Accident, page 9
We are all gone. One mistake and the world is over.
I am like a child, crying. Some soft throat and there is no noise. Such a small one. Into the cold air, I will not live. An arm, body. On another arm, body. That pattern of pain with palms to the ground. A body of bronze. Thing of beauty.
I opened an eye. The curtains on which there had once been a bird had now gone. I was in a room, pink, with the light shaded. The point of humanity. I began to remember something else that I had not wanted. There was a patchwork quilt. Her head was turned away. It is reason that distinguishes man from the beasts. They are so beautiful with their great teeth and sleepy eyes. Francesca had brown skin. The vultures waited. The wrinkled skin so soft, so beautiful. We would smoke a cigarette, tap out time till hunger came again. One day it would. I sat up and put my arm around my knees. There was the pink light on a dressing table. Francesca was so young, I would always remember her. The soul flies away and becomes a bird on a curtain on a fresco.
Francesca stretched her arms up. Her muscles and breasts. The wounded after battle are in long lines between archways. The general walks up and down: a nurse follows. A finger, a thumb, stroking down mascara. Soot from gunshot. The cold cerebral eye. Distant; dispassionate. I do not want to remember.
The body is so beautiful that we mourn over. Love and death, a cup of tea, the brain again. Francesca pulled her clothes towards her. I was in a room with a pink lampshade. I had made love to Francesca. You are in an empty room with clothes, bedclothes, divan, gramophone. There is someone dressing. You are so pleased. You want to be away again.
I was that smooth thing with the waistcoat and trousers. Making the world go round. I am this boy on the corner with his knife, my feet on the floor, my finger on my shirt buttons. That lonely thing with my hair swept back, the blank wall and high windows. I said “Francesca darling.” The words came out. There was painted furniture, sweetness, shadow. Her long and lovely back. This had happened. We make a god of it. Defeat. I am almost gutted. Let me become that thing, empty, floating past the walls of crumbling buildings. No more a person. Quick. Let me remember it
When I got home, travelling very late that night or rather in the early morning, passing on the empty road that place at which I never quite determined where I became the different person, the person that I am at home; there, by the stone lions, the gravel crunching, I found the dark facade of my house, my ghost, with nothing in it alight, the door locked. I was tired and rather drunk. I went round the side of the house with no pause, sleepwalking. A clown rolling and spinning slightly. To a window at the back. I had done this before in the old days, lacking a wife in curlers and with a rolling pin. I went through the window headfirst and fell on the floor of a lavatory. There was never a lock on this window: this window never had a lock. In the corner I was a bag of bones on the lino. I had to get to bed. How uncomfortable was this prison! My jaw sagged. I crawled to a light and switched it. My eyes blazed. In the hall there were rows and rows of chairs. I sat down. I had been away for centuries. We are judged by facts, not feelings. A jury of furniture. There were footsteps on the landing.
There was no one else in the house. Rosalind and the children were still away. The woman who came in each day left at tea time. A tramp. A murderer. You grasp the poker by the handle. You bash him. I sat with my mouth open. A light came on upstairs.
One foot in no man’s land.
I wiped my face. Drew a breath. Was glad of company.
I went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Upside down, above me, there was a face just like my own.
I put a hand to my heart.
Charlie.
I was pleased to see Charlie. I thought I was going to be sick. The clown with the long pole and the tea tray. Charlie came down and sat on the stairs. I went half way to meet him. I said “I’ve been to London.” The carpet on the stairs wanted patching. Rails with brass knobs. Charlie seemed to have nothing on under a dressing gown. I said “I saw the television people.” Charlie had been here a week ago with William and Anna. They had spent the night and then had gone in the early morning. I said “And Francesca, do you remember Francesca?” Charlie said “How is Francesca?” I said “She’s very well.” Charlie had taken out a pipe and was blowing through it. I said “I don’t understand what one wants.” I thought about this. I said “You think you want it then you don’t.” Charlie banged at his pipe. I said “St. Augustine was wrong.” Charlie said “St. Augustine?” I said “He said that in sex there was no reason, will: but the trouble is there’s too much.” I didn’t know what Charlie was doing here. I said “You do it as a sort of discipline; an exercise.”
