Now she was ready; but before tilting her off the table Constance asked for the traditional scalpel which the old man kept handy for such a purpose, and made a deep incision in the artery of the thigh, binding it up with a strip of tape against leakage. So she was propelled on a spider-like trolley towards the huge filing cabinet of oak which, like a gigantic chest-of-drawers, held the dead. “And the funeral?” said the keeper, who was about to start once more upon his theme concerning the current, and the difficulties of refrigeration. “She will be buried,” said Smirgel unexpectedly, “with full military honours. I have seen to everything.” Constance looked at him curiously. It seemed so strange that he should seem to be so moved. “Do I come?” she said, and was relieved when he shook his head. “I can’t ask you, it will be in the Citadel.”
Poor Livia! What an apotheosis!
They would, she supposed, fire a salute over the grave. “Natural causes” is after all the best description of such events, so refactory do they seem to human logic. A siren sounded somewhere: they had forgotten the war for a moment. The car stood in the dark street waiting for them. All of a sudden Constance felt passionately hungry, for she had eaten little or nothing all day. In the pocket of her greatcoat she found a slip of chewing gum which would have to sustain her until she got home. And Quiminal: “Do you want me to come?” she asked Constance. “Or would you prefer to be alone?” Constance nodded on the word alone, but then another thought struck her: “If I don’t reappear at the office tomorrow it’s because the Swiss consul has come and we’ve left for Geneva; you will not forget to come up and fetch the car?” It was agreed, and after a warm embrace the little car set off to carry her home across the bridge. The Rhône was ominously high; Constance’s dimmed headlights did not meet with approval from a passing patrol which hooted at her. She slowed to shout “Emergency” at them, and then took the desolate and dark side-roads leading away into the hills.
The whole episode throbbed inside her, matching her fatigue which came and went in waves, stirred, it would almost seem, by the swaying and bucking of the little car. So that was the end of Livia, an end with no beginning, with no explanation. Had she been Smirgel’s mistress? An idle enough thought: Livia belonged to nobody. She thought of her now, lying wrapped in her cotton burnous in the great sideboard – what else could one call it? – of the morgue, a companion now for tramps picked up in the frozen ditches, or elderly and half-starved citizens of the town laid low by frost on their shopping expeditions. She would lie there all night in her abstracted, withdrawn death mood, the silence only broken by the little withered noise of the machinery working at half-current. She would never see her again; she repeated the words “Never again” in order to come to grips with the idea. It was as though someone had thrown a stone to make a sudden hole in the décor of their lives, just as Sam’s death had done; smashed reality like a pane of glass. She realised then to what extent the dead exercise the profession of alibi-makers for the living; she lived in part because she was reflected in these people – they gave her substance and being. And then another, heavier thought visited her: what would Aubrey feel about it? Should she tell him or wait for someone else to do so? She had a sudden picture of his expressive face conveying sadness, and with a shock of surprise felt a sudden wave of love for him. The beloved old slowcoach of the almost forgotten summer. In one of the cupboards upstairs she had found a discarded and forgotten exercise book of his which still contained notes and jottings, though now half illegible from damp. Moreover the book had been torn across and obviously flung carelessly into the cupboard. She made no attempt to decipher any of the annotations, feeling that in some way it would be a violation of Aubrey’s privacy – he was, like her, touchy about such things. But she put it carefully in a folder with the intention of returning it to him when next they met. She could not have possibly guessed how soon this would be: the surprise must wait upon her return to Geneva and the Head Office.
At the house, however, there was another surprise. A man sat in front of the fireplace warming his hands, or trying to for the fire was almost out. It was the Swiss consul. She greeted him wonderingly. “I didn’t see your car,” she said, and he explained that he had hidden it in the trees. “As I warned you, it is very sudden; we must start for Geneva tonight, as soon as you can get ready. I have had the laissez-passer, everything is in order. But we must hurry. I will tell you more when we get on the road.” It would not take her long, for her affairs were in tolerable order, her packing almost done. “Very well,” she said, between exhaustion and elation. “Very well.”
She went upstairs to where the cupboard stood which housed her few clothes and rapidly completed the packing of her small suitcase; with this and a briefcase of papers and toilet gear she rejoined her companion who was now betraying every sign of anxiety, looking at his watch, and standing now upon one leg, now upon the other. Blaise appeared to lock up after her and take the keys. She explained rapidly and in low tones the chain of events which concerned the fate of Livia, reassuring him that there would be no repercussions to worry about. Then the three of them walked into the forest clearing among the tall planes to where the diplomat’s car stood with its double pennants in their leather sleeves and emphatic diplomatic insignia. The consul slipped off the leather cases and released the flags – one Swiss and one with a swastika. He climbed in and started the motor. “I am ready,” he said, and Constance made her goodbyes, promising to return before the end of the month. They moved off slowly down the hill and turning away from the city engaged the complicated loops and gradients of the northern road, which soon brought them down to river level. It was possible to increase speed, though in places the Rhône was exceptionally high and ran in the counter sense within a few metres of their wheels.
