It has been agreed that he will call the heroine in the morning, at ten o’clock. He has already prepared what he will say, asking her to forgive him for being so pushy this evening, which was probably because he was tired of waiting. He will be a new man, he promises himself he will.
But is a restorative night even possible in the peculiar state in which our hero finds himself? And will everything seem better in the morning?
No.
The night does not improve anything. Besides, our hero dreams.
He follows her a long way, a long, long way, to a hotel beside the sea which probably does not exist anywhere in the world. The place, for readers who might know Chris Marker’s film, is like the hotel in The Jetty. Others will have to imagine an empty modern building, lots of concrete and not much glass, almost a blockhouse, standing in the middle of a felled pinewood, beneath gray clouds stretching to a gloomy horizon. Our heroine is with the Other on a wide beach full of dirty, lumpy pebbles, and dozens of people who have come to the seaside only to cart their boredom somewhere new. It is October weather, windless. Our hero walks down a path and goes over to them. She sees him. He cannot remember what the Other looks like in real life but here, in the dream, he does not visualize him, and it does not matter. They are busy writing postcards to mutual friends. They say names and surnames. He does not recognize any of them. This very ignorance is painful to him. There are two sky blue air mattresses beside them, they can only be theirs. The hero lies down on one. She is only three feet away. Despite the fact that the Other is there, she seems completely unself-conscious, as does our hero. He looks over toward the sea, people swimming, watches her too, but his nonchalant gaze is intended to make the Other think she is merely part of the scenery.
She and the Other have discussions about whom they really must send postcards to. There is a strong sense that a lot is at stake in these decisions, a disproportionate amount. She does the writing, he is happy just to sign. All at once, our heroine turns to our hero and says something innocuous, to do with stamps. She should be speaking to him as a stranger but she lays her hand on his shoulder. She has just made a blunder, he can see by the look in her eye, but the Other does not react, he looks at him and suddenly he takes shape, it is ridiculous, in real life this Other has a fairly ordinary physique and no depth, but in the dream he is peerlessly magisterial. Our hero sees something of Beckett in him, and of Terence Stamp too, the lie of his hair, or the suit he is wearing, black, double-breasted, beautifully cut, utterly inappropriate for the beach. The Other seems convinced he knows him. Our hero simply replies, “No, I don’t think so.” He stands up and leaves. Without looking back.
He is at the hotel again, and it is now like a hotel in Moscow, on a gigantic scale with strong geometric lines and a central staircase around which the rooms are arranged. There is nothing comfortable about his room, and this too has a Soviet air, it is vast, with an odd layout, the sink halfway along one wall, the carpet bald. A room no one could ever feel right in. He wishes she would join him there, but also wishes he were somewhere else, anywhere, but not here. It is very hot. He lies down on the bed. The sheets are untidy, the covers crumpled, he has never slept in it, this mess is from the previous occupants. Damn, he feels depressed.
Our heroine opens the door to the room, says his name, unenthusiastically. And our hero then feels so sad and his sadness is so piercing that he wakes up.
4
In which our hero rereads and corrects his notes.
In which he prepares for the worst and also the best.
Daylight peeps through the skimpy curtains. His cell phone blinkingly indicates it is three minutes past six in the morning. Our hero wakes, exhausted, after too short a night. Quite unable to get back to sleep, he sits on the bed, switches on his laptop, and reworks the few notes he made. A reader (a woman reader comes to mind more readily but it could just as well be a man) would be wrong to think that this new text was less sincere than the first draft, from which it differs only in small details. In fact the opposite is true: there, on his keyboard, our hero hones his thoughts, adjusting words to try to capture his feelings as accurately as possible. His sentences also expel the tragic element, and he is not displeased by the redeeming role he makes them play. If our hero had any recollection of things he read long ago, he would know that, in his Poetics, Aristotle ascribed the word “catharsis” to this purging of passions through practicing an art form.
True.
In more prosaic terms, writing also eats away the minutes, which is no mean feat.