Anna had appeared on the landing above me. She was wearing black trousers and a yellow sweater. I said “Have you been here all the time?” She had her hair done up with the sides brushed back. I said “We’re talking about sex.” I began to hear myself saying this, gradually. I said “The way how to spread confusion.” Anna was blushing. Or perhaps drunk; rather red and puffy. I said “Let’s have some food.” I went through to the kitchen. I wondered how long Charlie and Anna had been here. One place had been laid in the kitchen for breakfast. I went back to the hall. I saw Charlie and Anna whispering. They were always whispering. Or Anna and William. I said “I’m going to make an omelette.” Charlie said “We’ll come and watch you.” Back in the kitchen there were cupboards, shelves, drawers. Men in white coats round the frigidaire. I said “How long—” A light went up showing eggs, butter, milk. Anna and Charlie were standing behind me. Charlie said “We don’t want anything.” I listened to the frigidaire. It was cold. I said “Rosalind’s been away nearly a week.” Charlie said “How is Rosalind?” I said “Very well.” I thought I should put my hands on Anna’s shoulders and stare into her eyes. Francesca was still on my face, my hands. A breath like pollen. I put on some water to boil. They were sitting round a table with a red plastic top. I wished they would talk. I was tired. I was longing not to go to bed.
Charlie said “We couldn’t keep away.” I said “I’m flattered.” Anna came round to the stove and said “Shall I cook?” I said “Can you cook?” Anna said “At home I cook for my family.” Charlie said “What do they cook, Jews?” I began to laugh. I felt dreadfully embarrassed. I went to see if the water was boiling. The surface was grey with silver bubbles at one side. I thought—The brain will take anything. I said “Eggs.” Anna looked as if she had been crying. Charlie was holding her and had put his head on her shoulder. I said “If you live too much on your own you get a little mad.” Charlie seemed to be taking a bite out of her neck. I heated the frying pan. I said “Don’t you want any supper?” They were like Venus and her dark brown Bacchus, Charlie said “Her grandfather sold a hundred thousand Austrian Jews.” Anna said “That’s not true.” Charlie said “I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, I’m saying it happened.” I beat the eggs up. There were bits of black stuff in them like chickens. Francesca’s room had had a pale pink lampshade. I had sat on the edge of the bed with my buttons. Charlie said “He used to flog his serfs in the market square.” Anna said “Why do you say all this?” I thought—I must remember, the three of us, the stove, the cupboards. Charlie said “That’s why they wear those leather trousers in Austria, to get a bit of air round their balls.” Anna said “We heard you.” My hands were moving slightly off centre above the frying pan, a wheel gone wonky. I wondered if we could all sleep together. Charlie and me and Anna. Like people in California. Or soldiers in the Crimean war. I had a plate, a scraper. The smell of butter. Yellow fingers of egg. Charlie’s face appeared close beside me suddenly. He said “Can we really stay here?” I said “I thought you were.” Charlie’s face went away. He began hitting his pockets. He said to Anna “Can you get my cigarettes?” Anna ignored him. I flipped my omelette on to a plate. Charlie said “You thought we’d been here since last week?” I said “At least.” Charlie’s face came close again. He said in a loud whisper “It wasn’t me.” I thought—1 must get out of this. I walked round the table, linoleum, patches in squares. Anna was sitting. I said in a strange voice “Grub’s up!” I walked back to the stove going up and down at one side like a man with a wooden leg. Charlie began eating the omelette. Anna said “I thought you didn’t want any.” Charlie said “I didn’t.” I was making tea, the white inside of the electric kettle. Anna said “Then why are you eating it?” Charlie shouted “God damn!” He pushed his plate away. I thought—I must be nice to them: they need it. I said to Anna “Where are you sleeping?” She was a prim girl, round, Dutch. I said “I don’t mean anything!” I began laughing. Anna said “In your spare room.” I ate some of the omelette. It tasted of earth and herbs. The sea.
