she put the shoe on with hands that were firm and fingers that were quick and efficient, she pulled up the rumpled socks, smoothed down the dress; then, still kneeling herself, she lifted up the child, gave her a little pat on the behind and sent her back to her brother. She sat back on her heels, watching the child run away, the fat legs thrashing through the long grass. Just when Mitchell thought that all was safely over, she crouched forward, her breast pressed against her limbs tight as a closed knife; she made a noise that was like no crying he had ever heard.
He said, ‘I’m so terribly sorry.’
Her grief appalled him. It was too deep for his understanding, something torn out of the ground on which she knelt, something beyond the range of his pity. While he hesitated, not knowing what to do, she looked up at him; the harrowed face had a terrible beauty, he was fascinated and afraid. He looked into her eyes and saw, not the dark well of her despair, but his own image pitifully stripped of its comfortable compassionate pretensions.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she cried. ‘What do you think you can do? Give me more money?’
He turned away. She jeered and shouted abuse after him; her voice was surprisingly strong, the litany of hate seemed to follow him for a long way.
The road was hot and dusty and after he had been walking for a little while he became very thirsty. He stopped and had a drink at a café on the roadside. He tried not to think about Miriam Kratz. He talked to the waiter about the heat. The waiter, who was a local man, said it was always as hot as this and that Maggiore had the best climate in the world. The topic of the weather occupied them until the bus arrived from Brissago. Mitchell decided to return by bus, he was in no mood for long, solitary walks. He reached Tamaro at seven o’clock. His limbs were still stiff; perhaps a hot bath before dinner would be a good idea. He concentrated on the bath, still a ceremonial rite here, as he entered the hotel; he hoped the water would be hot . . .
‘Where have you been?’ It was Burke, confronting him accusingly.
‘I took a walk . . .’
‘Never mind that now. I’ve packed your bags. We’re leaving at once.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Alperin came back soon after lunch, looking as though he had slept rough; he packed and departed in great haste. His bags were labelled for Montreux. I’ve booked hotel accommodation there.’
Burke seemed to have forgotten recent events. So much the better. Mitchell was glad to be on the move again. It would be a hard journey, but in any case he had not expected to sleep very well that night.
Chapter Twelve
Eliot read the reports on Alperin with a feeling of satisfaction. It would come to nothing now; although, as a gesture to London, the wretched man would have to be watched during the conference week. ‘But it’s pleasant here at this time of the year,’ he said consolingly to Mitchell and Burke. In case they should be encouraged to take things too easily, he added, ‘And there are some interesting people around. Josef Novak, for example; do you know him?’ They didn’t know him: Eliot would have been irritated if they had. ‘Very little is known about him. But he turns up in interesting places at interesting times. I have been following his career—in so much as you can follow the career of a man who disappears for long periods of time—with admiration. He is very accomplished.’ This was Eliot’s accolade, reserved for the truly great. Mitchell lit a cigarette and Burke, who had nothing to do, asked whether Novak was Russian.
‘His passport would tell you that he is Austrian. He speaks German faultlessly, but when he speaks English he adopts a broken accent. Yet there have been reports of a man, not dissimilar, who speaks English perfectly. This man was in South America for a time and caused us quite a bit of embarrassment—the Americans thought he was one of our people.’ Eliot smiled; it was obvious that he had not been personally involved in the trouble.
‘Sounds like an interesting character,’ Burke said.
‘You think so? Well, try to get to know him. It will help to pass the time.’
‘And Alperin?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Oh, Alperin! He will go home with his tail between his legs at the end of the month. But see that he and Novak don’t meet.’
They parted soon after this.
‘A quick drink before anything else!’ Burke insisted when they reached the street. ‘Eliot in benign mood fills me with a gloom that only whisky can penetrate.’
He had his whisky and then they left Lausanne. Mitchell drove slowly along the lakeside road to Montreux. Lake Léman was not so beautiful as Maggiore, which twisted and turned, continually offering new delights; but the air was cool and a fresh wind stirred the water, the outlines of the mountains were sharp against the sky. There was a purity and precision about this landscape that was satisfying. A return to sanity. The two men talked easily, the rhythm between them restored. Burke had booked rooms in a small hotel in the village of Veytaux which was on the far side of Montreux, a little way up the hill overlooking Chillon. Although it was only a short climb from the main road, few tourists stayed there; it was quiet and unpretentious, and the hotel in which they were staying had a good view of the lake. It also overlooked the hotel in which Alperin was staying.
‘How ever did you find it?’ Mitchell asked as he stopped the car in the quiet square which was the only flat piece of ground in the straggling village.
‘I stayed here once, long ago, when I was a student.’ Neither of them moved; they had been travelling for a long time and now it was pleasant to be still. Burke went on, ‘We “did” Chillon. It’s worth a visit, if you don’t know it. They seem to have preserved a bit of the atmosphere along with the usual relics.’
Mitchell sat back, watching the sunlight filter through the trees in the square.
‘What did you read at university?’ he asked.
‘English. I wanted to be a writer and I was supposed to have some talent.’
‘Why didn’t you carry on?’
‘I was influenced by one of those take-life-by-the-throat-and-shake-the-guts-out-of-it gospellers. You know the sort of thing—those who can, do; those who can’t, write.’ He looked sombrely across the square. ‘And so, I chose to do . . .’
Mitchell could see that the choice had probably been a wrong one, Burke had qualities which might have flowered in a more sheltered atmosphere; but it was too late for that now, so he said:
‘It hasn’t all been so bad, Dan.’
‘Not for you, perhaps.’
At this moment, Burke badly wanted to talk about the mess he had made of his life; but he could see that he had lost Mitchell’s interest. Mitchell was reflecting that it was not actions but sensations that brought the past most vividly to mind. He remembered walking down a lane in France, coming into a village where there was a square with a drinking fountain, light slanting through the trees; it was very quiet, every nerve in his body shrilled when he walked across to that drinking fountain. Nothing had happened, he had had his drink and gone on his way; an unimportant incident, he had forgotten about it until now. Some quality of the light had reminded him; that, and the fact that now he was very thirsty . . . He wis
hed it was Claus sitting beside him, he might have said something about it. But it was Burke, morose, uneasy. He did not want to listen to another of Burke’s tirades against life; there had been too much of that already, it was one of the things he intended to leave behind at Maggiore. He opened the car door and said briskly:
‘I’ll see if there’s a garage if you’ll cope with the bags.’
They had dinner early that evening and went to their rooms, they were both tired. Mitchell pulled back the shutters and opened the window; the air had an edge to it, the temperature must have dropped sharply in the last hour. He sat on the window ledge and looked down at the lake. The hotel overhung the main road, only the chimneys of Alperin’s hotel were visible through a screen of trees. It was late evening now, all colour gone, the lake grey and the mountains dark, except where the peaks of Les Dents du Midi pierced the sky. Harsher than Maggiore, less reconciled to man, there was nevertheless something comforting in this more majestic landscape; it was strong, uncluttered and it had no knowledge of half truths. He looked away from the mountains to where Chillon jutted out into the lake; it was astonishing how the castle preserved its remote quality in spite of the tangle of tram wires that half obstructed the view. He would go there tomorrow as Burke had suggested. He turned away from the window, undressed and got into bed. He fell asleep almost at once and woke feeling better than he had felt for a long time. Burke seemed in good spirits, too. He had met the owner of a vineyard near Villeneuve on a rather dull North Atlantic flight a few years ago and now he intended to renew the acquaintanceship.
