by Anna Kavan
Perhaps because I’d been so much alone, having a fairly active brain and little to occupy it, I’d recently been thinking about the collective state of mind, in which people lost all sense of proportion, regarding the possession of a home with superstitious awe and the near-hopeless search for one as a kind of perverted religion, to which they dedicated their time, health, personal relationships, work, peace of mind – everything was demanded by this Moloch before which they cringed, hypnotized by supernatural terrors and impossible hopes. Obviously, a new and most powerful weapon had been put in the hands of the Athing. And I’d been wondering if what appeared like defeatist apathy could be in reality a deliberate policy, an intentional prolongation of all the mental and physical suffering the shortage of houses involved, for the express purpose of fostering this abnormal atmosphere in which officials were exalted to godhead at the public expense – if so, it struck me as cynical and callous in the extreme.
Though I knew it was unwise to jump to conclusions about things I didn’t fully understand, I’d developed a highly critical, unsympathetic attitude to the Athing as a whole and the Housing Bureau in particular; I couldn’t bear to think of Spector condoning such unprincipled procedures as I suspected. I kept telling myself that I didn’t really believe he would; but I must have at least half believed it possible, since I was so anxious to discover the truth. And, as loyalty precluded questioning a third person, the only thing was to ask him directly.
I also wanted to hear his opinion of public events in general and to ask his advice about my private affairs, introducing the delicate subject of leaving the flat. All these were matters of great importance to me; but, though I’d thought about them so long that I knew by heart what I wanted to say, my memory failed me as usual as soon as we came face to face. I quite forgot the questions I’d meant to ask him.
Like a warm tropical sea, his influence surrounded me; far from resisting it, I plunged in gladly, too profoundly submerged even to see the dry land where I existed during his absence. When he congratulated me on my work, of which he’d apparently had good reports, I remember that I didn’t realize, though we were in the car, that the evening was already over and that I was being taken back to the flat. It must have been late, for the streets were deserted; with a clear run ahead, the big car travelled fast, developing, in its smooth, uninterrupted rush, a slight swaying motion that made me feel pleasantly drowsy. Dreamily, I sat watching the street lamps flash past, beads of light in an almost continuous chain, while the sculptured profile beside me lightened and darkened, lightened and darkened again.
When we suddenly stopped, I recognized the building with faint surprise. Though the entrance door was on my side, I didn’t move but remained in my seat, waiting for my companion to get out first, assuming that he would come in with me, so inconceivable was it to me that I should be parted from him. Some moments passed before began to realize from his immobility that he had no such intention – and even then I couldn’t quite believe in the obvious fact but made a protesting sound, before asking in so many words whether he wouldn’t come in for a bit, at the same time silently begging him with my eyes not to deprive me yet of the armour of his presence, without which I was at everyone’s mercy.
Replying to the words only, he said, quite kindly, that he was very tired and that I must excuse him. Then, as I didn’t do it myself, he leaned across me and opened the door; it swung back with a curious sort of finality I couldn’t resist, reluctantly getting out to stand on the pavement. I must have still been half dreaming, for I closed the door again and folded my arms on it, looking in at his faintly illuminated face, calm and detached as that of a statue. It was the sight of his indifferent expression that at last really woke me. And now, taking me by surprise, a totally unexpected resentment swept over me, because he was not involved but about to drive off and forget me till he next happened to have nothing better to do than to pay me a visit – and how long would that be?
He gave me now a slightly inquiring glance, wondering, doubtless, why I didn’t get out of the way. I was evidently more strung up than I realized, swept by a sudden emotion I couldn’t control. Before I could stop myself, I’d blurted out the first words to come into my head: ‘I don’t want to live in your flat any more.’ I remember they rather surprised me. I must actually have stamped my foot in impotent infantile rage, for I have an impression of the lifeless jarring hardness of the paving stones. Thus ludicrously expressed, my sudden anger as suddenly ended, leaving me thoroughly dismayed by my own behaviour, foolishly confronting Spector’s cool and astonished gaze.
‘You need not. I told you at the start you were to live as and where you chose. I merely tried to help you, not to interfere in your affairs.’
His cold voice horrified me. Stammering and incoherent,
I began to apologize, leaning into the car, showing my face, in which he could have read all I was unable to put into words: my penitence, my submission, my utter dependence on his goodwill. But he didn’t look at me, and his own face remained so cold and stern that I was quite demoralized and would have gone on indefinite with my apologies if he hadn’t cut them short.
‘The flat’s there – take it or leave it. No one else can live in it, anyhow.’ Still without turning his head in my direction he said good-night in the same chilly tone. My last glimpse was of his unchanging profile, which might have been hewn out of rock, as my lips shaped an automatic good-night, and I let my arms fall hopelessly at my sides.
I was not very far from tears just then. Whether by association or some other means, he always had the power to reduce me to the emotional status of childhood. And what I felt were a child’s sensations: the helplessness, loneliness, inarticulateness; the fear of being forgotten, of not being loved, of being misunderstood – the fear that nobody ever would care or would understand.