There is totality under drugs. You touch something and it feels; reacts. Matter was alive. Charlie had his head back against Anna’s shoulder. I wanted to say—We know; what more can be said. An arrangement of lights, colours: a harmony with crystals. Time freewheels: Charlie was saying “All upper class girls—” Anna punched at him. Charlie went on “—all upper class girls are frigid.” Anna’s arms reached for his hair, his face; to snatch his eyes out: strong brown arms with weights at the bottom. Charlie dodged like an old boxer. Gone slightly bald. “Ow!” Charlie yelled. The omelette had gone cold: tasted of iron. Anna was a wardress in uniform. Charlie was holding on to her hands. She was cruel. He had lost his spectacles. She had kicked him on to the floor. Grinning.
I went out of the kitchen and along the passage to the hall. There were the chairs and the furniture and the provisions left for the dead. Charlie and Anna had no suitcases. There was a pile of letters by the telephone. No coats, belongings. I went up the stairs. In the spare room there was the four-poster with the cover over it; underneath blankets, sheets, pillows, mattress. Some powder on the dressing table. No clothes. Under the bed, dust, moth in the carpet. The curtains drawn. Through the window my car in the moonlight. Next door in the bathroom was a handbag with some dark blue paper inside it. A towel on the floor. The bath had drops of water on it. What else had I forgotten. The house which had seen, remembered.
Anna came through the door into the bathroom. I said “Are you all right Anna?” She said “Yes thank you.” I put my hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. I could hear Charlie talking downstairs on the telephone. I said “What can I say?” A pink and white Rubens gone crooked with a huge flowered hat. Anna said “You are so kind.” I said “We’re all too fond of you.” I made a face with my teeth bared. “We are of you” Anna said. Her eyes were quite empty. I wanted to lower my head on to her shoulder. Charlie was shouting into the telephone downstairs. He seemed to be ordering a taxi. I said “I’ll never understand you.” Anna said “Why not?” I said “Really?” Anna turned her head away. She looked hurt. I put a hand up and touched her cheek. Something had been done to my brain. I said “Dear Anna, I can’t touch you.”
I thought—I will try again. Over Anna’s shoulder there was a medicine cupboard and a mirror. I said “I can help you.” Anna kept her head away. I said “Are you all right, tell me.” Charlie had finished telephoning. I could hear him coming up the stairs. I was leaning forwards, ruined. A shipwreck. Charlie came into the room through still water.
I went off again down the passage. I thought—This is infancy. A man sits on the edge of his bed and shakes. We are all going back to hell. For an experiment. The world goes on outside in coloured oil and polish. No windows.
This is a story about free will. We are all in fragments, disjointed. We have moments when it means something. I know nothing of Anna. We have a choice. The familiar things of my room, books, alarm clock, tumbler. Rosalind’s coat. Her dressmaking dummy in the corner. I am half a person. A millionth. We think too much: stare at it. A body on a stand cut off at the neck with a wooden plaque. A long mirror hung from a central hinge. The problem of optics. The object and image. Your fingers crushed. I would go to bed. If you passed enough time, it was time to go to bed. The day was something to be filled in by doing things. Nothing else. Time became packed, like a suitcase.
In the early morning half way between sleep and waking there is a time like someone drowning; going down three times, coming up, then sinking out of sight to the bottom. Space settles round you like a formation of soldiers. This is all quite new. It has been there all the time.
The telephone was ringing downstairs. There was a taste of cold ashes in my mouth. My head ached. There was something not to remember.
Charlie had been on the telephone and had rung for a taxi.
I waited for Charlie.
The telephone went on ringing. I had been dreaming of Anna. In the cabin of a ship, an old sailing ship, the captain’s cabin at the back. Like a cottage. I had sat on the edge of her bed. I had said “I will help you.”
There was no one answering the telephone. Charlie had left.
I jumped out of bed.
Charlie and Anna had left in a taxi.
I took Rosalind’s coat and ran down into the hall. The lights were on. As soon as I got there the ringing stopped.
