A View of the Empire at Sunset

by Caryl Phillips

  “I can only afford this arrondissement.”

  “Well, why not a better hotel in this arrondissement?”

  As though on cue, the muffled sobs of a baby crying begin to rapidly escalate until the child maintains a constant wail, and then they hear the loud clatter of a chair being knocked over by somebody hurrying to leave the room, and then a door slams. Lenglet stands and runs one hand back through his unwashed hair. His face has a hollow, anaemic aspect to it, and as ever, she imagines that her husband is managing to remain only one step ahead of whatever authorities are pursuing him.

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  For Christ’s sake what, she thinks. You are here for one day, two at the most, and we have things to talk about, and then you can leave and go back to your Holland. You don’t have to live here, so what gives you the right to complain? She scrutinizes her husband as he crosses now to the window and stares down into the street, where he notices a cat weaving a hesitant path in and out of some rusted railings.

  “I don’t believe it. The man is standing in plain sight relieving himself against the fa çade of the hotel as though it’s a public toilet. How are decent people supposed to live side by side with this trash?”

  He retreats from the window and lights another cigarette, and then he turns off the dripping tap before he once again sits, this time on the foot of her bed.

  “Have you ever seen the woman and child in the next room? And why the hell does the brute beat her?”

  She says nothing, but she suspects that the boy does not belong to the man. The man is hefty and blond, while the child is dark and emaciated, but because she has never exchanged anything other than the occasional raised eyebrow of recognition with the woman as they pass each other on the narrow unilluminated staircase, everything is speculation.

  “Are you going to continue to make me sleep on the chair?”

  She looks at Lenglet and nods, but she has no interest in pursuing a conversation. She understands that she is being tested.

  “You won’t share a bed with me? I disgust you now, is that it?”

  She remains calm and does not take her eyes from him. Does he not understand that she would stiffen at his touch?

  “We talked about this yesterday when you arrived.”

  “I am still your husband.” He pauses in order that she might have time to absorb the import of the word “husband,” but she remains unperturbed and decides to take the initiative.

  “Have you made any decision regarding Maryvonne? I no longer wish to leave her with the family in Versailles.”

  “It was you who abandoned her. What kind of a mother are you?”

  “And what kind of a father are you?” She stares hard at him. “I temporarily gave my daughter to a kind family who are better able to care for her than I am.” Again she pauses. “Look, I have no money, but we both know Maryvonne needs a home.”

  “I refuse to allow you to bring our daughter into this place.” He gestures all around at the grimy room. “I will not permit my daughter to grow up in filth.”

  “But I told you, I have no money.”

  “Then it’s decided. I shall take her with me until you take control of your deplorable little life.” He looks angrily at her. “Well, are you listening?”

  “What if she doesn’t want to go with you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, she’s coming with me.”

  He gets up from the bed and sits down heavily on the chair.

  “I see.” She pauses and decides to try and defuse the awkward silence. “Thank you.”

  But “Thank you” for what? For finally acting like a father? For pretending to be a knight in shining armour on a charging white steed? Brave Lenglet has thundered across the border from Holland and arrived to rescue the situation. Sadly, the charming, secretive man who captured her imagination in London has allowed life to harry him so that he is now little more than a dreadfully unsteady parody of the enchanting foreigner who night after night escorted her to the Caf é Royal. But this is her own failure, for life in London should have already taught her to accept that some men are handsome in a way that will inevitably bring only disappointment. In the morning the pair of them will travel together to Versailles and reclaim their daughter, and then in the afternoon she will accompany her husband and daughter to the Gare du Nord and wave them farewell as they board the train for Holland. Farewell, not goodbye. She is fully aware that Lenglet has come to Paris to rescue their child, so why, she wonders, does he pretend that he also wants her? It is the habitual stupidity of men that she has never really understood. The pretence. The utter compulsion to pretend.

