Latecomers

by Anita Brookner

  They found Christine arranging pink and white tulips in a square glass vase. ‘I’m so glad you’re early,’ she said ‘Toto is coming to dinner. You’re eating with us, Hartmann. Does Yvette know you are home?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been upstairs yet.’

  ‘You are more than welcome to stay,’ she said. ‘Will you have tea? Or did you have some at the office? You look cold, Fibich. Take your coat off. You’ll soon get warm.’

  She was too busy to pay them much attention. Fibich watched her, patting her tulips, straightening a couple of books on a side table, twitching curtains into place.

  ‘Toto coming to dinner?’ he asked. This was almost unprecedented.

  ‘Apparently he is off on Monday. The dates are being put forward. And we shan’t see him for six months.’

  She put her hand to her heart, as if registering the full impact of this news.

  Fibich smiled, went over to her. ‘Then we must see that he has a nice evening,’ he said.

  It appeared that nothing would be mentioned of the affair of Fibich’s day, for which Fibich was grateful. He had not yet decided what to make of it. He now viewed his conduct with distaste, the distaste of a rational man. He felt quiet and empty, had no desire to return to that moment of – what had it been? revelation? – which he had experienced in the hotel dining-room. Whatever it had been, he had a sense of finality, as if the episode were done with. The partial easing of his feelings (for he knew there might be more to come) had been violently registered as a physical upheaval over which he had no control, and, as with any other illness, he was too glad to have got it over to investigate it further. Health, he supposed, was an absence of physical despair, and for the moment he felt none. Like a restored invalid he welcomed the warmth of the room, the flowers in the vase, the tea in his cup. Like an invalid he drank greedily, ate, with a careful and painful exactitude, the slice of iced apricot flan that Christine made so well. Hartmann lingered, turning to the window, his cup in his hand.

  ‘You are very quiet, Hartmann,’ said Christine. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking of a housekeeper we had,’ he said. ‘In Munich. Her name was Frau Dimke. I have just remembered it. And my nurse was Frau Zarzicki.’

  But Fibich waved a hand at him, as if to say, ‘That life is over. Leave it alone. It has no place here. Remember not to remember, or you will be like me.’ And Hartmann nodded, as if he understood what Fibich did not need to put into words, so present was it in both their minds.

  Hartmann smiled. Such smiles they both had, thought Christine. That was what had bound her to them in the first place, their wonderful smiles, eager in Hartmann’s case, tentative, like an English sun, in Fibich’s. And from the joyless world of her youth she had retained a nostalgia for joy, although she herself was untrained for such emotion, and was awkward with it. Toto had it, that smile, although in his case it came too rarely, and when it did come could be perverted to do duty for feeling. Latterly, she thought, smiling herself, he had begun to look more like Fibich, tall, inwardly pondering, so that the smile, when it came, had a thoughtful reflective quality to it. In her eyes Fibich had changed little: it was Toto in whom all the major changes could be observed. Fibich, just today, when his hair was a little untidy and beginning to grow long again, might have been the man she married, tall and spare, absent-minded, with the same loping walk that she had often and secretly observed from behind the curtains of her father’s flat in West End Lane. If anything it was Hartmann who had changed, grown pear-shaped, silver-haired. But his face, beneath the expensively barbered and flattened hair, was still the same, the face of an impudent boy impatient to grow into a fully-fledged roué. It was all a matter of expression, she thought. He still cocked his head to one side, pursed his lips as if to kiss someone, anyone, widened his eyes at the thought of treats to come. And Fibich, too, had kept his original expression. He had a characteristic way of smiling and shaking his head at the same time that she had always found endearing. She saw that in time Toto might come to have that little mannerism, although in Toto the family likeness had taken a long time to come to the surface. She hoped that there was nothing of herself in Toto, although many people had remarked on his brilliant eyes, so unusual with dark hair, and, in rare moments of exaltation Christine did suppose that he might possibly have inherited them from her.

  ‘What are you smiling at, Hartmann?’ she asked.

