Compulsory Games

by Robert Aickman

  “He’s in a different department?”

  “That’s somewhat too large a word.”

  “How did you manage to quarrel, then?”

  “We haven’t quarrelled. I just don’t like him.”

  “The reason why you cannot tell?”

  “Exactly. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “All right. But you might point him out to me, first. Then I shall take care not to look at him.”

  I glanced at her. It was of course Clarinda and not Ronnie who was in my thoughts every minute of the time.

  “Come on,” said Aster, taking a determined quaff of her Campari. “Which man is he?”

  “The one with the very pale face.”

  It was significant that in that packed room I needed to define no further. It could hardly have been more significant.

  “With the plain girl who’s very pale too?” asked Aster.

  “That’s the one,” I said. “But I don’t think the girl’s particularly plain.”

  “They both look like ——,” said Aster, and then stopped, seeming to remember something; perhaps merely her manners.

  “Yes,” I said. “They probably do. I think so.”

  Aster said not one word more on the subject, and we succeeded, at least marginally, in chattering off and on about other things. It was not a place in which to attempt silent communion, or anything of that kind. Moreover, the difficulty in obtaining one’s food and drink diminished any peace of mind one might hope for.

  I settled myself to glowering steadily at Ronnie down the line of sight so conveniently provided by Fortune for the purpose. Another odd thing was that while Aster and I were dutifully discoursing, Ronnie and Clarinda seemed to me at no time to be saying anything at all to one another. Furthermore, I soon realised that they were not even preoccupied with eating and drinking; though that might obviously have been, as in our case, owing to the difficulty in obtaining proper service in any but the most costly restaurants. Hazards of that kind would serve Ronnie right, I reflected. All that seemed to be happening between the two of them was that every now and then Ronnie swayed across towards Clarinda as if about to kiss her; but he never did quite kiss her. I could not only see that for myself, but most positively sense it too, as one can, even though not always right through a congested mass of people.

  Aster was describing her work in a stockbrokers’ office. I knew the place. It was quite near the office of Bream & Ladywell. In fact, I had first met Aster at a telephone box half way between the two.

  She went on about her resentment at being debarred, as a woman, from herself treading the floor of the house. Something of value might, I thought, as I sat watching Ronnie and Clarinda, none the less be sieved like gold dust from Aster’s gentle indignation. I had not then learned that nothing of material value can ever be extracted by outsiders from the remarks even of Stock Exchange members, let alone from the remarks of their girl employees. Shortly after that, Aster, in fact, left the stockbroking firm and began to work in a shop in W.1 that sold very expensive diaries and blotters.

  I soon found that there was something monotonous, even mesmeric, in just staring at Ronnie and Clarinda, while keeping my end up in conversation with Aster. The muscles of my neck and shoulders were rigidifying, so that soon I might look much as Ronnie was looking. Almost certainly, I was not doing at all well at blighting Ronnie and sending him berserk. It was more as if he were blighting me. My eye did not feel evil beyond what was natural and normal in the circumstances. I began to doubt whether Ronnie, swaying about as he was like some sort of plant or insect, even knew I was there. It was very easy for me to pay more attention to Aster and less to my mission. It was simpler to turn as best I could towards Aster and watch her picking eagerly at the prawned avocado she had selected and which had at last been vouchsafed. I found it reasonably pleasant to look at Aster in any case, whose eyes were almost lost beneath her pendant hair-style. They were pretty green eyes, and a nice shape. Moreover, she was wearing the greenest of dresses. I like green dresses with green eyes.

  “Not all the girls feel the same about it,” said Aster. “Something might be done about it if they did.”

  “It’s like that everywhere,” I responded encouragingly.

  “It’s the trouble with women all the time,” said Aster.

  “Even more so with men,” I assured her.

  Aster looked sceptical as to that, from behind her hair.

  “When you really know them,” I expounded.

  “Women will never pull together. Not even in the same office. Never the whole lot in the same direction. We’re all such individualists.”

  I nodded affably.

  “Men don’t know what women are really like,” observed Aster. She spoke with the particular meaning that woman always bring to that remark.

  She had gnawed the last prawn. It was like the title of a novel by Scott Fitzgerald; though at that time I had not passed very far beyond the titles. She was awaiting her sole bonne femme. It was possibly not the ideal selection in a basically Italian establishment, but there it was.

  I paid to her last observation the tribute of the best compliment I could muster up. It is immaterial what I said. Indeed, I myself forget what it was; as is scarcely surprising. Over there was Clarinda. The knowledge burnt into me, though, owing to my muscles, I had ceased to gaze upon her always willowy but now ostentatiously jaded frame. Clarinda, the great niece and ward of my chairman, was lost to me by wilfulness. It behoved me for the present to aim less high. With luck, there would come a time.

  Aster, though she lacked that decisive gift for making me giggle, though she emitted a faint perfume of cold cream. . . . I began to talk much faster. I had a certain experience of how one does it. I felt I was being fluent and persuasive.

  It was only natural that when I ran out of words for the moment, I should once more glance over to Clarinda, bidding her a spiritual and undeclarable farewell.