  Next door she can now hear the couple talking with less anger in their voices. She is familiar with the concluding act of this drama. The bed begins to squeal as the man climbs into his sweetheart’s arms and legs, and a rhythmic creaking commences. She can feel frustration rising within her. Why, nearly every night of the week, this same depressing farce? And what is the child witnessing? Tomorrow, with a heavy heart, she will allow Maryvonne to leave for Holland with her father, for at the present time, it is he who appears to be managing life in this world. She snakes out a hand and turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a semi-darkness that can never fully close to blackness because of the luminous moonlight.

  “Do you have nothing further to say to me?”

  “Please, go to sleep. Tomorrow will be difficult. For everybody.”

  “And that is all you have to say?”

  She pulls the sheet tight around herself and turns on her side and faces the wall. In the next room the woman finally gasps and then begins to sob, which is the man’s reminder to comfort her. She listens as Lenglet settles himself on the irksome chair, but she knows that neither of them will sleep, for the ordeal of their marriage has collapsed to the point where neither of them feels it necessary to struggle towards the courtesy of compromise. There will be no temporary resolution. In a few hours, dawn will find them sharing a room in painful silence, with each one of them convinced that they are doing the right thing for their daughter.

  43

  Seeking Refuge

  She has been waiting on the unsheltered south coast train platform for nearly an hour. During this time the rain has begun to fall with increasing steadiness, but without an umbrella or even a serviceable coat to prevent her from getting a soaking, she has reluctantly accepted that she now has little choice but to seek refuge in the small, grim-looking waiting room. As she pushes open the door, she discovers that there is nothing in the place except a bench, a table, and a pile of old magazines. The tiny place reeks of stale cigarette smoke, but at least it is quiet and she is alone. It occurs to her that she might have to go back to the ticket office and ask the station master what exactly is happening with the trains to London, but the answer will almost certainly be “I don’t know, love,” which she recalls is the more polite form of “How am I supposed to know?”

  It has stopped raining now, but there is still no sign of the train. An hour ago the weasel of a man threw open the door and excitedly informed her that there had been a signal failure somewhere up the line, but he assured her that the train would arrive in twenty minutes or so. He lit a cigarette and hovered eagerly, as though waiting for her to thank him for this information, or perhaps he expected her to ask a question, but she had nothing to say to the common man. She watched as he touched his cap, and then closed the door behind him, trapping still more cigarette smoke in the tiny room. She has enough money to pay for a few nights at a modest London hotel, but she has decided that after she meets with her sisters and attends her mother’s funeral, she will return to her solitary life in Paris.

  Once again the station master opens the door, this time slowly, which serves only to amplify the creaking of the unoiled hinges. He is carrying a cup of tea, and as he eases the door shut behind him, he offers her an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, your train’s been cancelled, but another one should be along within the hour.” He set
s down the cup of tea on the table. “I’ve brought this for you, but we’re out of sugar.” She thanks him by simply nodding, and then she rediscovers her manners. “That’s very kind of you.” He nods and touches his cap, and he mutters, “You’re welcome, miss,” which makes her want to laugh. Does she really look like a “miss” to this man, or is he simply trying to make her feel better about herself? If so, there’s no reason for him to bother. He casually slaps a pack of cigarettes against the heel of his hand and takes one out. He offers her one, which she refuses, and then he points. “The tea, I hope it’s alright.” She shares with him the creased smile of a woman who is becoming increasingly familiar with Pond’s cold cream . “Thank you, I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

  44

  Sister Love

  She sits by herself at the dining table and pours yet another measure of red wine into her glass and smiles at nobody in particular. “Well, this is quite nice,” she says. She drinks deeply and then, her hand having never left the bottle, she refills the glass.

  “Don’t you think you should be going back to your hotel now, my dear?” Her sister Brenda tries to take the bottle from her, but not wishing to become involved in a tug-of-war, Brenda adroitly changes her mind. Minna’s stage whisper echoes around the room.

  “She shouldn’t have come in the first place. Neither to the cemetery nor back here to the house. She’s a disgrace.”