The great car shot forward abruptly, driving a sudden tremendous blast of air against me, so that I staggered back, the lights swimming dizzily in front of my eyes. And when my vision steadied again, the street was quite empty.
The next day I was deeply depressed, not only on account of this disastrous end to the evening but because I’d told Link so definitely I would leave the flat, and during the night I’d decided, for some obscure reason, that my only hope of reinstating myself with Spector was to stay on there.
Out of a muddled sense of obligation I was always first in the office, as if to start work before the others was the least I could do, since I enjoyed the inestimable privilege of living in the building. On this particular morning, Link happened to come in next, and at the sight of him my loneliness and misery overflowed in a sudden longing for human contact; without stopping to think how odd my confidences would sound to someone I scarcely knew, I impulsively started to tell him, while we had the room to ourselves, why I couldn’t give up the flat, though I’d really meant to do so yesterday. He listened patiently while I tried to explain the vital part Spector’s goodwill played in my life and how I was afraid of losing it if I left the home with which he’d provided me. It was all simple and self-evident in my mind; but I knew, without looking at my hearer’s bewildered face, that I wasn’t succeeding in making it clear. Indeed, it seemed quite impossible to convey the peculiar significance of my relations with Spector, of which I’d never spoken to anybody before and which I began to suspect nobody but myself would ever be able to understand. I was relieved when the others came in, interrupting my involved, unintelligible speech.
‘I told you he might not like you to leave’ was Link’s only comment, made with no hint of disapproval or of reproach, while the rest of the staff settled down to the day’s work. I looked at him gratefully, pleasantly surprised by his tolerance, and he acknowledged my glance with an understanding smile, which suddenly warmed me, so that some of my depression evaporated and I felt better. My long-winded explanation had achieved something valuable, after all: for the first time since leaving school I seemed to have made a contact with someone.
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sp; Later, when Link again proposed lunching together, I gladly accepted, my pleasure only dimmed by the fear of having to give, in greater detail, my reasons for not leaving the flat – I myself hadn’t looked into them very closely, instinctively aware that they wouldn’t stand careful examination. However, he tactfully kept off the subject – nor did he ever, as far as I can recall, introduce it again. I was more than grateful to him for keeping silent, as by doing so he seemed tacitly to agree with me, exonerating me from blame.
Everyone, I suppose, knows those periods when everything in life seems to conform to a pattern, as though every event and meeting were preordained and carefully timed by a thoughtful providence. Such a period began for me after my unfortunate evening with Spector, from whom I heard nothing more, so that after a while I was forced to conclude I must have alienated him to the point of losing interest in me altogether. For almost my whole life I’d considered the loss of his friendship (if that’s the right word) the greatest catastrophe imaginable. Yet now, when the disaster had actually taken place, I suffered far less than I’d expected, events in the outer world all conspiring to soften the blow.
First and foremost, my association with Link provided what was most essential for my distraction: a perfectly normal companion of my own age and one whose special qualities, derived from solid good sense rather than brilliance, were especially useful to me at this time.
A better person couldn’t have been found to take me out of myself. And his stability saved me from extremes of emotion, keeping things in perspective and providing me with a sort of ballast out of the steadiness of his own character. Though rather reserved, he was by no means unsociable, and I soon found myself sharing many of his activities. He took me to his home, where his sisters supplied the lightness and gaiety I might have missed in him – the quiet one, as they called him.
I became a frequent visitor there, fascinated by this introduction to the happy family background I’d never known but for which I’d always felt an unconscious longing. It was so different from anything in my experience that my previous life began to seem like another existence; its happenings grew dim and unimportant, just as the world of imagination faded out like the memory of a dream in the sun, now that I no longer felt in need of an escape from reality.
Either following Link’s example or from their own gregarious instincts, the rest of the office staff, seeing me a fixture there, became less hostile. I never made friends with any of them as I did with him, but by slow degrees I found myself absorbed into the collective life of the place; little by little, they came to accept me, though always with reservations.
Gaining self-confidence as my life grew fuller and my circle of acquaintances widened, I thrust the memory of Spector away from me and for long periods scarcely thought about him at all. But, ultimately, a dim regret always recurred. Periodically I would feel sorry that I’d failed to win his affection and that I’d offended him at our last meeting. To forget him entirely was impossible, if only because he sometimes came to the office – though at very long intervals – taking no more notice of me on these occasions than of any other employee.
To see him invariably caused me a faint stirring of uneasiness; a feeling more like guilt than anything, if it has to be classified. I would ask myself then why I’d never made any attempt to bridge the gulf of estrangement that had opened between us – perhaps if I had he would have met me halfway. Considering my indebtedness to him, it seemed no more than my duty to make the effort. But I did nothing, unable to overcome my unwillingness to approach him. Recalling my childish declaration of loyalty that was to have been eternal, I knew that I was really afraid of coming again under his influence. I dreaded a return to my slavish subservience to his will. Yet the idea of going back to him never quite left me; the possibility of a return was always at the back of my mind, though only as a kind of dream-alternative to whatever I happened to be doing, an unspecified ‘somewhere else’, never given a name. Though I felt, on the whole, much happier now that I really seemed to be living the same life as other people, I sometimes had obscure guilt feelings, as if this were not my true destiny and in being dis-loyal to Spector I had also betrayed myself. But, since it was only his actual presence that brought these ideas to the surface, I could afford to ignore them. Most of the time I was proud of my emancipation; my life seemed satisfactorily full and normal. I was mainly content.
