Transgressions

by Sarah Dunant

  “Is it? You know, Sal, I’m not sure I know what the right direction is anymore,” she said, then almost immediately regretted it.

  Her friend slipped a hand across the table. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  And how would you know, she thought uncharitably. You’ve been with Patrick for ten years. I bet you can barely remember what it feels like to wake up alone. “Well, you know me. I was never exactly a life-and-soul-of-the-party girl anyway.”

  “Except when you were singing. You should take it up again.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Sally, I can barely open the door to the milkman, let alone get up on a stage before a couple hundred drunken pub crawlers.”

  “Still, it’d get you out of that house. Might even make you a few friends.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got friends, Sal. It’s just I don’t want to see them right at the moment.”

  “Well, think about it. And think about that house, too. It’s far too big for you on your own now. Big and spooky. I wouldn’t want to live there alone. Patrick thinks you should sell it. You could do it, even in this market. He knows someone who could get you a good price.”

  “I’m sure he does. But I don’t want to sell it.”

  “No, well, we won’t talk about it. . . . How’s the book?”

  “Long.” She left a pause. Then took pity on her. “But good.”

  “Hmmn. Can I say something to you?”

  She smiled mildly. “I think you already have.”

  “It’s just I don’t think you’re helping yourself, that’s all.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Burying yourself away in that mansion with just a computer and a cat for company. You’ll go stale. Lose all the juice in you, or whatever Tom left after he did his own bit of squeezing. I think you should make an effort to get back into the real world, get out more, meet people, give yourself a chance.”

  She nodded. “I know you do, Sal. But I’m not you. I have to do it my way, however weird that may seem. When I’m ready I’ll come out again. Throw a party. You can write the guest list, okay?”

  “Yes, yes . . . all right.” She lifted up her hand to acknowledge failure, then turned it into an extravagant gesture to attract the waitress. The bill came. They squabbled over it briefly, but she gave in. It would make Sally feel better if she let her buy the lunch. Poor Sal. Always needing people to need her. Presumably that had something to do with the fact that in the end Patrick didn’t. Maybe she understood something about loneliness after all. Funny the things you know about your friends but can never tell them. I should be nicer to her, she thought. She’s only trying to help me.

  “So do I gather this means you’re saying no to Saturday night? I have it on good authority that this guy is very nice.”

  “Oh, Sally, I’m sure he is, but I’m just getting into the flow.”

  “What, weekends as well?”

  “You know me.”

  “Yes, unfortunately I do. How about next month?”

  “Maybe.”

  “All right, all right. I know when I’m beaten. But you be careful. Remember, the further you burrow in, the further there is to crawl back out from again.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.” Then as an afterthought, “I mean it.”

  Back home she unpacked the chocolate cake that Sally had insisted on buying her on the way out (“If you can’t have fun with someone else, then have some fun with yourself. God knows you could do with a few calories”) and cut herself a slice to go with her cappuccino. She thought about calling Sally to thank her, to reassure her that she was, really, okay, but she didn’t feel strong enough for another conversation.

  Interesting, what other people think of you. So, according to the rest of the world, it was Tom who was the aggressor and she who was the victim. Presumably that was how it had looked from the outside. Except it didn’t square with her vision of herself. Sure, he made more of a show of himself, talked longer and louder, expressed more opinions. But half the time they hadn’t been worth listening to. Certainly not worth competing with. The thought shocked her. Had she really thought that about the man she’d lived with for nearly eight years?

  Apparently, yes. She went up to the CD rack and flicked through the shiny line of titles, looking for something to make her feel better. Soon, the camp eroticism of early Lou Reed schmoozed its way into the room.

  His voice brought back Sally’s remark about singing, and she thought, not for the first time in her life, how wonderful it must be to be a real musician—to be able to say it all without having to say it to anyone in particular. Alas, she couldn’t do it. Having a voice was only the beginning. When she was younger she had been good enough for people to suggest she do it professionally. But her talent had always been with others’ songs. She herself had had nothing to say. Or nothing she thought anyone would be interested in. As a translator, she had the confidence to do wonders with other people’s words, but was still too often wrong-footed when it came to finding her own. Maybe that’s what had gone wrong between her and Tom; he had talked more only because she had talked less. Or maybe Sally was right. Maybe the problem was that she just didn’t have enough juice.

  She went back to the CD problem. It was three days since the loss of the second Van Morrison and nothing further had happened to add to her suspicions. That meant two albums missing in three months. It didn’t make sense. If it was Tom, then it certainly wasn’t his style. Sally was right about that. She tried to imagine him being in the house when she was out of it: standing in the kitchen, going through the record collection deciding which one to pick, which one he thought she would miss most, then slipping the silver disc neatly into his pocket. He would have known how she would react—at the least confused if not frightened. Was he capable of that? What would be the point, except spite? Or a way of getting her to feel uneasy about the house now that she was alone in it? Such was the level of bloodletting toward the end that she couldn’t categorically swear it wasn’t him. Well, damn him if it was. This was her home and she wasn’t going anywhere, whatever the provocation.

