Smile

by Deborah Moggach

  Their hotel was in the grand confort category. She did not want him to talk; she did not want to hear. It was a large room overlooking the back alley, jammed with cars. Dustbins glinted in the evening sun. If it’s another woman, she pleaded, don’t you understand? I don’t want to know. Haven’t we even that understanding left? You have every opportunity; you stay away nights, you travel all over the place. I am soft and fat and empty. Let’s stuff ourselves with food; unlike the geese, we have a choice. Two chef’s hats, this hotel has in the Gault Millau. Let’s not put anything into words. Either that there is somebody else or, perhaps worse, that there isn’t. Let’s go downstairs and eat that truffle thing you told me about, followed by their fishy thing for which they are so famous.

  Leonard had a shower. The heavily upholstered room seemed to be waiting for an answer. She went to the window. Down there, a man lay spreadeagled on a car bonnet. It was a young man; his eyes were closed. His white apron was smeared with blood. After the first shock she realized he was just one of the chefs, snoozing in the evening sun. How wonderfully simple he looked.

  ‘Plenty of Dutch,’ she said the next day. ‘No Brits, but plenty of Dutch.’

  ‘Foreign, yes. But slow.’

  It was nearly midday and they were driving along the Lot valley. The road twisted alongside the water; to one side rose thickly wooded banks topped by cliffs. A dangerous road for overtaking.

  He pointed towards the roof. ‘Up there lies our lunch.’

  According to the map, and Leonard’s description, Le Beau Rivage restaurant was built on the cliffs above them, overlooking the river. Last night’s place had two chef’s hats in black; today’s lunch, however, was superior, for its two hats were red. Even Leonard, not a mean man, had admitted it was expensive. He had eaten lunch there earlier this year, when he had been down on a swift business trip – an English recluse had died and his château, with some rare first editions, was being auctioned.

  Leonard swerved out.

  ‘No!’ she cried. A blind bend lay ahead. The road dipped and twisted; queues of cars crawled along it. She knew she should feel pleased, that he wanted to repeat his gastronomic treat with her. He had talked so much about this place, and now he wanted her to share it. But she felt uneasy. Leonard placed such emphasis on style. She had the feeling that he was going to fill her up with wonderful food and then say something shattering.

  ‘Quick!’ she cried. ‘Now!’

  He swerved out. There was a corner ahead. Her stomach shifted. The engine roared as they slipped in front of the line of cars. He turned to her; sunglasses hid his eyes, but his mouth twitched.

  According to Leonard, you could tell the best restaurants by their atrocious décor. Le Beau Rivage, built in a small hilltop village, was set into the cliff. It had panoramic views and picture windows. Inside, a good deal of effort had been made with the furnishings: turquoise sateen chairs, lime-green paisley wallpaper, and much wrought iron – décor rustique. Over the violent colours hung an air of hushed good living. The restaurant was half-empty – or, as she would put it, three-quarters full. For Leonard’s sake, she saw with relief just one other British family sitting far away from where they themselves were placed. Also with relief she saw that the head waiter recognized Leonard, without being over-effusive about it.

  They sat next to the drop. Below, the river glistened in the sun. The road curled snake-like around its bends. The black twiddly balcony pressed against their window.

  ‘Do you mind eating alone,’ she asked. ‘On your trips?’

  Leonard took off his sunglasses. ‘It concentrates the mind wonderfully,’ he said, ‘on the food.’ He lifted the menu. ‘One can be an object of fantasy, or at least speculation, to the other diners.’

  She warmed to him. ‘Last time here, did you present your left-side profile? The car one?’

  ‘What?’

  She must relax. This morning, in preparation, she had put on her nicest dress, the one with the red poppies that Leonard approved of – he always gave a detailed judgement on her clothes. By her standards it was a bold, modern print with its splashes of red. She was sitting next to the window; the sun heated her arm.