I sat by the telephone. It was just getting light outside. In my dream there had been a long sequence round a table.
Eating. My head throbbed. I thought I was going to be sick.
What had Charlie and Anna been doing.
I had sat by this table before.
There was the pile of unopened letters by the telephone. I had seen the letters as I had come through the hall.
What had I done so terrible.
One of the envelopes half way down the pile was in the writing of Charlie’s wife, Laura.
I had forgotten Laura. I had thought nothing about her.
I opened the letter.
Dear Stephen,
Forgive another point of the Eternal Triangle butting in. Of course I’m grateful if you’re helping Charlie in this bloody situation, but what I’m horribly afraid of is the danger—at least I see it as a danger, but you may think this absurd—of your inadvertently making the romance or whatever the beastly thing is called seem even more real than it is. Whether in fact it’s real, or what degree, is unanswerable—in a way everything is in the mind or imagined, isn’t it? I suppose you know all about this. But I know Charlie’s very susceptible as far as you’re concerned. So what I’m getting at is, to beg you that while still being understanding, sympathetic, etc. you don’t necessarily show to him you think it’s the great thing of his life. You might even hint (terribly indirectly of course) that he would really sooner or later (probably sooner) be bored to death by her. I believe this madly of course, but naturally am in a wrong position even to hint. Does all this seem childish low cunning? But I do hope you see what I mean. It is terribly important.
I always wondered what this would be like if and when it happened. But I must say it beats everything for pain.
Love,
Laura.
P.S. Don’t say I wrote for heaven’s sake.
I had my mouth open. I listened. Laura was a pale brown haired girl in a smock. She wrote with her head close to the paper. Upslanting spectacles. I wanted to cry. She had a lilting, appealing voice.
I thought—I am mad. Why are we made like this?
The telephone began ringing again. A voice said—“A personal call for Mr. Jervis.”
I said “Speaking.”
“You are Mr. Jervis?”
“Yes.”
I was going through the other letters in the pile. There was one from Charlie. With a date on it. I couldn’t remember the date. When had he come here? When had I gone to London?
I opened the letter.
A voice on the telephone said “Stephen, is that you darling?”
I didn’t recognise the voice. I thought it must be Francesca. It was four or five in the morning.
I said “Yes?”
The letter from Charlie began—
Dear Stephen,
Been trying to ring you. Could I come and stay. I’m so sorry for all this—
The voice said “There’s nothing to worry about, but Rosalind’s been just a little bit ill, and I thought I should telephone.”
I recognised my mother-in-law’s voice.
I said “Is she all right?”
“Dear Stephen, I think she’s quite all right, but she’s had a slight haemorrhage.”
I said “But she’s all right?”
“The doctor thinks she’ll be all right.”
“Shall I come over?”
“Darling Stephen, I think she would love it.”
I said “I’ll come right away.” I felt a terrible ache. I said “What exactly does the doctor say?”
“He says she’ll be quite all right.”
“I’ll be over in an hour or two.”
“Darling Stephen.”
“Tell her not to worry.”
“Yes I will.”
“Give her my love.”
I put the receiver down. I looked at Charlie’s letter.
I thought—It will only take me an hour to get to Rosalind. I have my case already packed, the car out, money. I can put my tutorials off by telephone. I will leave a note for the woman who comes in each day. I will be moving: everything is possible.
I thought again—I am mad. Shall I kill myself?
I moved through the house, to my clothes, bedroom. Rosalind’s white face. I went cold again. I sat on the edge of the bed. I had slept with Francesca.
Rosalind.
I snarled. My legs wouldn’t work.
I was a lunatic in the charnel house.
When saints met the devil they spat, farted at him.
I thought—Guilt is nothing. What do you do?
I went on dressing. My case, my coat. The only thing man was good at: playing soldiers. In a crisis so calm, rational. Destroying ourselves.
In the night air there would be that long road over the hills away from London. Sitting in the car with the concrete and the dark earth rolling. The stars out. Galaxies. Shooting away from each other.