  She turned down the stereo and picked up the phone. She knew the number by heart even though she had never called it. He had written it under the Dalí calendar picture for March and she had faithfully transferred it every month to the next page, not wanting to lose it but not wanting to accept it as important enough to put into her address book. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then a machine picked up. His voice on the message was confident, cocky almost. I’m okay, it said, just in case you might have any doubts about it. She expected to feel something when she heard it, a little scissors’ cut in the gut, if only from memory, but there was nothing.

  “Hello,” she said firmly. “It’s me.” Then, “I need to talk to you about something. Could you call me? I’ll be in tonight.” She went to put down the receiver, then got suddenly flustered. “That’s Tuesday, Tuesday the twenty-fifth that I called.” Then, “Thanks,” as an abrupt afterthought.

  She slammed the receiver down. Now, despite herself, she could feel her heart thumping louder. Come on, girl, she thought, you did just fine.

  Then she made herself another cup of coffee and went upstairs to work.

  two

  The saucepan boiled over, filling the room with hissing smoke. Jake swore as he flung down the magazine and made a dash for the stove. As the pages fell, the centerfold of the woman’s body spread itself out on the table, her perfect navel punctured by a couple of staples: lovely Lola, the fistful from Phoenix.

  The pot was so hot he had to set it down on the edge of the table on his way to the sink. The boiling water splashed over the page and Lola’s breasts wrinkled up in instant scalding. He rescued her, then, after a quick glance, tossed her into the trash. She’d never smooth out properly and anyway there was too much airbrush for his liking. He liked his women with body hair, something you could get your fingers into. He was lucky customs hadn’t opened his suitcase. What a way to start the
job: American cop arrives to clean up the foreign city and gets caught carrying girlie pictures. He should have guessed. What other kind of going-away present would the boys have wrapped in brown paper?

  He hooked out a strand of noodles and lifted it to his lips, then dropped it again as he realized how hot it was. Hot and slimy. “Fuck.” He pulled the arm of his sweatshirt over his hand, picked up the pan and drained it into the sink, then dumped the remains on top of the girl in the trash. What a great way to spend your first night abroad: a bad porn mag and overcooked noodles in some fucking bureaucrat’s apartment. Jeez, this was meant to be privileged housing. People had joined the fucking party to get this much space. It was enough to make a guy feel sorry for himself, especially one who could still remember the taste of someone else’s cooking. And the feel of her body as he reached for her in bed. Not now. Don’t think of Mirka now. It was finished, shot to hell. And this was supposed to be the break: a new job, a new challenge, a blank sheet in the emotional typewriter. Just a shame it had to be her city. At least she wasn’t in it.

  He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. Damn the noodles. With luck that restaurant down the road would still be serving. What the hell if he didn’t understand the menu, he could always point at what other people were eating. A bottle of wine, some native cuisine, followed by a little nightlife. He might stop in at one of the city’s fancier hotel bars on the way home. Rumor was the Russian girls were on the move now, a whole new continent of talent hungry for hard currency. That’s what you call free enterprise: when you can’t sell your tanks you can always sell your women. If not to the natives then to the wealthy tourists.

  Must have been like this after the war: Americans with their fat food parcels and GI pay trading favors for silk stockings and bars of chocolate. Well, why not? When was the last time he’d gotten laid? That ditzy headdress designer he’d met at a bar on the Upper West Side. Christ, he couldn’t wait to get out of that apartment—all dangling crystals and panpipe music. Still, it was proof that he could do it, that there were some women who still wanted him. Jake Biderman: thirty-six years old, firm butt, no paunch, a good head of hair, and a cute smile when he wasn’t thinking about it (or so Mirka used to say). The only damage done was the stuff on the inside. But they couldn’t see that. Given the schmucks the world is full of, a lot of women would be grateful for his attentions, might even give it to him for free. Who was he fooling?

  He grabbed his jacket and headed out into a warm Prague evening. Lola from Phoenix stayed sprawled out in the trash, her airbrushed pubes decorated with a latticework of noodles.

  The phone rang in the darkness.

  “God.” She switched on the light by the bed and screwed up her eyes to check the clock: 1:18 A.M. As soon as she picked it up she knew that it was him. Who else could it be?

  “Hi, Lizzie.”

  “Hello, Tom.” The sound of his voice had her instantly on guard.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Good. So, how you doing?”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

  “Busy? I hear you’re doing some writer a big favor, making his words sing.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Oh, you know, mutual friends pretending to be nice, eager to keep me informed. No doubt you have the same problem.”

  No, she thought, I don’t. But, then, don’t ask. “How are things with you?”

  The words sounded absurd. Both of them being so polite—like talking to a stranger, or an acquaintance whom you don’t know well enough yet to be familiar with. Well, maybe that’s just what they were now. Acquaintances. Intimacy dissolving back into distance, the story of a relationship gone full circle.

  “Great. I’m great. I’ve applied for a post in British Columbia. Going out in a couple of weeks’ time for an interview. Associate professor, no less.”