  ‘I am smiling at you smiling,’ he said. ‘One can see your boy is coming home.’ He sighed. ‘If only Marianne were here. Then we could all be together. No news, I suppose?’

  ‘Nothing in the last hour. You had better ring the hospital and give them this number. Then you can relax this evening.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I must go and change. What time do you want us, Christine?’

  ‘Toto is coming at seven-thirty,’ she told him.

  He smiled again. ‘Then we will come at eight.’

  When Toto came in, on the stroke of seven-thirty, with a carrier bag, she almost cried out at the resemblance to his father. He had let himself in with his key, and was deep in thought, going through his lines, she supposed, for she had no notion of how films were made. He straightened up, with a visible effort, and smiled at her. That smile again! From the bag he produced a bottle of wine and a pot plant, which she put in the place of honour on a small table, sweeping aside her tulips in order to do so.

  ‘My dear boy,’ she said. ‘My dear boy.’

  He flapped his hand at her. ‘It’s only a plant, Ma,’ he said. ‘The wine is for Dad. Drink it when I’m not here. You’re very quiet, Dad. Daddy? Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Fibich.

  This was new, he thought, this noticing. But because he now wished to preserve his son from those quaking feelings of loss and regret which were his almost constant companions, he said little, put away his anxiety and his solicitude, the enquiries about Toto’s health, sleep, exercise that he longed to make and habitually did make. Now it was appropriate, on the eve of Toto’s departure, to treat him like a man, and in order to do so he must behave like a man himself. For he knew, somehow, that Toto, who was about to leave them (and who knew if he, Fibich, would ever see him again?) must feel some of that melancholy experienced by all those who leave their known worlds behind, and leave behind, too, those who love them, exchanging them for the more brutal attitudes of casual acquaintances, acquaintances who might see him as a novice who must undergo some rites of initiation if he were to be one of them. For whom could Toto trust, since he loved no-one? He would be for ever dependent, whether he knew it or not, on those who loved him. And Fibich, in the clarity of this unusual day, could see that Toto was beginning to be aware of this, and to begin his own life, in which the mourning process would not be entirely absent.

  The arrival of Yvette, in a blast of ‘Joy’ and a black and gold striped dress that made her look like a wasp, lightened the atmosphere. ‘Hartmann is still telephoning,’ she said disgustedly. ‘He telephones every hour. He is driving them all mad. I told him I would know when the baby is born. “I am a mother,” I said. “I will know.” He takes no notice, of course. As if I were not concerned myself.’

  ‘And of course Roger would let you know,’ said Christine.

  ‘Oh, Roger,’ said Yvette, with surprise in her voice. ‘I’d forgotten about Roger, to tell you the truth.’

  Toto laughed. ‘I adore you, Yvette.’

  ‘Well, of course, darling,’ she smiled. ‘You always did. And how’s our clever boy, then?’

  They ate roast lamb, with tiny carrots and turnips, and a pudding that consisted of squares of shortbread floating on a sea of fruit. Toto ate swiftly, his eyes on his plate. ‘There is plenty more,’ observed Fibich mildly, almost amused to see his appetite duplicated so exactly. The day had brought revelations, he thought. Life brings revelations. He remembered some inkling of this having come to him in Berlin. He had felt then on the verge of a great di
scovery. But perhaps that was the discovery, quite simply that life brings revelations, supplies all the material we need. And if it does not supply it in the right order, then we must simply wait for more to come to light. He felt a coldness at the thought that more might be revealed to him, was no longer so anxious to bring it about, might even be content, he thought, to wait, and even to hope that nothing more would be vouchsafed to him this side of the grave. He glanced at his wife, whose eyes were all for Toto. Yet Fibich knew that in those last days, if he were granted the grace to be aware of them, Toto would be his, entirely his. For at the end he knew, even if Toto were not there (and he could not help wishing, selfishly, that he might be) he would, with this knowledge, die a happy man.