I took to going about a good deal with the elder of Link’s sisters, who showed a flattering readiness to cancel other engagements to be my companion. For some time I’d been aware that the family hoped I’d eventually marry and settle down with one of the two, and this girl herself certainly gave me no reason to fear a rebuff if I were to propose. I used to wonder what was restraining me, for the arrangement would have been a happy and appropriate one, establishing me permanently in the position I wanted to hold – I could never again become an outsider then. It seemed like pure contrariness on my part to resist this apparently preordained move. Or was I afraid of embarking on a relationship that would invade my inmost privacy? I thought I’d outgrown whatever, during my schooldays, debarred me from close friendship with anyone. But I seem to have been mistaken, judging by a remark Link made, the cause of which I’ve forgotten, though the words remain in my memory. ‘You are a funny chap, Mark,’ he said. ‘One gets on so well with you; and then you suddenly put up a No Trespassing sign.’
But I might very well have drifted into an engagement in the end, simply because it seemed the obvious thing to do, if I hadn’t met Carla, which at once changed my whole life completely.
I’d gone with Link and the girls to dance somewhere. I wasn’t much of a dancer, and it was understood that I only functioned in this capacity while no one else was available. When, later that evening, a suitable alternative partner appeared, I was free to leave.
A dance was in progress as I slowly made my way around the room to the door, watching the circling figures intently, searching among them for the one I’d been keenly aware of ever since we arrived, though she was a stranger to all of us. It was the first time in my life I had felt this peculiar interest in someone I didn’t know, which made me reluctant to leave without a final glimpse of her.
Link passed, grinning, signalling to me over his part ner’s shoulder, and, seeing that I was in danger of being reclaimed by our party if I hung about any longer, I went out to the cloakroom. Here a young man I didn’t know seemed to be having an altercation with the attendant, but I found my coat for myself and returned to the vestibule, where I at once came face to face with the girl I had been looking for. Oblivious of good manners, I stood staring in a way that would have embarrassed most girls. But she was completely unruffled and cool. Already wearing her coat, she stopped at a mirror beside me and, with almost statuesque composure, began arranging a scarf over her dark hair. I had only to take one long step to reach a position from which I could see her reflection beyond the dim ghost of my own.
It was in the glass that I first perceived a change in the atmosphere, a softer, brighter radiance, reminding me of the setting sun reflected on snow. This limpid brightness I identified with her, as though she were its source; with its delicate glow on her face, she was beautiful and mysterious as a dream; magic was all about her. Spellbound, I ceased to be aware of my surroundings. I no longer had the feeling that I was indoors. That one step I had just taken had carried me over the threshold of magic without transition, as had sometimes happened during my childhood. I was alone with her in some fairy-tale country; a bubble of mirror-magic enclosed us both, outside time and reality.
She hadn’t looked at me in the real world; but in the mysterious secret depths of the mirror our eyes met – hers were very large, dark and luminous, almost startlingly brilliant in her clear pale face. She had been from the moment I first saw her immensely, immediately attractive to me; but in ordinary circumstances I would never have dared to stare at her as I was doing now, in the undefined hope of magic coming somehow to my aid – aft
er all, I’d once believed myself a citizen of the enchanted land to which she so clearly belonged. Almost holding my breath I watched her lips part – could she be going to speak to me? Quietly, and as easily as if we’d been old friends, she asked, ‘Are you leaving now?’
I suppose I must have said ‘Yes’, though I was only thinking about her voice, which I found quite enthralling, exceptionally deep for a girl’s, with a musical vibrance, in perfect accord with her whole appearance.
Now she turned to ask, in the same natural way, as if we’d known each other for years, in which direction I would be going. But this abrupt transition from magic to reality was too much for me; seeing her, lustrous-eyed and mysterious, no longer mirrored in magic but face to face, I became confused. It occurred to me, meeting her calm gaze directly, that she’d mistaken me for somebody she knew. Then, with sudden exultance, I realized that she was as aware as I that we’d never met, yet she had made the first move towards me. Magic had overflowed into reality. I felt a quick sort of melting pang, a release of confused feeling; my heart began beating faster. The whole rhythm of my being changed. In astonishment, I supposed this must be falling in love, as, from the midst of the emotional turmoil, I heard my ordinary voice saying firmly, ‘I’m going your way.’
In my exalted state it seemed to me that this should have been enough, as though our destiny were already decided, and – to put it crudely – we should be left alone to get on with it, uninterrupted. To my annoyance, however, there was some obstruction. Dimly peering towards this interference, I recognized the young man who had been in the cloakroom; now he hurriedly approached, apologizing for being so long away, and struggling into his coat as he came. He ignored me, only addressing Carla. She was, I observed, more than capable of handling him; she was telling him not to worry, not to break up the party. ‘Mark and I are going the same way – we’ll go together.’