It is now two and a half hours until he can call her. They are going to see each other, definitely. Yes but, yes but, our hero suddenly worries, could it be she has already made her decision, that nothing can make her change her mind? Has she let him come to the farthest reaches of the Highlands to tell him that she will no longer give herself to him? And if this is the case, could he hold it against her? She owes him nothing, of course, and he did so insist on coming.
Come on, he thinks, if I seem lighthearted, carefree, smiley, I’ll persuade her to accept my kisses, my affection, and, softly softly, when the feeling is right, to make love. I will put far more energy into that than any introspection and soul-searching.
This lightheartedness is essential. For, if our hero would only admit it to himself, it was the very moment the heroine sensed the beginnings of true feelings in him that she kept her distance, as if afraid. Our heroine does not want any complications. It suddenly occurs to him that he needs to affect indifference, that she will surrender herself more readily to a man who does not love her than to one who does.
Granted, this detachment is not a character trait he appreciates in her, but if it is thanks to this that they end up making love, should he complain? Yes, cries some part of him, yes, I should complain. If all she’s looking for is my lust, if she doesn’t want to be loved, then she doesn’t love me.
This is his implacable deduction. And, anyway, if he no longer feels any love, what will happen? Our hero knows the workings of his own body by heart, and realizes that, with age, the path adopted by his desire has become more cerebral, more vulnerable. All his life, desire alone has never been completely sufficient for him to desire completely. But now, everything about the other person needs to convince him, the attentiveness of every gesture, the tension in her entire body. He wants her skin to long for his, and to prove it to him every moment. This demanding requirement, he fears, will become increasingly difficult to satisfy with the passing years.
Our hero closes his eyes. He tries to reconstruct her face, to rekindle, beneath his eyelids, cheerful images of times they spent together. Only anecdotal images emerge, that bottle of muscat drunk from coffee cups, a stolen kiss in the harsh light of the Métro, a ray of sunlight skimming the golden hairs on an arm, loving words sidelined in favor of pleasure. Too few definite images to strengthen his resolve.
He tosses and turns between the sheets.
Our hero yawns. Sighs.
We’ll see.
And this closes Chapter 4.
5
In which the suspense is at its height.
An ineffective strategy.
Disaster foretold.
At a quarter past nine our hero gets up, takes a shower, and goes down for breakfast. He is just drinking his Lipton tea with its international yellow teabag tag when his eye settles on the digital clock. It flashes three figures: 8:55.
Because did you know, dear reader, that Scotland is one hour behind mainland Europe? Our hero suddenly remembers this and realizes to his despair that it is not yet nine o’clock while his wretched cell phone is still saying it is 9:58. He spends the additional hour trying to sleep. It will prove in vain.
Ten o’clock, well, five minutes to (he did not hold out). He catches our heroine asleep. In a weary, irritable voice she agrees to meet him at eleven. Seeing me again, he thinks, is definitely far from urgent. She names a new meeting place, outside a pub on the A32, because she is worried he w
ill not be able to find the previously agreed place, by the sign to Inchnadamph, if you remember.
Our hero takes his precautions, and arrives, of course, with half an hour to spare. The pub is a miserable affair, the creepily unnatural love child of a franchised truck stop and a traditional inn. It looks out over the main road, is utterly deserted. Later, our hero will gather that people have wedding receptions here. He turns back over the white gravel, and decides to go to the previous meeting place, about a mile farther on. There, he opens the trunk, carefully reads the manual for the Nissan Almera, and manages to collapse the rear seat, planning to put a bicycle in the back shortly.
For some time now, our hero has dreamed of this crossroads between the A32 and S70, the place where they would be reunited. He pictured somewhere more rural, dry stone walls, something more — how could he put this — Scottish. A recently built church devoid of any charm stands facing a featureless roadside cafe, the road is wide, busy, noisy. He leaves the car, walks a little way along the S70, sets off over the narrow bridge that spans a peaceful river, and looks at the undulating moor and copses from which she could emerge. Suddenly frightened by his own nerve, he goes back to the car.