  ‘There is cheese, if anyone wants it,’ said Christine. Nobody did. She put a dish of chocolate-covered marzipan on the table, and went out to make coffee.

  ‘Why do you never put on weight?’ wondered Yvette. ‘You both have such a sweet tooth. Hartmann was saying this morning that he thought I had filled out a little.’

  ‘I was mistaken,’ said Hartmann gravely. ‘You look to me as you looked when I first saw you. Voluptuous, sensual, a woman of mystery. You maddened us with desire, back there in the Farringdon Road. I had to tie Fibich down to his desk. He was like a werewolf. A lycanthrope,’ he added, taking the last of the marzipan. ‘We imagined men fighting duels over you. Not much of a typist, though, as I remember.’

  ‘Oh, Hartmann,’ protested Yvette. ‘You are always making fun of me.’

  ‘I?’ He put his hand to his breast. ‘Would I do that?’

  ‘I think I ran that office very competently,’ she said.

  ‘My darling, I can safely say without fear of contradiction that we have never had another secretary like you.’

  The evening passed as if there were to be no birth, no departure. Fibich reflected that it might well be the last of such evenings. He felt a sense of completion, not devoid of sadness. They would never move, he could see that now. They would stay as they were, for whatever changes would take place would take place in their children, not in themselves. He supposed that he and Hartmann would continue to go to the office, do a little less, perhaps, then a great deal less, until they could do no more. Then they would take their rest. He did not know which of them would be left to take care of the others. For himself now it would simply be a matter of trying his best. He looked around him, at the faces at the table. Toto had wandered off to watch television. Christine was flushed, as she always was in moments of pleasure. Yvette – and he could see that she was now quite plump – sat with her hand through Hartmann’s arm. And Hartmann looked quite old. But just the same, still the same bold young man that he had been on leaving the army, ready for anything. Fibich turned and looked at his son, who sat, long legs stretched out in front of him, in front of the television.

  ‘Remind him to take something warm for the evenings,’ he said to Christine.

  ‘But it will be hot!’ said Yvette. ‘Marvellously hot. We should go to the sun ourselves this year. What do you say, Christine?’

  ‘It would be better to wait until the winter,’ she answered. ‘I don’t want to be away until Toto comes back.’

  ‘And have you forgotten Marianne?’ said Hartmann. ‘Oh, God. Should I telephone again?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Yvette told him. ‘You know what would be nice? If we took a house somewhere, and the children came too. Would you like that, Toto? Would you come?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Fibich, smiling. ‘He will come if he wants to. And if not, not.’

  Toto leaned forward and switched off the television.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he commented. ‘And he wasn’t good. What was that, Daddy? A house? Oh, yes, I’ll come. I’ll come. If you really want me, that is.’

  15

  Hartmann, with solemn joy, realized that his life had been restored to him with the advent of Flora Myers, Marianne’s second child. His relief and gratitude at what he considered to be her gallantry in submitting to her husband’s demands for a large family (relief which was cunningly mingled with hope that her marital duties were now over) predisposed him towards the birth, for surely, he thought, two is enough, even for Roger, with his pale evangelical attitude towards the righteousness of this particular activity. Marianne is too old, thought Hartmann, prepared to do battle on her behalf, although he viewed his daughter’s conjugal arrangements with unmitigated distaste, thinking, secretly, that he would rather have kept her at home unmarried than see her waxy and plump in her boiler suit, her hair already showing strands of grey. What had happened, he wondered, to that sleek fastidious girl who was almost too fine, too unprotected for this world of sharp dealing and broken promises? How had she turned into this silent middle-aged woman, whom, truth to tell, he loved even more now, although her every visit inspired him with the sort of dismay he would have felt at the sight of a badly served meal or a neglected and disordered room. His dismay was of an aesthetic nature, for nothing could change the agony of love he felt for her. Yet when he saw her side by side with her mother he wondered what had gone wrong, and even whether the easy circumstances of her childhood had deprived her of some essential rigour, some need to improve, which was the characteristic which secretly linked him with Fibich, with Yvette, and even with Christine.