  She ignores both Minna and Brenda, for she knows that they are grief-stricken and probably not entirely sure of what they are saying or doing. She continues to smile and tries to be forgiving, for the pair of them have been the unlucky ones who, once it became apparent that their mother could no longer cope with either her financial difficulties or with Negro resentment at home in the West Indies, were forced to uproot their lives and journey to England to live with their unhappy parent in this mundane house in Acton. Soon after their arrival in London, their mother’s health began to fail, and shortly thereafter the tawdry realities of English life began to dumbfound the matriarch and her mind began to flicker away from lucidity. And now that their mother has departed, her two sisters don’t seem to understand that it was impossible for her to leave Paris and come and help, for she had a husband and she has a child. I’m sorry, she thinks, but the pair of you have neither a husband nor children, so of course Mother was your responsibility. What is it that you don’t understand?

  Again Brenda reaches for the bottle of red wine, but she refuses to let go of it.

  “Gwen, are you sure you’re alright, my dear?”

  She is not alright, and she swallows deeply as her stomach begins a slow, churning circle, but she manages to keep everything under control until her stomach completes its manoeuvre.

  “Ask her why she felt it necessary to carry on that way at the funeral service, screaming at everybody and acting as though she had taken leave of her senses. Well,” said Minna, “ask her, for she’s nothing but a vain, spoiled brat.”

  Brenda tries to usher her angry sister away, but Minna shoots the visitor a vindictive look and will not be moved.

  “I despise her, do you understand? I don’t want her in this house.”

  She listens and suppresses a giggle. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I was late and a teeny bit flustered and I lost my balance. Anyhow, aren’t I allowed to be a little emotional? She was my mother, too.” She pours another glass of red wine and offers them both a smudged lipstick smile. “For heaven’s sake, can’t either of you ladies find it in your heart to forgive me? I meant nothing by it.”

  “She makes me sick.”

  Brenda looks genuinely shocked. “Really, Minna, there’s no need to persist with this kind of talk.”

  When she wrote to tell her mother that she was staying on in England and planning to attend the Academy of Dramatic Art, her mother didn’t trouble herself to grace her with a reply. Perhaps she didn’t receive the letter? She has always liked to believe this. In fact, she likes to believe anything that will cause her less pain, but today nothing seems to be helping.

  She pours the last drop of wine into her glass and only now does she relinquish her grip on the bottle.

  “You do have a hotel room to go to, don’t you?” Brenda picks up the empty bottle from the table.

  “Yes, but I’m not ready yet. Do you have any more wine? I’m glad you didn’t ask Aunt Clarice. She never really liked me.”

  “Gwennie, Aunt Clarice is dead.”

  “No, Brenda, you’re being silly. Mother is dead.”

  “Gwennie, they’re both dead.”

  She smiles at Brenda and tries to remember why they are all huddled together in this horrible house in Acton. She places a hand on Brenda’s arm.

  “Will you ever go back?”

  “Go back where, Gwennie?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You mean home? The West Indies?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. I’m going back to Paris now. Will you come and visit me in Paris? Where’s Owen?”

  “In Australia, Gwennie. And brother Edward is a doctor in India. It would appear we’ve lost both of our brothers to the colonies. We really are quite a clumsy family, aren’t we?”

  45

  Mr. Smith

  It was he who wrote first, saying he had come across her writing in a fairly obscure literary journal and wondered if she had anything else “on the go.” The brief handwritten note from the English literary agent instantly rescued her ailing spirits, and all day long she carried it with her from one coffin-quiet bar to the next, and then, late in the evening, back to the despondent hotel room on the Rue Vavin. That was almost two months ago. Now—having travelled to London to be present at her mother’s funeral—she decided that before leaving again she would make it her business to seek out the seemingly curious Mr. Leslie Tilden Smith. She had made up her mind to affect a casual, disinterested air with this Mr. Smith, in the hope it would be clear that he was not the reason she had come to London. But the truth was, after nearly a decade on the Continent, the zest of Paris had become decidedly pass é. She needed money and she needed help, and she already understood that she would not be averse to the devotion of a suitable patron should such a person present himself.

