Ask No Question

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘That is good,’ she said to herself. ‘Anything might have happened if he had stayed.’

  But she felt no relief. To occupy herself, she began to clear up the mess in the room. She picked up the bottle and screwed on the cap, then she cleared away the dirty cotton wool and washed out the towel. When she had finished, she hung the towel over a chair to dry in the night breeze. The pleasure boat was moving out, the lights winking in the dark water; she could hear music and she could see a few couples dancing. She leant against the window frame, listening to the pulse of the music that told her insistently that she had something to give, something to give, something to give that must be given soon. Surely she could not be expected to wait while she grew dry and cold again. It was hard on Mikail that he should sow this seed of tenderness for another to reap; but that was the way of life.

  She reached up quickly and pulled the curtains across the window.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eliot had not slept. Life was a cunning device, its torments infinitely skilful; and one of the most skilful twists of all was the fact that the human sensitivity could only appreciate good fortune in retrospect. Who valued sleep when it came readily? He eased himself up against the headrest of the bed. He was glad to see that the curtains, which had seemed darkly substantial an hour ago, were now reduced to their natural threadbare state. The struggle for sleep could be abandoned. He pulled back the crumpled grey sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed; he sat breathing uneasily, studying the ivory of the shin bones, the purple veins that clotted the calves. How he hated the ugliness of the human body! When he felt able to make the effort, he got up and shuffled across to the window. The parted blinds revealed an ashen sky. It would rain soon, but as he was not in the least responsive to atmosphere, this did not trouble him.

  He sat on the couch by the window, tugging his dressing gown round his thin body for warmth. There was so little to think about; the world had shrunk during this last illness and now it seemed nothing but an old, empty skull in which there lodged only a few particles of dust. But the dust irritated, and the irritation caused some kind of friction which set his mental process working again. He was annoyed about Burke. Behind the man’s simulated anger, the studied scorn, there had lurked a more genuine emotion. The irritating thing was that Eliot could not define that emotion. He had been too concerned with himself at the time: a bad mistake, and one bad mistake had led to another. He did not like making mistakes and he found it difficult to tolerate the fact that a man like Burke should have teased him into making one. Now, sitting in this grey room, alone and undisturbed, he could not think why it had been so imperative to put an end to Burke’s stabbing questions, to rid himself of that grating, overcharged nervous energy. He clawed at the dressing gown again and the collar rubbed against his face; the garment smelt of death. And that, of course, was why he had had to get rid of Burke. He had thought that he was dying and a man’s right to die alone overrides every other consideration; so he had spat out the truth to Burke, knowing that this would get rid of him more effectively than anything else. Now, when death had momentarily evaded him, he was annoyed with himself. There was no knowing what a man like Burke would do with such a dangerous commodity as truth. One thing at least was certain, he would need watching.

  It was tiresome, but it provided a way of passing the time. The alternative was to sever his connection with time once and for all. Since he had never valued life, this seemed the obvious solution; but he had become absorbed by the pain and was not yet prepared to reject it for oblivion. He got up and made his way to the desk where the telephone stood.

  ‘I have some new information about Alperin,’ he told Burke when he arrived an hour later. ‘He will need a much more careful watch than I had thought.’

  ‘And the new information?’

  Eliot’s fingers twisted the strands of hair that fringed his dome-shaped scalp, the movement went on and on, the unceasing, senseless fidgeting of a sick person. His eyes regarded Burke reproachfully, as though he had said something in bad taste. Burke, unimpressed by the performance, repeated his question. Eliot said:

  ‘All I can tell you is that you must watch Alperin very carefully and report to me here every day.’

  ‘We shan’t have much time to watch Alperin if we do that.’

  ‘Leave that side of it to Mitchell. You can report to me.’

  ‘I’ll come twice a week.’

  There was a new authority about Burke. Eliot found this surprising since the man was undoubtedly afraid. He did not mind being surprised, provided he was confident of ultimate success, so he said:

  ‘You may come twice a week.’

  It was going to be more interesting to break Burke than he had thought; there was an element of courage in the man for which he had not bargained.

  ‘I shall look forward to seeing you on Thursday,’ he said as Burke left him.