  Marianne, at thirty-seven, looked quite simply indistinguishable from a million other tired mothers, although she had a nanny (paid for by Hartmann) and a car of her own (also bought by Hartmann, who saw it as a means of enabling her to visit her parents without Roger, which was how he preferred to see her). Yet she seemed listless under the weight of all this attention, her face pale and unadorned, her hair too long on her forehead, her slackening body indifferently clothed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, garments which Hartmann thought should only be worn by students or those of indeterminate age who mistakenly liked to flaunt the badge of youth, middle-aged schoolmasters, gallant lady tourists, those recently retired who had taken up self-improvement. He saw such garments as deceitful, inappropriate on anyone over the age of eighteen. And Marianne never seemed to wear anything else these days, as if she had given herself over completely to the desecration of her former beauty.

  Now that he thought of it, Hartmann could see that the light had gone out of Marianne some time ago, around about the time of her marriage. He had no sense of why this should be so, although he was convinced that it had much to do with Roger’s holy and purposeful manner of making love. Squeamishly, he closed his mind against the prospect of his daughter’s intimate life, although he sighed when he thought of it, and would have wished for her a different kind of husband, even a lover, who would make her laugh and put some colour in her cheeks. But it was not to be, for she seemed determined to play another part, and no lover, however demonic, would seek her out in her present condition.

  When he compared her with Yvette, he would shake his head in a mixture of wonder and amusement. Marianne, with her pale face, looked both younger and older than her mother. With every year that passed Yvette became more refulgent. Past the age of fifty-five, and now at last heading in the same direction as himself, she seemed to have undergone a second wave of femininity and now devoted more time than ever to her appearance. Hartmann supposed that this ease of passage was some kind of compensation for her untroubled instincts, which had preserved her in happy ignorance for so many years. Whatever the reason, she presented a brave appearance, golden-haired, her face bright with colour, her clothes voluptuously bold, her little feet squeezed into high-heeled shoes, the bracelets still tinkling on her wrists. She was like a schoolgirl, he reflected, knowing something of her life as a poor boarder in that Swiss school, who had at last found herself able to afford all the things that she had wanted at that earlier age, and who had bought exactly what she would have bought had she had the money when she was a girl: bottles of scent, make-up, frivolous underwear. Yet he had to admit that she looked well on it. He liked to see a woman still flaunting her powers
of attraction. His taste, these days, ran not to the young, not even to the middle-aged, but to those about to enter their late fifties or even early sixties. He liked to see what a woman could make of herself then, as if he might catch her out on her whole amorous history by virtue of the signals she still displayed. A disappointed woman, he thought, would not bother, whereas a woman whose faith in herself had been preserved would go to town, embrace every remaining year, enjoy the afterglow of her past, and thus earn his indulgent and always amused approval.

  He knew, of course, that the signs could be misleading, that not all decorative, or indeed decorated, women had had a gallant past, and yet as he got older that consideration no longer seemed to weigh with him. What he admired now, he thought, was a sort of pluck, the quality that made a woman want to dress herself boldly and sally forth in spite of the damage that the years were doing to her. Contemplation of this quality, which Yvette possessed in abundance, filled him with gratitude, and also with a sort of reassurance, not merely that life could go on but that it could go on undimmed. Undimmed! That was his watch-word now that he was getting older – but did he really believe that? He would not, could not, countenance any unsavoury change, and would resist to the very end the laziness, the inertia, that he knew must come eventually. For this reason he had decided not to retire, and had without difficulty managed to convince Fibich (who needed little convincing) that it would be better to change their lives as little as possible. ‘Time enough to think about it later on,’ he had said. ‘When we are old. When we are ready to go to the sun.’ Fibich had agreed with him. Now that Toto was so rarely in England, Fibich would have found the days long without his scrupulous routines, and in the office both he and Hartmann were able to recapture the essence of their friendship before the advent of wives and children had cemented the two families into one indissoluble unit.