Music, in a Foreign Language

by Andrew Crumey

  There was a moment of forced good humour when he entered; they embraced. She was a stranger to him now. He could think only of that strand of her hair – he was studying her head; yes, the strand he found was certainly hers. And a hair fallen loose now on her shoulder. He picked it off with his fingers, and she looked at him quizzically. He smiled.

  She went to finish washing some dishes – an attempt to make herself more relaxed. King looked round the flat and reminded himself of that miniature parody of domesticity – like the playhouse of a schoolgirl. But Jenny was not a schoolgirl.

  He pulled back the flowered curtain which hid the bed; as he sat down on it, it creaked like an old pram. She came back from the tiny kitchen, and sat down beside him. Neither knew what to say, and so they began to kiss, mechanically. And like beings without will, they began to pull at each other’s clothes, then position themselves on the bed, she drawing him on top of her. She was a stranger to him now.

  They were two parts come together in an experiment. Two soulless chemicals merging, tumbling, to settle later into immiscible layers. There was a shelf on which stood two jars; one marked ‘love’ and the other ‘betrayal’, and they were being emptied over their bodies – wholly naked now; the bed creaking. Other chemicals: ‘fear’ and ‘desire’; all thrown carelessly over them – their bodies wet with sweat. Holding her head and soft hair between his hands as he pushed himself into her, King rehearsed in his mind the scene in which he would learn the truth. How to obtain all the information he could, without making her realize he already knew what she must have done?

  Their bodies colliding, struggling against an unseen force; that single force comprising good and evil, will and desire – their bodies pushing and pulling, and Jenny’s eyes closed tightly – her face contorting as if in pain. But then it subsided, and was gone. And after a while, they struggled no more.

  He withdrew, and lay on his back beside her. She asked if he was okay, and he said yes. He spoke quietly, while he stared at the ceiling – the only part of the bedsit that Jenny couldn’t clean, since it was beyond reach. The only part that had no place in the playhouse of a little schoolgirl. It looked like it could be the ceiling of a far more squalid room than this.

  She was stroking his face, his chest, his shoulder. What was wrong? she asked. Nothing, he told her. Still, he hadn’t completed his mental rehearsal. No way that he could think of, to be subtle about it.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of things on my mind lately,’ he said. She asked him if he wanted to talk about it. There was a worried note in her voice. Not now, he said.

  She stood up and walked naked to the edge of the window – he watched the curve of her spine; the way it flowed from the neck down to the line of her buttocks. She stood at the edge of the window-frame, looking out across rooftops and grey clouds. ‘Are you seeing someone else?’ she said. He told her no, but felt he might sound insincere. So difficult to sound as if you’re telling the truth sometimes, even when you really are.

  ‘You can be honest with me Charles. I just want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘What makes you think I might be seeing someone else?’

  ‘The way you’ve been so distant. When you were making love just now, what were you thinking?’ She had turned to look at him; the body of a stranger. Those umber discs – the areolae which he had dreamed of seeing when she stood mending her bicycle. The dark, tangled triangle, and all those doubts, and the inability to find words. The light from the window was behind her; shining through the edge of her hair. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to know what she had done, or why. If she had deceived him, then how could he expect her to do anything other than lie when he asked?

  King got up from the bed. ‘We really don’t know each other, do we Jenny?’

  Still she stood against the bright window. ‘I don’t think I could ever get to know you truly, Charles. I don’t think you’d let me. I feel sorry for you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got so many good things about you, and people who love you. And yet the only thing you can do is hurt them all.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re hurting me. And I love you.’

  King began to put on his clothes. He felt somehow ashamed of his nakedness. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Jenny. I don’t want us to get too close, that’s all.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with being close?’ she came and held him – stared hard into his face. ‘What’s wrong with letting yourself feel something, Charles?’

  He moved free of her. ‘I do have feelings Jenny, for you. But I don’t think it can work.’

  ‘Why? What’s gone wrong?’

  He was searching for words. ‘It was wrong from the start. I wish now … I think it would have been better to know you first, as a friend. It all happened too quickly.’ She was bewildered by this. ‘Jenny, I like you so much, really. But I don’t know you. I don’t know if I can trust you.’

  She held him again. ‘It takes time, Charles. I agree, maybe we got off to the wrong start – but that doesn’t mean we can’t ever make it work. I want to try. I want to make the effort – if only you’ll let me through this shell you put around yourself.’

  He carried on dressing, and now Jenny began to put on her clothes.

  ‘I wish you’d talk to me, Charles. Whatever it is, you know if you need me …’

  He wanted to ask her now about why she had been looking through his papers. He felt willing to forgive her anything. He put his arm around her neck, drew her towards himself and kissed her gently.

  ‘If there’s somebody else, Charles … You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  He said that of course he would.

  They had some lunch, and then for further distraction went out for a walk – Kensington Gardens. The weather was brighter now. Couples walking arm in arm, mothers with small children, old people in raincoats. If Jenny had been searching through his belongings, then it could only have been out of this desire to understand him better. It wasn’t such a crime. She loved him, and he – he realized it now – he loved her also. When the time was right, he’d ask her about everything, and then it could all be put aside. King held Jenny close to his side. She was telling him stories from her childhood.