  It was eight o’clock when Burke left Eliot’s flat. The rain had just begun. Miriam Kratz woke with the feel of it in her bones and decided to indulge in the unaccustomed luxury of a hot bath. The bathroom door was locked, but she had seen the chambermaid put the key on a hook in the broom cupboard so this difficulty was soon overcome. The real problem was how to get water. She studied the bewildering battery of shining round taps and decided to work from left to right. The first sent a shower down on her head and shoulders, blinding her; the second sent a gush of scalding water over her hand; the third merely increased the volume of water. As she now had no idea which tap was which she wrenched at the nearest and the top came off in her hand. By this time there was a lot of water everywhere. A lever operated the plug; she pulled hard in the wrong direction and it jammed. Obviously she would have to bathe quickly. She flung down the raincoat which served her as a dressing gown, and stepped into the water. It was uncomfortably hot and came up to her waist; the water in the shower was uncomfortably cold. She soaped her body rapidly. Someone had left a bottle of shampoo on the shelf at the end of the bath; it seemed a pity to waste it so she emptied the contents over her hair. She felt elated and hummed a coarse Berlin street ballad as she rubbed vigorously. Thanks to the rather too abundant lather, she could no longer see what was happening but she could feel the water creeping up her breasts. An agreeable sensation. When she had finished her hair, she lay back and let her legs float up. She lay there, feeling more relaxed than she had ever felt in her life, and watched the water creep up to the level of the taps. She supposed that eventually she would float over the side. She had a vision of the hotel corridor transformed into a canal and herself drifting down it. There was something extraordinarily pleasing about this idea and she abandoned it reluctantly. There would be a lot of unpleasantness when the water reached the corridor. She clambered out of the bath. While she groped for her towel and raincoat the shower sprayed her buttocks with icy water and a series of electric shocks seemed to pass through her body. A wave of water slopped over the side of the bath. She struggled into her raincoat without drying herself and hurried to the door. As she left the room, she had a glimpse of water, frothed with shampoo, snaking across the floor. She ran lightly down the corridor to her room.

  She dried herself, put on her black dress and combed her hair. Her usually sallow face was pink, beaded with sweat, and rags of dark hair fell across her forehead; her eyes smarted, her heart was thudding and her skin felt as though she had been beaten with a bristle brush. Altogether, it had been a most stimulating experience. She found her shoes and put them on with difficulty because her feet were swollen. Then she went to the door. There was a lot of activity on the landing; someone was shrieking from the direction of the bathroom and she passed a porter carrying a mop and bucket. The porter apologized for getting in her way. She took the lift and went down to the restaurant where she had an excellent breakfast.

  It was cold in the street and the rain stabbed painfully at the backs of her legs which felt raw and vulnerable after the hot bath. She hurried along, glancing quickly
from right to left as the first shops appeared. On the corner of the street where the trams swung round on the way to Villeneuve, there was a shop which had a show window of dark mirrors with one brilliant twist of magenta in the center. As she stood staring at the bright colour a strong gust of wind swirled up between her legs and before she knew what had happened she was standing in the entrance to the shop.

  The assistant, a thin woman with hair like rusty nails, looked at her as though the wind had blown a crumpled leaf across the immaculate threshold. Miriam said:

  ‘I want to try on that dress in the window.’

  The assistant gave a bleak smile. ‘That is a slip, madame.’

  She moved across to close the door and seemed surprised to find Miriam on the inside.

  ‘Then I will try on the slip.’

  The assistant hesitated, and while she was meditating her next move, Miriam glanced around. There was a small bronze model of an emaciated nude on a stand nearby; the nude was leaning forward holding an absurd froth of a brassiere between her teeth while an extravaganza of frills trailed from one hand. Miriam pointed:

  ‘I will try those, too.’

  The assistant moved reluctantly across the floor. Over her shoulder, she said: ‘They are very expensive.’

  ‘So,’ Miriam said, ‘I had supposed.’

  The assistant looked surprised. Miriam felt surprised, too. The assistant capitulated.

  ‘This way, madame.’

  She pulled back a dark crimson curtain and touched a button so that light flooded a small cubicle. She stood watching, her nostrils pinched together, while Miriam unzipped her dress; after a moment she averted her eyes. Miriam took advantage of this to close the curtains.

  The door of the shop opened. The assistant greeted someone in French which Miriam did not understand very well.

  The brassiere was no more than a ruched tape covering the nipples. The frilled extravaganza turned out to be a pair of briefs whose only purpose could be to titillate the imagination. Miriam prowled in front of the mirror, excited by the brilliance of the colour which heightened the attractions of her body. The slip was a heavy taffeta, it was tight and it pulled against her thighs as she drew it on. She looked at the price tickets; the figures were beyond belief, she would have kept her family for months on such a sum. She stood looking down, thinking how much she wanted these beautiful things and how much she would like to score over the thin-faced bitch outside. Beyond the curtains, it was quiet. She went across and peered through the gap. The thin-faced woman had gone and in her place there was a plump blonde girl, who looked attractive but not intelligent. Miriam scrambled into her dress. She zipped it up and then parted the curtains.

  ‘I am waiting for the underclothes,’ she said plaintively.

  The blonde looked surprised. ‘I thought you were trying something on, madame.’

  ‘No. The other one said she would bring me a slip, brassiere and briefs.’ Miriam smoothed her dress down and added sedately, ‘Nothing very expensive, of course.’

  The blonde brought tailored cottons. ‘We do not stock any cheap lines, madame.’

  Another customer came in. Miriam drew the curtains and examined the price tickets; the garments were certainly not cheap, but the total figure was one with which she could come to terms.

  ‘These will do,’ she said, emerging from the cubicle. She paid and went out. She could feel the taffeta slip moving against her thighs. It gave her a feeling of extreme physical satisfaction.

  Inspired by success, she bought a brilliant orange dress and a turquoise coat. She also bought a pair of patent leather shoes and a handbag to match. While the assistant was packing the handbag, Miriam appropriated a gilt Catherine-wheel brooch. She felt she owed it to Mitchell to make what economies she could.