It is a beautiful day. He is not sure whether this is a good thing. The cold shower he can feel looming will dry quickly in the sun.
Our hero is sitting in the Nissan, parked, with the engine off, in the church parking lot, when our heroine goes past. She is on foot, pushing her bicycle, and has not seen him. What is it they say in bad novels? That his heart feels squeezed like a sponge, that his blood freezes? Alas, all the clichés are true. He is amazed to feel so much emotion, so feverish, hates himself for his sentimentality.
She gets back on her bicycle, and he does not call out to her. He looks at her, her hair, her back, her buttocks, let’s admit it. He dare not call out her name. He can tell that this hesitation is a bad sign: Does he know he is already in the wrong for parking here, where she was not expecting him? Or perhaps, fearing he is condemned, he does not want to hasten the hour of his execution? So he lets her pedal on awhile, starts the car, overtakes her, and goes to wait for her at the appointed place, on the crunching white gravel.
It takes only a few minutes to bicycle just over a mile. Enough for him to regret subjecting her to such an arduous hill, in the crushing heat, and he decides to turn back. He immediately meets her on the road and comes to a stop, facing her. She was finishing the hill on foot, bicycle in hand. A lock of blond hair clings to her slick forehead. She sees him, manages admirably well to hide her pleasure.
Our hero steps out of the car, our heroine keeps on pushing her bike. She sketches an appropriate sort of smile, with no result. He has not practiced any opening lines, and tries a conspiratorial grin. Perhaps we should forget the ensuing exchange of words which is pitifully mundane. She kisses him, their lips brush past each other for a fraction of a second. She does not want this kiss to last, and he immediately gathers he is not welcome, he should not be here at all. How strange, he thinks, that the worst is always foreseeable. Let’s go somewhere else, not this pub, he suggests. And adds, Even to split up, I’m sure we can find something better. She makes no comment.
He puts her bike in the trunk, which refuses to accommodate it: the gap between the rear seats is too narrow, the saddle will not go through. He pulls down the trunk door, which will have to remain partly open. She shrugs her shoulders. Either way, her gesture implies: we won’t be going far. It is an excellent summary.
She sits down beside him, not looking at him. Where are you taking me? she asks. He gives the name of the hotel where he has booked a room for the second night. The Glen Carron Park Hotel. She knows it. It is nearby. She adds: It’s the next turn on the right. They are off.
They drive along. Her perfume instantly pervades the car despite the open windows. It is such a distinctive fragrance, lily of the valley mingled with vanilla. The smell of their rare moments of Parisian intimacy, of her pretty naked body beneath his, of the nape of her neck docile to his kisses. It is a gentle perfume but a heady one that he took everywhere with him, that stayed with him for hours, long after he had made love to her. It is an almost painful scent as the two of them drive along to the Glen Carron Park Hotel.
Occasionally, as a riposte, our hero would spray himself with Chanel Pour Monsieur. Eau de toilette versus perfume, cistus and oak versus lily of the valley, it was an unequal battle. Be that as it may, in his haste, he has forgotten to bring the bottle.
6
In which our hero finds renewed hope.
In which our heroine shows signs of hesitation.
The car trundles along the small Scottish roads toward the hotel, the Glen Carron Park Hotel. He has not tired of saying its name, which has such a charming ring to it. Your hotel’s very nice, she concedes. I’d rather you called it our hotel, our hero manages ironically. Silence on the passenger seat. I’d also rather you went ahead and attached yourself with that, he adds, pointing at her seat belt which she is holding halfheartedly across her chest. Then he thinks about his choice of words and goes on, But I do know you have trouble getting attached. He smiles, she meekly fastens her seat belt.
We can see here that, yes, our hero is capable of smiling. In fact, from this point on and until notification is given to the contrary, the reader should only be picturing our hero with a smile on his lips. This smile may be ironic, genuine, seductive, amused, or sad, but he will not abandon it and give in to moody pouting. It is a question of dignity but also of survival.