But the run was not all to be so calm for already at Valence they ran into a cloud of command cars buzzing about like insects to clear the main highway; they were deflected to side roads and were not sorry, for they ran through remote and beautiful villages which seemed deserted. Obviously there was a push southwards being organised, forming like a cloud upon the invisible horizon. The car was cold but the steady murmur of the powerful engine was reassuring, comforting. Apart from the grand turmoil in Valence they ran into no other traffic of consequence, but it was well after midnight when they reached the border and were halted by a military barrier. Lanterns and hurricane lamps flared everywhere inside a disused railway shed, a desolate rotting edifice full of wooden sleepers. Some human ones also.
Here they were roughly told to get out and shift their baggage on to trestles for inspection, which they did, yawning. After a methodical search through their affairs they were permitted through, though she had to walk the hundred or so yards of dark permanent way while the Swiss, being a diplomat, was allowed the privilege of driving his car along a dirt track, to emerge behind the barbed wire which marked the Swiss frontier. A man was waiting for her arrival, lurking in the shadows.
“How ill, how pale she looks,” he thought as he watched her from his point of vantage in the shadow of the building. “And her hair all in rat’s tails and dirty.” He had half a mind to turn away and vanish, for he had not been expected and would not be missed. But his heart held him there, like a compass pointed upon Stella Polaris, yet without the courage as yet to go forward, to announce himself. She must at most have expected a duty car with a driver. He thought of that abundant blonde hair with a pang of memory. Now her head was casually done up in a coloured scarf tied under her chin. She looked like a French peasant from the occupied zone, dirty, listless and tired. He had not expected to find her in such a state of fatigue and disarray, and he did not know whether his presence might make her feel humiliated. But retire he could not, nor advance, nor decide anything whatsoever for himself.
He was revealed to her sleepy eyes by a bar of gold light thrown from a doorway suddenly opened by a militia man. “Mr. Affad!” There was no ambiguity in her relief and enthusiasm; she went up to him in a some
what irresolute fashion, as if about to put out her hand; but they embraced instead, and stood for a moment yoked thus, absurdly relieved and delighted by the other’s presence. It was wonderful to feel his body breathing in her arms. Caresses! That is what she had been missing all this time, she realised, that is what her own body hungered for. Yet she had thought little of him, and had never as far as she could remember, dreamed of him. Now all of a sudden she was set alight by the touch of him and the firm resolution of his arms around her. She relinquished him with regret for she was obliged to introduce him to her travelling companion. To her delight she distinctly saw a frown of jealousy appear on his charming face. It was wonderful to see him feign a coldness he did not feel now, imagining heaven knows what about this portly and unimaginative figure who was all too anxious to relinquish her and head for home. She thanked him suitably, promised to keep in touch about their joint return to duty, and turned to follow Affad who already had her affairs in hand. His private car, an old American sedan, stood at the side of the road, and they piled into its warmth with gratitude. As he started the motor he said, “Look at me, Constance,” and she obeyed, though it at once made her conscious of her appearance. She put her hand up to her hair and slipped off her scarf. “Why?” He smiled. “I wanted to see how you look when you are away, working.”
“Grubby and crow’s-footed, as you see.”
He said, “Not for long. How tired are you? I have told the hotel hairdresser to stand by for breakfast-time.”
“Bless you. That would be marvellous.”
“But first I must tell you my real news – before you go off to sleep. Constance, we have managed to get Aubrey on to an exchange list of badly wounded prisoners of war – fifty German against fifty English. They will come here in a week’s time. Once here he can detach himself and we must see that he gets medical treatment – whatever is needed for his condition. This is where you come in. I have his whole dossier now; you will be able to study it in detail and judge. Are you listening?”
“Of course I’m listening,” she said indignantly. “I am bowled over, that is all. What a miracle!”
She had planned to call back at her flat but it was not to be thus; the hour was against them. Heavy fog and a dirty white light did nothing to enhance the beauty of the lakeside town they were approaching with suitable caution. There was no traffic, fortunately, but they were obliged to hoot a warning on the curves of the hills – a sound which echoed dolefully on their ears. They were moving towards the outer suburbs now among green foothills still partly encumbered with fresh snow. She had an attack of yawns which made him smile. “Poor Constance!” he commiserated. “You could sleep for a month – and so you shall. But for today …” He pointed a long forefinger at the clock on the dashboard which said four o’clock. “We have fallen askew; nothing will start before six-thirty now. The best would be to come back to my suite – you know how big it is. I can give you a whole small flat to yourself, bathroom and all. Have you a change of clothes with you? Very well, then wash and have a nap. This afternoon you can go down to the hairdresser and – well, anything you feel up to. I have some mail for you, too, which is also in my room. What do you say?”