  She hurried back to the hotel and put on the new clothes. The effect was flamboyant but not ineffective. But as she stared at the mirror, it was not the clothes that most surprised her. It was a long time since she had really looked at herself in the mirror and it was disconcerting to find a stranger there. The face, a little browner, was familiar enough; but a different person looked out from it. Miriam said defensively, ‘Mikail would understand.’ But the eyes that met hers were not satisfied. She realized in surprise that it was no longer enough to say that Mikail would understand; there was someone else with whom she had to reckon now. She wondered how long that other person had been there.

  She turned away from the mirror. What harm could there be in finding pleasure in new clothes? Especially as she had not even paid for the expensive underclothes. She picked up the brooch and pinned it on the lapel of the coat; it looked very well there. She went out of the room.

  The rain had stopped and the clouds were tearing apart, revealing ragged fragments of blue sky. Miriam walked towards the quayside where there were a number of cafés fronting the lake. In the distance, the outline of the mountains hardened as the mist began to clear. She did not like mountains. She crossed the road near the coach depot, stepping carefully over the puddles. She was so anxious not to dim the brightness of the shoes that she did not hear the car approaching until someone shouted. A wave of water broke over her and she was in the gutter. A man ran forward to help her. The last time she had been in the gutter was when the police broke up a bread queue in East Berlin; a policeman had beaten her and no one had come forward to help her. But she had not cried as now she cried for the turquoise coat and the shining patent leather shoes. She brushed aside the man who had helped her to her feet and rushed back to the hotel. The staff, shaken out of their indifference, gathered round her convinced that she had suffered some terrible injury; but she thrust them aside and raced up the stairs. In her room she gave way to a paroxysm of rage that petrified the chambermaid who was sorting linen in the adjacent cupboard. Conflicting emotions tore her body, anger, bewilderment, disappointment, and most provocative of all, guilt.

  In the end, guilt won. It was a comparative newcomer in her range of feeling, but it seemed nevertheless that it had come to stay. She sponged down the coat. There was hope for it, the water had not been dirty; but it would never seem so gay again. The bright shoes had cracks across the toes now. Her leg was bruised and her ankle was grazed, but this did not bother her. She ran cold water in the basin and plunged her swollen face into it; when she looked a little better, she went out again. She did not want to stay in her room, thinking about the clothes which had looked so splendid and would certainly have excited Stephen Mitchell when he came to see her.

  She looked carefully both ways before she crossed to the quayside. She went into one of the cafés and ordered coffee. The waiter asked if she wanted cream and pastries, but she said no: she had had her extravagant moment. She was sipping the coffee when Burke came in. His eyes went to her table immediately, no pretense that he had not been following her.

  ‘It was you in that car,’ she said when he joined her.

  ‘I thought I recognized you. But you looked so different that I had to come rather close to make sure.’

  She made no protest; protests, in her experience, never served a useful purpose. He ordered coffee and cream and pastries. After that he studied her thoughtfully, his eyes taking in the coat, the orange dress, the new handbag, the shoes. Eventually, he said:

  ‘A long way from the Brandenburg Gate.’

  ‘There’s no point in waiting there for ever.’

  The waiter came with coffee. Coffee was a ritual with Burke. He handled the jug as though he were celebrating mass. ‘When he took sugar he seemed to stop breathing while the long, fastidious fingers held the spoon delicately poised over the cup; even one granule in the saucer would offend him. ‘When the ceremony was completed, he said:

  ‘Is there any point in waiting here?’

  ‘I have to pass the time.’ Mitchell had told her to be brazen. ‘So why shouldn’t I enjoy myself? After all, I’m a woman.’

  She might have said something blasphemous, the way he reacted; his hand tight
ened, the cup shook and coffee slopped into the saucer. He sat staring at the spilt coffee as though it represented a personal outrage. She was surprised, but not displeased. She leant forward. The dress had a scooped neckline, even the assistant had raised her eyebrows when she saw the effect: Burke went white. Miriam said:

  ‘I am a woman, you know.’

  He drew back in his chair, his thin little body looking incredibly frail. She threw back her head and laughed, a strident laugh that made people turn to look at them. Burke’s face seemed to wither. He would be more careful how he spoke to her another time; she was sure of this because she had had to be careful all her life. Refugees can’t afford to take risks, and neither can cripples. She finished her coffee and got up.

  ‘You can pay the bill,’ she said loudly.

  She walked slowly along the promenade. The incident had excited her. She did not often take the offensive and win. There was no knowing what she could do, where she might go; for a moment, life seemed to open out before her. She was still young, it was wrong to allow herself to be shackled by the past. But that other person who had stared at her from the mirror believed otherwise.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mitchell did not come to see Miriam until the middle of the afternoon. It was hot and airless; petrol fumes hung in the air mixed with the aromatic smell of the shrubs as he walked through the garden to the hotel. Inside, the shutters were down and the hall was dark. It was the least active time of the day; the guests were out and the hotel staff were about their own affairs. Mitchell’s footsteps echoed hollowly on the marble floor as he crossed to the lift.

  Miriam was sitting by the window and she did not turn her head when he came into the room.