They park in the hotel’s lot, the Nissan slips between two luxurious German sedans. They take the bike from the trunk, and she immediately crosses the road to secure it to a lamppost. The building is indeed very impressive. A two-story, brick-built coaching inn, looking delightful in the sunshine. A Virginia creeper sprawls over its walls, framing the bedroom windows. The spacious lobby with its marble flooring has an air of Mediterranean luxury.
Our heroine does not go with him, preferring instead to stay outside to have a cigarette. She smokes too much but our hero couldn’t give a damn if this affects the health of those around her. In order to get back to her as quickly as possible, he abandons his bags to the bellboy and simply makes a mental note of the room number. Because he feels his time is limited.
He looks around for her. Fails to see her right away. For a brief moment he thinks she has left, that he will never see her again. It would be absurd. But he now has his doubts about everything.
There is a lounge bar alongside the hotel and he suggests they have a drink on the terrace. She orders a glass of cider and he has sparkling mineral water. These details are of only minor importance, but every now and then it is appropriate for insignificant details to be given their full weight. It is a hot day, too. With a determined flourish, our hero opens an umbrella (Always Coca-Cola! shrieks the red canvas) and takes cover in its shade. He would loathe it if his scalp, whose capillary betrayals are already familiar to him, now started shining like a mirror.
Our heroine is reserved but has a lot to say. She talks and explains and hopes she is being persuasive. Her mother, whom she never sees enough, a few weeks, once or twice a year, her boyfriend, who is due to arrive soon and will be staying with her, and him, so incongruous in this place. She does not want her mother to guess, from her serial absences, that she is having an affair. More important, she does not want the Other, who knows nothing of her infidelity, to find out about it and possibly suffer as a result. He doesn’t deserve that, she adds.
Then she talks about her mother, at length. She tells such a sad and intimate story that he feels quite disarmed. He maintains his idiotically frozen smile even though there really is nothing to smile about. She points this out to him. He says he is very sorry, erases any trace of jollity from his face. He wishes he knew how to console her, how to leave her alone with her mother, alone with her family. He understands. Honestly.
They fall silent. She brings her cider up to her lips. The bitter taste
surprises her, she makes a face.
But anyway, our hero says. I’m here now. What to do? She smiles. It is a pretty smile, it really is. Although he has never been an authority on women’s smiles and what they mean, our hero thinks to himself that no one can smile like that without feeling something. He responds with a different smile, of the happy variety. It all calls for a bit of sense and sensibility. If even Jane Austen says so, then it must be true.
He takes her hand.
She surrenders it to him.
For a moment.
7
The beautiful Glen Carron Park.
Sheep, droppings, and swans.
A brief discussion.
Opposite the Glen Carron Park Hotel, for all to admire, lies Glen Carron Park, which leads to Eilan Castle and to the smaller of the two lochs, Loch Fannich. The more inquisitive reader can refer to the lush green images languishing on the Internet. A northern sun shines down, it is very hot. Our hero is carrying his jacket, a so-called middle-season garment and completely pointless. They have to cross the road to reach a trail that is asphalted but meant only as a footpath. He looks the wrong way, she holds him back by his sleeve before he launches himself under the wheels of a truck. A sign reads: Eilan Castle, 2.1 miles.
Two point one miles is a half-hour walk, at a good pace, the very pace adopted by our heroine. Our hero conforms to her speed, even though it is hardly fitting for a lovers’ stroll. In any event, she will not let him hold her by the waist or, from now on, by the hand. He does not insist. Our hero’s shoes squeak and our heroine makes fun of him, not unkindly. They are walking shoes, sturdy old ones, but with every step they give a little sound like a timorous mouse. He has never noticed it in all the bustle of the capital. This discreet squeaking escorts them on their way.
The Intervention of a Good Man Page 2