  They made their way back to her place. Before they reached the entrance to the flats, Jenny said she remembered there were a few things she needed to buy. Charles offered to come to the shop with her, but she said not to bother – she brought out her keys and told him to go and let himself in. She’d try not to be too long; twenty minutes maybe.

  He carried on to the front entrance, then up the stairs to her flat. Going into the empty bedsit, he could still smell their sex. It gave him a good feeling.

  While going up the stairs, he had resolved that the best way to deal with a situation he found difficult to discuss was to settle things evenly. She had gone through his belongings; he now had every right to reciprocate. In the flat, he began looking in her drawers. There was the underwear with which he was so familiar. He ran his hand through the pile, and felt the soft cloth against his skin. A packet of sanitary towels wedged near the front of the drawer. He lifted out one or two pieces of underwear; ran them against his cheek, and caught their freshly laundered fragrance. Then he pulled open the drawer below. Papers and letters. If she could explore his own life in this way, then why should he not do the same? Photographs, and many letters in the same hand – looking at the sender’s address, he saw that they were from the man to whom she had been engaged. There was a vast tract of her life which was completely foreign territory to him. This was what Robert had played on; the fact that you can never know everything about another person; there has to be something you leave to trust. Now a large brown envelope, not stuck down. He pulled out the contents. A photograph of himself – where had she got it from? And a copy of his paper. And a copy of Flood.

  He stared at them. Sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at what he had pull
ed out of the envelope. Drew it all right out. It was a carbon copy of the paper – from when she typed it. And a copy of Flood, just like the two that were in his drawer. This must have been a third.

  Never in his life had it felt so devastating to be right. She had searched his drawers – this he could forgive. And taking his photograph, he could understand and forgive. But why did she have these documents, which had allowed Mays to condemn both Robert and himself? Waves of bitterness and recrimination rose to Charles’s mouth. He felt his eyes sting with tears.

  He stood up. He had to think very quickly; she would soon be back. Not the playhouse of a child, this room; not now. More like a cell – he felt trapped and frightened. Monstrous visions – it was all a great trap; even their initial meeting. Planted there in the street to try and catch out an unsuspecting scientist emerging from the Academy nearby. There had been a policeman around. Why hadn’t he helped Jenny with her bike? Monstrous visions.

  Thank God he hadn’t yet told her anything about Robert. But what should he do now? Pacing up and down with the envelope and its contents. He mustn’t let her know he’d found out. No question now of mentioning anything about it – what lies would she come up with? And she would warn Mays. Why had she done it? He thought of her standing against the window, her naked body against the light. He felt an unbearable sorrow – longing for her, betrayed by her. It was all lies – all that stuff about trust. She had only been trying to win his confidence so she could spy on him. A promotion at work, perhaps, or a better flat.

  He had her keys – his own spare was still on the key-ring. He removed it. And he put the brown envelope with its contents back where he had found it; checking to make sure there was no evidence of his intrusion. And then he gathered up his things, and went out, leaving the door unlocked behind him. He felt heavy with treachery and loathing.

  Going down the flights of stairs, he heard somebody enter at the bottom – it could be her. There was a bend in the landing leading to the door of one of the flats; he hid himself there. Then he heard her footsteps rising – and he watched her back as she carried on up the stairs above him, a bag of groceries in her hand. He longed to call out to her.

  When she was out of sight, he went swiftly, quietly down, and out into the street. He felt like a wretched, weeping coward.

  On the train going back to Cambridge, he decided what he would have to do. Useless to try and make excuses, or seek explanations. He had to break with Jenny completely – without giving any hint of the reason. Already in his head he had composed the note which he wrote and posted after his arrival home.

  I’m sorry, Jenny – I lied to you. You were right; there is someone else. Please don’t make it harder by trying to contact me. Thanks for the good times. Charles.

  He was surprised, but glad, when he heard nothing from her. He thought she might try to ring. On Monday, King decided that it was time to begin the cycle once more. He invited Joanna out for dinner, and that night they had sex on the floor of his flat. It consoled him to think that the note he had sent was now at least true.

  Next day, there was a phone call at last from Robert – it had been more than a week. His voice was hardly less agitated than before – could he come and see Charles that night? He was going to go away to start work on the book. So he had got it after all, Charles thought. Might this mean an end to all their troubles?

  Jenny shed many tears for Charles. She would never understand why he had fled so cruelly, but she remained strong in her resolution not to contact him. The letters she wrote to him were all destroyed by her, unsent. It was just as well she had no phone. In time, she would get over him – in just the same way as she was getting over the one to whom she had been engaged. What she was left with were some souvenirs in a drawer; things she had taken in secret, for fear of asking Charles and seeming too intrusive. The carbon of the paper she typed – so impressive looking. And the things she had found when she dared to pry, on that Friday evening when Charles still had not come home. A photograph he’d never miss, and a spare copy of a pamphlet of essays and poems. Such beautiful things he’d written – must have been him. It was the time when she found that card; Missing your body. Anne. Like an ill omen, which had somehow poisoned everything. Anne; she must be something to do with it. Such a clever man, with so many good things about him. Yet such a capacity to hurt those who loved him.