  Clarinda was not there; and nor was Ronnie. The whole room had somehow closed up on me. Though to myself I seemed to have done so much conversing, and ruminating, and deciding, and persuading, the time which had actually passed since I had ceased to stare hypnotically was really very short. Aster was about two thirds of the way through the top side of her sole, but no more than that.

  I underwent another metamorphosis, and a painful one. Instead of lightly touching Aster’s pretty little bosom, as I had purposed less than two minutes before, I found that I was feeling giddy and sick. Seriously sick.

  “I’m sorry,” I gulped, and made a dash for it. I had to push through all the mixed mob that was there. I must have behaved very strangely, and perhaps looked more strangely, because Aster was on her two feet in an instant, and trying to restrain me. It was bound to be too late. No-one could have held me.

  The hall outside (hallway might, for that cramped place, have been a better word) was even more solid with people than the restaurant itself. As happened on most nights, they were almost fighting to go further. Two men in white jackets were always needed to keep them in line.

  I was looking, basically, for somewhere to throw up; even the street outside. Most assuredly, I had no idea at that point of setting eyes upon Clarinda. But as I flailed about, far from sure where I was even aiming to go, I heard her unmistakable voice behind my ear.

  “Save me, Richard. Save me, please. Forgive me and save me. Please, Richard.”

  I managed to wheel as soon as I heard her, and there she was, right at my back, not merely whiter than white, but with eyes enlarged almost beyond recognition; perhaps by tears? That was something else I had never before seen. I could not have imagined that Clarinda of all people could ever possibly have looked so unsure of herself. I was simple then.

  I clutched at her, but found that I was grasping some other silly woman, and one who was obtrusively married.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “I was reaching for someone else.”

  The married lady drew herself into h
erself, and her attendant slave completed the process.

  But Clarinda had vanished again. Doubtless Ronnie was awaiting her on the steps. It was impossible seriously to wait for anyone inside that messy hallway. Perhaps I should add here that the steps up to the door of Romulo’s, once famous, were later done away with. After their big fire, that was. The whole place was modernised even further, and all the ceilings dropped, and everything levelled.

  I quite forgot all about being sick, and, with a speed that later amazed me, I took another important decision. I decided that instead of leading Aster further down the primrose path, I should confide in her and tell her the truth, the real story. I daresay this was not so much heroism as cowardice. After what had happened, I simply could not have managed to pick up with Aster where I had left off; and, on the other hand, I could think of nothing but Clarinda’s distorted eyes, and simply had to talk about them. I do realise, and I realised then, that girls who accept entertainment, may have to accept much else too in an evening; but is it not true that exactly the same applies to the men in the different cases? It is simply how life works out for everyone; if lived at all fully, that is.

  I shoved my way back as swiftly as I could. I was quite surprised not to find my empty chair commandeered, and, no doubt, the third man himself in a third chair. However, in its own way, luck was still holding. In fact, the third chair had been borrowed by a party sitting six at a table for four. One bonus more.

  “Are you all right? You look dreadful.”

  “I had a shock. I’m better now, thank you.”

  “You look very nearly as white as that friend of yours.”

  “I’ve decided to tell you about him. And about the girl with him. Would you like a zabaglione?”

  “Yes, please. I thought it best to finish the sole before it got cold. I’ve eaten the parsley too. Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Shall we have another half bottle?”

  “Will you be all right, if we do?”

  “It’s exactly what I require.”

  But of course the zabaglione was for her alone.

  Aster put her hand on my arm. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  She really was a very sweet girl, I thought. I leaned across the fish’s skeleton and kissed her gently but with considerable significance.

  Then I slowly sank back. “His name’s Ronnie Cassell,” I began, “and I used to be rather fond of that girl he was with. Several things have happened, and I’m not keen on thinking about them, so I’ve decided to talk about them instead. I’ve decided to take you into my confidence. When I’ve finished, we’ll have some coffee and some really exotic liqueurs, and you can tell me quite frankly what you think.”

  No-one should suppose that these various remarks reflected my general standard of living at that time. They merely prove that I was desperate.

  Aster heard me out in silence, though occasionally glancing at me from the corner of her green eye. She lapped lingeringly through the zabaglione. I had ordered half a bottle of still Sauternes, which is a perfectly good wine when taken with something like zabaglione.

  At the end of my narration, there was a pause. I was quite exhausted by having to relate so many peculiar and painful things in so loud a voice. Aster was slowly scooping up her last glutinous droplets.

  “You are in love with her.”

  I suppose I might have guessed it would be her first remark.

  “I don’t really know,” I said.

  It is of course the form of words we all use.

  Aster picked up yet another spoon with which to make an absolutely final job.

  “You know what’s going on as well as I do, Richard,” she said, as she scraped and licked. “You don’t need advice.”

  “What do I need?”

  “Care and protection, I suppose. You’ve managed to fall in love with an unsuitable person.”

  “But that’s only because of something that’s happened to the person.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Something that’s been done to her.”

  “Men always think that.”

  I looked at Aster as steadily as I could.

  “But have you ever before heard of anything like what I’ve told you?”

  “Yes,” said Aster.