  The tall, angular Mr. Smith was more loose-limbed than she had imagined, and on first glance he appeared to be smartly dressed; however, she was adept at spying kinship in a frayed cuff or a missing button, and so she knew that all was not what it seemed to be with this rather shy man. He cleared some manuscripts from a conspicuously unstable chair by simply tossing them to the floor alongside others, and then Mr. Smith invited her to take a seat in his cramped office space which he announced he shared with an elderly part-time reader. Her suggestion of an early-morning appointment had obviously caught the literary agent off guard, for he had not adequately prepared for her visit, but she smiled as the courtly man continued to tidy up, and as she crossed her legs at the ankles, she allowed a slim foot to slide partway out of her shoe. To her eyes, it was immediately apparent that this man was a kind person, and as he began to speak, she realized that he genuinely admired her writing. Therefore, when Mr. Smith eventually found the courage to stammer an invitation to join him later that same day for dinner she saw no reason to refuse, although judging by the downcast, nervous manner in which the poor soul had framed his overture it was evident that he expected her to be otherwise engaged and had already anticipated rejection. She understood that Mr. Smith would most likely not have the resources to reserve a table at the hotels and restaurants that she recalled from her time in London before the Great War, but perhaps such places no longer existed? After all, London had changed. This morning, while making her way to her appointment with Mr. Smith, she had undertaken some rudimentary explora tion. The grimy city had now lost what bloom it had once possessed, but then again, so had she. The streets appeared to be narrower and the people miserable, but it was the vast quantity of street traffic that made this new London hazardous, with its riot of noi
se and the endless surge of spluttering automobiles that chaotically congregated at unmonitored junctions.

  The restaurant was cheerless and she felt certain that the food would be bland. She stared at a bickering couple at a neighbouring table and waited as Mr. Smith ran his eyes up and down the menu, unable to decide what to order. This, she knew, was not a good omen, but she remained calm and decided to continue to show him her best powdered face. The green-jacketed waiter was lingering in anticipation of an order, but her host didn’t seem to notice. Then Mr. Smith looked up and smiled and turned to the waiter and said, “I’ll have whatever the lady is having,” and her heart momentarily sank, for it was now clear what kind of a man she was dealing with. Nevertheless, by the conclusion of the meal she had made a decision to extend her stay in London, and during the course of the week Mr. Smith brought her back to the same dispiriting restaurant without asking if she would prefer to dine at some other establishment. On their second visit, she watched his eyes gleam as he announced that he felt certain that he might well be able to secure for her a publisher’s contract, but this news aside, he had, by this stage, effectively given up talking about matters related to the world of books. He was now attempting to interrogate her about her life, and she smiled sweetly and managed to distil the narrative down to the skimpiest of plot lines: colonial girl comes to England to seek her fortune and eventually escapes the misery of the postwar years by leaving for the Continent, where she quite unexpectedly takes up writing in a series of melancholy hotel rooms. He demanded more storyline, so she provided details of parents, a journey on board a ship, a wicked aunt, and even an unhappy interlude at an English boarding school, but she decided against giving out any more information, for she had no wish to be judged. Then Mr. Smith changed his tack. The conversation was now about Mr. Smith’s life: his former wife and his daughter, the girl’s impending marriage, his service during the Great War, his unsatisfactory time at university, and his aging parents. Fearing a return to the indignity of trying to find work posing for the fashion houses in the Place Vend ôme, and her increasingly indigent life walking the lesser streets of Montparnasse before the inevitable late-night return to her austere hotel room, she listened with calculated attention, until it became perfectly obvious to her that Mr. Smith’s stories served only one purpose, which, on a particularly blustery and inclement London morning, he finally blurted out.