  Some time after Robert’s call, Charles’s phone went again.

  ‘Mays here. When you see your friend tonight. You know.’

  24

  That evening, Charles King and Robert Waters met for the last time. Mays’ phone call alarmed King – his first thought was that Robert must have informed them about his visit. But why should he do that, when it was Robert who was supposed now to be the subject of the enquiry; the one upon whom King had been ordered to spy? Clearly, their moves were being followed.

  At around eight o’clock, Robert arrived. He looked pale and serious when Charles opened the door to him; Robert’s expression betrayed a fleeting glimpse of inner pain – but then his face immediately changed as he forced a smile, and followed King inside.

  ‘So you got the book, then?’

  ‘Yes, Charles. I wanted to see you before I go.’

  King offered Robert a seat, and brought out the bottle of cognac they had opened together a little over a fortnight earlier.

  ‘I’m driving up to Scotland tomorrow. I need a month or two on my own to sort out some material and think about things. Professor Carmichael is letting me use his holiday house.’

  Carmichael was the Party representative on the Faculty. It seemed to King that while Mays had such contempt for Robert, there were now others who held him in higher regard.

  ‘I’m glad you got the book, Robert. Congratulations.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so paranoid about it.’ Robert still seemed agitated. He took off his jacket and laid it on the arm of his chair. ‘How’s Jenny?’

  Charles sipped from his glass. ‘Jenny? I’ve stopped seeing her.’

  ‘Ah. That’s too bad. She was a nice girl.’

  Robert had his book now. That’s what all of this had been for; all the lies and suffering. So that Robert could go to Scotland and work on a damned book.

  ‘Have you been to see Mays again?’

  ‘Mays? No.’ Robert’s mask of calm had been disturbed.

  ‘He told me he interviewed you twice.’

  Impossible for Robert to hide his anxiety. He eyed King nervously, as if trying to convey some hidden thought to him; or a gesture to make him be quiet.

  ‘I think you’re mistaken.’

  Then Robert reached into the pocket of his jacket, and brought out a pen and an old bus ticket. Charles watched, bemused, while he scribbled on it, then passed it to him. Be very careful.

  ‘How about some more brandy, Charles?’

  King poured, then stood up. The two men looked at each other in silence. There was some meaning to all of this, which still was not apparent. Looking at Robert’s face, King now saw the eyes of a terrified rabbit. Impossible for them to speak freely.

  ‘It’s good that you’re going away, Robert. A break for you, I mean. Always best to be on your own when you need to work.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I think. If I stayed here … it would all be too difficult. To get things done. So many other demands on one’s attention. How’s your research going?’

  Already they were talking as if in some kind of code. Robert had no interest in Charles’s research. Perhaps he was asking if King had been able to find out any more about the police enquiry. He said he was making good progress. ‘How long will you be in Scotland?’

  ‘Hard to say. As long as it takes. I’ve got all the basic facts now – I know what’s going on, so to speak. It’s a case of making sense of everything.’

  Robert now had all the facts; he knew everything. And he knew it was best for him to be apart from Charles. Perhaps he knew that Charles had been ordered to watch him. />
  ‘You know, Robert, I’ve never understood how historians do “research”. In science everything is rather more clear cut. Well-defined problems, and precise methods of investigation.’

  ‘But history is about people’s lives Charles – you know I’ve always said that. It’s about investigating people’s lives. And there are lots of ways of doing that. When we study history, we’re really talking about ourselves. Why it is that we happen to be in a particular place, taking a certain course of action.’

  ‘When often it isn’t what we really want to do.’

  ‘That’s right, Charles. But there are forces – you always spoke of forces, didn’t you? Love, and fear.’

  ‘And the will to survive.’

  ‘That most of all. In the end it’s always the will to survive that’s strongest.’

  ‘How true, Robert. That’s why history is so full of conflict; trust betrayed, loyalties abused. When you’re faced with a power far greater than yourself – what choice is there?’

  ‘Like for instance a person who is ordered to do something he finds totally abhorrent – something which will bring pain and suffering, and yet if he disobeys there will be even greater suffering.’ There was some further meaning to Robert’s words. Already, Charles thought he could see tears in the other man’s eyes. Was he giving his permission for Charles to betray him? Or had he himself already committed some abhorrent act? How, after all, had he come to win the contract for the book?

  Charles gazed down at his friend – his lost friend. His turn now to speak. ‘Yes, the will to survive. Two nations, for example – loyal allies. Each willing to take up arms to help the other. But then a third power arises; a nation whose leaders are driven only by blind ignorance and hatred. And this third power decides to wage a war – just for the sheer hell of it. Simply to inflict its sorrow wherever it sees happiness. What happens to our two peace-loving nations then? They unite, they resist. They swear their alliance will never be broken.’