  “Not in a movie or in a magazine, I mean, but in real life?”

  “Yes.”

  I continued to gaze at her. I daresay I clutched hold of something or other. Before my next question, it was necessary.

  “You don’t mean, Aster, that you yourself—?”

  “No.”

  I could hardly continue. The most appalling nightmare had opened and then closed before my eyes, all in seconds; a nightmare that might well have included almost everyone and everything, as will be seen by all.

  Aster was gazing into her very empty goblet. “If I were you,” she said, “I shouldn’t take Clarissa’s appeal entirely at its face value.”

  “Clarinda,” I corrected, before really thinking. Probably it was all I could say.

  “The name is secondary,” remarked Aster.

  I must admit that there was another pause. I could hardly wonder that Aster was beginning to look bored. What with one thing and another that evening.

  “Then your opinion is that I should do nothing?” I asked in the end. I thought that it might as well be spelt out. I had probably lost Aster as well as Clarinda.

  “I should get another job. Out of London perhaps. You’re in bad company generally.”

  Aster was indeed lost to me; at least in the absence of very special and sustained efforts on my part.

  “I shouldn’t like not to go on seeing you.”

  Aster said nothing. What else could have been expected? “Apart from everything else,” I said, “you just rendered me a very great service.”

  “I’m glad,” said Aster.

  I knew even in those days that whereas men expect to be thanked again and again, women do not care for it. Thanking a woman for anything that matters is often in the worst of taste.

  People were milling round us, and making comments upon our slowness. It was incredible, but I had forgotten all about the other customers. One forgot the popcorn-eaters when the feature film was absorbing.

  “Don’t you think we’d better go?” enquired Aster.

  “I said we’d have coffee.”

  Aster graciously accepted it, and also the rather special liqueurs I had promised, but even the most superficial of conversations had become difficult. We had seemingly fallen as silent as Ronnie and Clarinda. I daresay I looked very nearly as pale too, though Aster looked as normal as when I had first met her, at the battered telephone box.

  It was raining outside, and quite hard. Aster did permit me to kiss her again, but this time only on the cheekbone, as if she had been one of the girls in the office. I said, as firmly as always, that I looked forward to our next meeting, and she of course said nothing.

  Within three minutes of our parting, I found myself in two minds, which is an upsetting condition for any man. For days I had been cursing the pure goodwill and friendly feeling that had made me go to Mrs. Z——’s party in the first place. We all know how little profit to anyone normally comes from goodwill on any occasion. It is perfectly true, almost always, that goodness has to be its own reward. That may of course be the main point about goodness.

  It seemed likely that Aster’s view of my situation was based upon considerably more than she had admitted to. Though I had almost certainly succeeded in conveying to her what that situation was, we had both found it nearly impossible to use the right words, to call things by their names. As no-one will be surprised to learn, the trouble now was that I found it quite impossible to ignore Clarinda, as Aster had recommended. It was difficult for me not to respond to the apparent desperation of Clarinda’s plea to me; when I had been considerably in love with her even before that. Desperation in a woman can advance a man’s feeling for her m
arvellously.

  I was travelling that night on the Underground to Trotters Park, where I then lived, and trying to think it all out; not giving way to feeling more than I could help. The train was very full, as it always was in those days, and almost everyone was soaking wet, many being at least half-drunk as well. I gave up my seat to a pretty young mother in a slinky mackintosh, and tried to continue thinking on my feet, put off my stroke by the girl’s grateful smile and eyelash drooping. I had no settled stroke in any case.

  One simple problem was how best to help Clarinda even if I made up my mind to it. Some weeks before the same thing had been my trouble with Ronnie. Naturally, Clarinda did not work in the office. She had been specially brought in for that festivity at which I had met her. Since then, Caius Julius Ladywell had never seemed to make the slightest objection to my going to see her at his house, either by day or night; but I had always felt myself there on a peculiar kind of sufferance, none the less. In those days possibly this was mere inferiority complex on my part, when confronted with rich people. Clarinda’s present situation, on the other hand, might have something to do with her having no parents. I had always understood that they had died at the same time somewhere, somehow, when Clarinda had been a baby. One hardly asked questions, especially when no-one in the office knew any of the answers. There was absolutely no direct intermediary between Clarinda and me. Girls like Clarinda used to have maids whom men took aside at critical moments. I could hardly attempt a frank talk with old Caius Julius. And also of course there was Ronnie, not merely standing in the light, but the entire cause of all the trouble, unlikely though this would once have seemed. I hated Ronnie. I had every reason to hate him.

  Neither in the tube train nor on the wet walk from the station did I come to any decision whatever. In primary matters, one seldom does, of course, or can. But later that night something happened. Something often does.

  I am glad to say that trouble of any kind normally sends me to sleep. It must be terrible to be kept awake by it. I am sure the insoluble problems of that evening had me snoring in no time. I could hear the rain lashing against the windowpanes, and that is always soothing too. It was an early nineteenth-century house, as I could tell for myself, though not nowadays in the best of decorative condition. I was awakened by a gentle throbbing noise. I knew that I had been half-listening to the sound for some time in my sleep, as one does.