  The menu made her helpless. She still felt full from breakfast. She did not say so, of course; she let Leonard order for her. An omelet aux cêpes, he proposed for her, followed by le turbot clouté d’anchois à la rhubarbe. This was what he had eaten last time, he said, back in April. He was starting with the pâté de fois gras. She glanced up sharply; is he telling me something? But his face had no expression.

  Leonard was spreading his pâté when the fat man came in. The man was indeed immense – perspiring in his pale suit, and his face was the colour of luncheon meat. He was just being shown a table when he noticed Leonard, paused, and came over. Leonard stood up; both men smiled, shook hands and said comment ça va? She was introduced, though Leonard had obviously forgotten the man’s name. Another smile and nod, and the fat man was seated at the next window table.

  ‘Who’s he?’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, just a fellow diner,’ said Leonard shortly.

  ‘You chatted with him last time?’

  He nodded, sliced a piece of pâté and spread it on his toast. She felt awkward about continuing the subject; perhaps Leonard was hushing her because of the man’s proximity. But at least it would have made a subject for conversation. They ate in silence. The whole room was quiet; the murmurs and clinks were so low that she did not like to clear her throat. Even the British family, with two boys, was inaudible. Leonard had finished; a smear of pâté remained on his plate. He put down his knife. She tensed, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Is that nice?’ He indicated her omelette.

  She jerked into life, nodding. ‘Delicious.’ She went on eating; there seemed so many mouthfuls to be got through and yet, each time, so much remained.

  What are we delaying? she thought. She had shredded her napkin; in her lap it was scattered over the poppies. That man sitting opposite, eating his loup de mer, he is my husband. Why does he fill me with fear? Perhaps I’m just dizzy in the sun. Perhaps we will just continue like this, making the occasional remark about the heat, and how far we will drive before evening. Perhaps there is nothing to happen.

  They finished the meal. Leonard asked for the bill and then got up to go to the lavatory. Beyond his empty chair sat the fat man, dimmed in cigarette smoke.

  ‘C’était bon?’ asked the man. ‘It was good?’

  She nodded, smiling.

  ‘Cigarette?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Non, merci.’ She gave him another smile.

  They were sitting just too far apart for conversation, in the holy quiet of this place. She decided to wait for Leonard outside. Many people had now paid and left.

  She picked up her handbag and stood up, dusting the napkin off her dress. At his table she hesitated. Having refused his cigarette, some cordiality was necessary.

  ‘La belle vue,’ she said, gesturing at the window.

  ‘Oui, very beautiful.’

  A pause. He gestured around the room. ‘It is pretty, yes?’

  ‘Oh oui,’ she lied.

  Another pause, and then she had an idea. She pointed to the fancy balcony at the window, and then to the wrought-iron brackets that held the wall-lamps.

  ‘Ma fille,’ she started. ‘My daughter …’ Curious how one felt compelled to explain it in English. ‘Elle travaille avec les choses comme ça.’

  ‘S’il vous plaît?’

  She had forgotten the word for ‘blacksmith’. She pointed to the fireplace. It was hideously edged with brick, and inside it stood an ornate, empty grate, a Gallic version of the sort Anthea made.

  ‘Elle travaille avec … les trucs en feu.’ Was that right? Iron things?

  He sucked on his cigarette. ‘Oui madame. J’ai remarqué son intérêt. She was liking them … elle les aimait beaucoup.’

  Elle les aimait. He must mean – what was it? The subjunc
tive. She had done that at school, a thousand years ago. She would like them.

  She worked it out and said eventually: ‘Oui, elle les aimerait.’

  ‘Le feu,’ he said. ‘… The fire, it was lighted. It was very pretty.’

  She remained standing. The heat rose slowly to her face. She did not know how long it was before she spoke. He appeared to notice nothing unusual.

  ‘Elle était … sitting … assise, ici?’ she was saying. ‘Ici, dans le restaurant?’

  ‘Là-bas. There, that place.’ He indicated another table. ‘My congratulations, madam. You have a very beautiful daughter.’

  * * *

  Time must have passed. She must have said something polite to him before she left. It was probably ‘thank you’ in English.