“And Aubrey? When will he get here?” The very words filled her with amazement, as if she had not fully realised the meaning they conveyed as yet. The image of Sam and Aubrey walking arm-in-arm over the bridge at Avignon came back to her like some ancient yellowed snapshot found at the bottom of a trunk. “I can’t take it in,” she said again and again, and then yawning fell into a deep slumber which only the sudden switching off of the motor eased into dazed wakefulness. They were at the hotel already and her companion was ringing the night bell. A sleepy hall porter opened to them and took their possessions; in the lift she leaned against Affad, almost asleep again, which gave him an excuse to put an arm about her shoulders and guide her towards his suite. Once there they explored the adjacent rooms which he had never bothered to investigate. They were sumptuous double rooms each with a bathroom which was still packed with toilet articles, soaps and scents and oils which were part of the hotel propaganda of the day. “I’ll take this one,” she said, relieving him of her case. “And I shall have a long bath and clean-up; then I’ll come chez vous if you promise to be kind to me and not too violent. I need cherishing.” It touched him to the heart – her disorder and grubbiness. “I understand you,” he said gravely while she looked at him carefully, keenly with her fine eyes. She was actually asking herself, “What is it about short-sighted men that I find so attractive? And these long cervine heads … ”But she went on sternly, as if to warn him against her inadequacy. “You see, I can’t love any more; like someone with prolapse or hernia, I’m forbidden to handle heavy objects – all the mysterious symbols of attachment, heavy metaphysical baggage. I am a simple junior psychiatrist, a sorcerer’s apprentice. A devil’s advocate …” she tailed away into yet another yawn.
“I am demanding nothing of you,” he said, though he knew this to be untrue. He was irritated by her attitude.
“I know,” she said. “Sorry to be prosy. It’s a poor return for your thoughtfulness. It’s fatigue and the feeling of unreality – all that hot water and soap after my usual hip bath and a boiling kettle.”
“I am going to doze a little,” he said, though he knew himself to be far too excited to sleep. Constance nodded her approval. “Maybe I will too, in my bath,” she said.
It was marvellous to hear the swish of the hot water into her bath, and to finger all the toilet delicacies on the shelves. She would have liked to use everything, all at once in one terrific and wasteful splurge, but of course it would have been to no purpose; the oils and soaps cancelled each other out. Nevertheless she sank sighing down in a nest of violet bubbles, submerged completely until all she could hear was the thick drumming of the water as it rushed into the bath. She washed her hair, so badly in need of the shears, and wrapped it in a towel before falling magistrally asleep in the warmth, her head against the back of the bath. Such sleep – of the very bones it would seem – no opiate could have procured for her, and diminishing the hot flow to a steady trickle she relaxed as if for eternity.
Affad, too, was weary, for he had had no sleep while waiting at the frontier post – simply a fugitive doze in the back of the car. Now he changed into a thick winter dressing-gown and turned in, reading for a few moments by the light of his bedside lamp. For how long he did not know, but he woke with a jolt to find his bedside clock showing six, and the yellow dawn light over the lake gradually increasing in strength. There was no sign of Constance and he thought it probable that she had also taken to her bed in one of the two spare rooms of the suite. He would not have disturbed her for worlds. Then he heard the annoying and persistent sound of the overflow running in her bathroom. He listened to it for a long moment, trying to decide what it might signify. Had she left the tap on and gone to bed? Had she gone to sleep in the bath, oblivious to the running water? Perhaps he should investigate and turn it off? He allowed curiosity and anxiety to master his disinclination and gently opened the bathroom door to see what was the matter. But unexpectedly she had crawled out of the bath and on to the wide table – the masseur’s settee so to speak – after wrapping herself in the heavy white burnous of towelling provided by the hotel. White in a white decor, she slept quietly, her head still rolled up into a seashell shape. Her lips were parted on the faintest suggestion of a half-smile and she heard nothing of his stealthy approach. In all that whiteness and steam he tiptoed to close the tap, and was turning away to leave when he noticed the blood flowing down from the couch, from the half-opened gown, the half-opened legs – a red pool into which he had inadvertently trodden with his bare foot and printed the tiles. What awakened her was the sudden cessation of the noise from the bath, and dimly through half-opened eyes, and with a half-awakened mind, she saw that he was there and held out a hand to him in a gesture of sympathy which was a pure fatality, for he approached her now and pressed her, a
ll warm and snuggly, in his arms. “O God!” she groaned. “I’m bleeding. It’s too soon.” But the gradual strengthening of his embrace was accompanied not only by kisses, warm and shocking in their precision, but the excited whisper: “Bleed! Thank you, Constance. Bleed!” He was overwhelmed with gratitude for he realised that it was for him, this dark menstrual flow; and turning her slightly to depress her legs and pull her downwards towards him he entered her softly, circumspectly, disregarding her faint mewing protests, which soon subsided as she quietly opened herself to him, profoundly and completely, made herself the slave of his lust in a way that had never before happened to her. Where, she wondered, had she acquired the experience to react so absolutely? It was not enough to tell herself that it was simply that she realised herself to be deeply in love with him. He stood there bending over her for a long moment, doing no more than kiss her, embrace her. He was inside her but he did not move. He waited in deliberate cunning for her to stir the first; he waited for the suspense to become intolerable. “You will get covered in blood!” she said at last to disguise the movement which took possession of her loins with a mock-attempt to rise and disengage. But now he had begun the fateful rhythm which joined their breaths to the universal pattern of breath. She tried to protest to herself, telling herself that this must not be; but he only drove his slender horn ever deeper into her.
The Avignon Quintet Page 82