  “That’s wonderful. I hope you get it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s all politics. As you remember.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, how’s the house?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still there. Must be big with just you rattling around in it.”

  Me and whoever else cares to call ’round, she thought. There was a pause.

  “Anyway,” he said. “You phoned me?”

  “Er, yes. I . . . I wanted to ask if I could have the key back.”

  “The key?”

  “Yes, Tom, the key. To the house. You’ve still got it.”

  “Have I?” he said, in a voice that made it clear they both knew full well that he had it. “I don’t remember. But if you say so I’ll have a look. And if I find it I’ll drop it ’round.”

  “Don’t bother, you can just post it.”

  “Well, if that would make you feel better.” He paused and in the silence she could almost feel the politeness cracking under the weight of its own effort. “You don’t have to be there to receive it, you know. I could always just shove it through the letter box.” And the word shove had a shaft of familiar anger in it.

  “Whatever,” she said evenly, determined not to respond. “Listen, have you . . . have you by any chance been here over these last few weeks?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the house. Have you come back to collect anything?”

  “Why? What could you have there that I could possibly want?” he said quietly.

  “I just—”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wondered if you had taken any of my CDs by mistake.”

  “Your CDs? Which ones?”

  You know which ones, you bastard, she thought. “Van Morrison.”

  “Van Morrison,” he said, treating the name as if it referred to the pope or someone as hallowed (or despised). I know what it is, she thought. You’ve been drinking. You’re pissed, damn you. “And what would I want with Van Morrison? As far as I remember he’s got a voice like a cistern overflowing.”

  “All right, Tom. You don’t have to rise to the occasion. Just a yes or no will do.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Then the answer is no, I haven’t taken your Van Morrison albums, or any other for that matter. Why? Has somebody else?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused.

  “You mean you think you’ve had a burglary?”

  “Er, no. I . . . don’t know.”

  “You know you should really think of getting the police around to check the security on that house. I always said those back windows were vulnerable. Did you report it?” And the shift in mood was palpable. Even his voice had lost the edge. No more aggression now, just a sudden concentrated concern that made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. Damn him, he could be so nice when he wanted to be. When he wanted to be . . .

  “No, no, I didn’t. It’s nothing, only a couple of albums.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t just drop them in your handbag somewhere?”

  “No,” she said firmly. The handbag, its size and miraculous capacity to lose everything and anything inside it, had been a long-standing joke between them, before it became a jibe. It was not meant unkindly now, though. Which made it hurt more than if it had been. Don’t get into this, she thought. Don’t, whatever you do, let him charm you. And don’t start telling him your troubles. “Listen, Tom, I have to go, it’s late, I just wanted to check that—”

  “That I wasn’t coming ’round prowling, just to make you feel bad, is that it?” Here it came again, the taste of the milk turning sour in his mouth. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but as it so happens I’ve got better things to do with my life than make you feel sorry for leaving it, all right?”

  “All right.” She spat it back. Whoomph. You could always depend on Tom. As consistent as English weather. Take off your coat in the warmth and get hit by a hailstorm.

  “Well, if you want my advice you’ll put bars on the windows and change your music habits. Could be it’s someone who can’t stand the
sound of his voice.”

  “Yes, yes, and yes, Tom,” she said, this time letting herself rise to the bait. “Thanks for nothing, okay? And send back the key.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The receiver went dead in her ear. She held it like that for a moment, waiting till the pounding in her head subsided. The perfect phone call, Tom at his best: moving from caring to loathing so fast it made your eyes water. Once upon a time she had known how to handle it, could have given as good as she got, but these last months had slowed down her reactions. Made her lazy, too secure. Bastard.

  Bastard, yes. But liar? That, too, she had once been able to tell. Now she was not so sure. She put the phone down on its cradle. It rang again immediately. It had to be him. She let it carry on. But he was persistent. In the end she picked it up and said firmly, “Good night, Tom.” The silence at the other end was alive in her ear. “I hope Canada proves big enough for you.”

  She pressed the button, then left the receiver off the hook. He was good with phone calls. Once, when they had been courting, and his world still revolved around winning her, he had phoned her thirty-three times in a hotel room in Spain until she had agreed to fly to Paris to meet him for the weekend. It had been so intoxicating being wanted that much, putting down the phone only to pick it up again and hear his voice, laughing, rich with desire, refusing to take no for an answer. They had flirted their way through a small fortune in phone bills that trip. Who cared? It was like making love long distance, the kind of thing that makes a man irresistible. But not now. Now, at last, she had turned her back on him. Which was no doubt what made him so mad. But did it also make him vindictive?

  She turned off the light and closed her eyes, but the call had churned her up too much and it was impossible to sleep. A bit of her wanted to talk to someone about it. She thought about calling Sally, to get her reading on the conversation. But the lateness of the hour would make it seem like desperation rather than chatter. Interesting how the nights had changed since they were young. Then it had been a challenge to talk till dawn. Now the world was full of alarm clocks and couples tucked up in bed before midnight. Sad, really.