  Now she seemed to be outside in the car park. How hot it was. The poppy dress chafed her armpits. The bright windscreens hurt her eyes.

  So that’s that, she thought, over and over again. So that’s it. So that’s that. My husband, and a girl young enough to be his daughter.

  She was standing beside the Rover. She looked at its cleft, dusty tyres.

  Behind her somebody was whistling.

  ‘Know what?’ said a voice.

  She turned. It was the English boy from the restaurant. He was leaning against a car.

  ‘Know what this is?’ he asked again. ‘Guess.’

  He made snatching gestures in the air.

  ‘What?’ she asked stupidly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Guess,’ he said patiently. ‘Guess what this is.’

  He snatched again, grabbing the empty air. She must be going mad.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Give up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s God, trying to catch a Smartie.’

  ‘God what?’

  ‘God, trying, to catch, a Smartie, dum-dum.’ He paused. ‘He can’t, you see.’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘Can’t. Because of the holes in his hands.’

  It was then that her throat shrank and she knew she was going to be sick. She had managed to get inside the corridor now, pink striped walls buzzing and jarring, and now she was kneeling at the lavatory. Below her the porcelain spattered. She watched it, and the words bounced around her head. It’s not God, you stupid, stupid boy, it’s Jesus. The words bounced round in rhythm. It’s Jesus, Jesus. All that food splashed out, all of it, the months of it, years of it. She knelt, holding the bowl in her arms.

  Leonard blamed it on the cêpes. They were driving down the zig-zag hill, back to the main road. Her head was wedged with a cushion. He was talking about cêpes and girolles and rubbish like that. She did not bother to hear him. She felt oddly relaxed. For the first time in years she did not bother to respond.

  He turned the car into the main road. Lorries thundered by in the opposite direction. They were driving towards Cahors. He said something about Cahors having a splendid bridge with turrets. She said nothing. She did not mind what he thought. She felt the car slowing down but her eyes were closed. I did not know what I feared, she thought. Not then.

  ‘Buck up.’ Leonard’s voice, spoken to the car in front. ‘Buck up, sonny boy.’

  She opened her eyes. They were stuck behind a caravan. Leonard, Leo, my husband. Do you know what I was afraid to admit? Shall I mouth the words in the air?

  That I no longer love you. That I no longer even like you. That I haven’t for years.

  Face up to it, you said. Anna, you fudger. You never face the truth, my old dear, do you?

  You are cold and snobbish and faithless. Never mind about the girl; you’ve been faithless for so long now and she is not important.

  ‘Anna, could you have a look?’ That voice, so familiar. Tense with irritation, waiting for her to do something wrong. ‘I mean, if you feel better.’ He did not care if she felt better. A click, as he slotted in a cassette. Music flooded the car.

  She opened her eyes and leaned to the side.

  ‘Wait!’ she said. He swerved back.

  Trees pressed against the road one side; the river’s railings pressed against the other. You are locked inside marriage. It has to stop you seeing those things. You don’t dare face the truth.

  The road twisted and turned, with its blind corners. Her stomach felt light, after its emptying. The traffic was travelling fast, but he wanted to go faster.

  She gazed at the back of the caravan, with its GB sticker. The violins were leaping and spiralling upwards.

  ‘Try again,’ she said.

  Leonard drew out. She leaned to look.

  Her chest clenched. On the other side of the road, approaching fast, loomed a lorry. It was a big one; a pipe stuck up into the sky, with black smoke pouring from it.

  ‘Now!’ she shouted.

  • Making Hay •

  I WORKED, THE next day. Well, what else could I do – book one of those round-the-world cruises? Throw a party?

  Mind you, I’m not ruling those out. There’s months to go, they told me, and I won’t be ruling anything out. But I’m telling you about that particular day, the day after I’d heard, when the sun was blazing through the windscreen, heating me up. It was a perfect June morning; you don’t get many mornings like those. The sky was the colour of that bird’s egg – I’ve forgotten what sort, but it was like a pure blue dome above me. Bloody beautiful.

  I sat in the coach, waiting for my passengers. Though the door was open, there was this glassed-in silence around me. I was double-parked on Haverstock Hill; behind me, cars hooted and queued, then revved up as they drove past. What’s the fuss? I thought. What’s the bloody fuss?

  At the delicatessen, this little Pakistani bloke was pulling out the awning, just like he must always do; just like this was a normal morning. A woman dragged her squatting dog away from a lamp-post. I thought: let him. Let the bugger relieve himself.

  The trees threw dappled shadows on the pavement. I told myself I must notice this; why hadn’t I had the time before? People were crossing the road as if it was important where they had to go. There was a man with a briefcase who danced back, with a hop and skip, when a car drove past. He shouted some words that echoed, far away. I watched him mouthing them.

  Everything seemed sharp as crystal, that morning. Yet I felt sealed-off, as if I was in this aquarium and the whole city was coming alive outside my glass walls – people going to their offices, answering phones, painting yellow lines in the road. I suppose it was because the news was just beginning to sink in.

  It’s unexpected, little things you think of when you’re in my position. Sitting there in the sun, I thought irritably that it had to be some little creep in a white coat, a complete stranger, who’d told me. I couldn’t even remember his name. But he was half my age, and he had acne.

  Then I watched some blossom float down from a tree planted outside the cinema and I thought: I don’t even know the name of that tree. This made me depressed. I made a resolution to find out, and then I thought: what the hell.

  I hadn’t told Doriza. That’s my wife. I hadn’t told her all the night before; I hadn’t said I’d been to the hospital. She’s Hungarian, you see. Highly-strung.

  Eight thirty. People were wandering towards the coach. More were coming out of Belsize Park tube station, in ones and twos. They were all women – I’d been warned about that – and some of them had pushchairs with babies in them.

  ‘Is this the coach?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘It’s a Morris Minor in disguise.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ With a half-smile, she swung herself on board. Other women climbed in, unstrapping their babies. You can always tell a middle-class bunch of passengers because they get on the coach without waiting for somebody to tell them what to do.

  I climbed out and went round the back to load the pushchairs into the boot. I’d already lost some weight but you wouldn’t have believed it to look at me. ‘All British beef,’ Wally had said at the depot the
week before, punching me in the ribs. Well, he didn’t know, did he? Nobody did, except that bloke with the skin problem.

  In the back window they’d already Sellotaped up a placard saying CND, and another one saying WOMEN AGAINST THE BOMB. Most of them were loading their stuff themselves. They looked muscular; they were dressed like garage mechanics. I glanced wistfully at a girl passing by, wearing a floaty summer dress. But she was going to work, and disappeared into the underground.

  ‘You’ve a nice day for it,’ I said to one of them. I jerked my head at the blue sky. ‘Not a cloud.’

  She looked up, frowning. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I heard the weather forecast. Set fair.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the weather forecast.’

  Blimey, I thought. We’ve got one here.

  I usually like it, once I’m out on the open road. Foot down, radio playing, steaming along the fast lane at 75 m.p.h. That’s the best thing about this job – the independence. They’ve usually all gone to sleep by this time … It’s just you and a dreaming coachload, heads nodding, and that wide motorway with the fan blasting cool air into your face and a few dawdlers to flash at. It made a change from home, what with all the little jobs that needed doing – fixing the guttering, decorating the kitchen; well, I wouldn’t be doing them now.

  It made a change. Doriza likes the heating full up. She says she feels the chill in her bones; it must be her coming from Eastern Europe, and what her family went through in the war. But it makes the house so stuffy; it makes the rooms feel so small. And her leaning across the table asking me don’t I like her goulash; is that why I’m not finishing it? And her needing me to hear her complaints about the neighbours; she’s always squabbling with them. And why had I forgotten our wedding anniversary; did I mean I don’t love her any more? Her voice, it’s like the wrong tune on the piano played over and over.