by Edna O'Brien
She sat there in the bedroom and she touched nothing, not even the two white irises in the tall glass vase. The little key was in her hand and she knew it was for the wardrobe and that she had only to open it to find there a nightdress with a pleated top, a voile dance dress, a silver-fox cape, and a pair of sling-back shoes. But she did not open it. She wanted to leave something a secret. She crept away and was home in her own bed without her husband being aware of her absence. He had complained on other occasions about her cold feet as she got back into bed, and asked in Christ’s name what was she doing—making tea or what? That morning her happiness was so great that she leaned over, unknotted his pajamas, and made love to him very sweetly, very slowly, and to his apparent delight Yet when he wakened he was angry, as if a wrong had been done him.
Naturally, Mrs. Reinhardt now went to the mews house night after night, and her heart would light up as she saw the pillar of the house with its number, 10, lettered in gold edged with black. Sometimes she slipped into the brass bed, knowing it was only a question of time before Mr. Reinhardt followed her there.
One night as she lay in the bed, a little breathless, he came in very softly, closed the door, removed his dressing gown, and took possession of her with such force that afterward she suspected she had a broken rib. They used words that they had not used for years. She was young and wild. A lovely fever took hold of her. She was saucy while he kept imploring her to please marry him, to please give up her independence, to please be his—adding that even if she said no, he was going to whisk her off. Then to prove his point he took possession of her again. She almost died, so deep and so thorough was her pleasure, and each time, as she came back to her senses, she saw some little object or trinket that was intended to add to her pleasure—once it was a mobile in which silver horses chased one another around, once it was a sound as of a running stream. He gave her some champagne and they drank in utter silence.
But when she wakened from this idyll she was in fact in her own bed and so was he. She felt mortified. Had she cried out in her sleep? Had she moaned? There was no rib broken. She reached for the hand minor and saw no sign of wantonness on her face, no tossed hair, and the buttons of her nightdress were neatly done up to the throat.
He was a solid mass of sleep. He opened his eyes. She said something to him, something anxious, but he did not reply. She got out of bed and went down to the sitting room to think. Where would it all lead to? Should she tell him? She thought not. All morning she tried the key in different locks, but it was too small. In fact, once she nearly lost it because it slipped into a lock and she had to tease it out with the prong of a fork. Of course, she did not let Fatima, the maid, see what she was doing.
It was Friday, their day to go to the country, and she was feeling reluctant about it. She knew that when they arrived they would rush around their garden and look at their plants to see if they’d thrived, and look at the rose leaves to make sure there was no green fly. Then, staring out across the fields to where the cows were, they would tell each other how lucky they were to have such a nice place, and how clever. The magnolia flowers would be fully out, and she would stand and stare at the tree as if by staring at it she could imbue her body with something of its whiteness.
The magnolias were out when they arrived—like little white china eggcups, each bloom lifted to the heavens. Two of the elms definitely had the blight, Mr. Reinhardt said, as the leaves were withering away. The elms would have to be chopped, and Mr. Reinhardt estimated that there would be enough firewood for two winters. He would speak to the farm manager, who lived down the road, about this. They carried in the shopping, raised the blinds, and switched on the central heating. The little kitchen was just as they had left it, except that the primroses in the jar had faded and were like bits of yellow skin. She unpacked the food they had brought, put some things in the fridge, and began to peel the carrots and potatoes for the evening meal. Mr. Reinhardt hammered four picture hangers into the wall for the new prints that he had brought down. From time to time he would call her to ask what order he should put them in, and she would go in, her hands covered with flour, and rather absently suggest a grouping.
She had the little key with her in her purse and would open the purse from time to time to make sure that it was there. Then she would blush.
At dusk she went out to get a branch of apple wood for the fire, in order to engender a lovely smell. A bird chirped from a tree. It was more sound than song. She could not tell what bird it was. The magnolia tree was a mass of white in the surrounding darkness. The dew was falling and she bent for a moment to touch the wet grass. She wished it were Sunday, so that they could be going home. In London the evenings seemed to pass more quickly and they each had more chores to do. She felt in some way she was deceiving him.
They drank some red wine as they sat by the fire. Mr. Reinhardt was fidgety but at the very same time accused her of being fidgety. He was being adamant about the Common Market. Why did he expound on the logistics of it when she was not even contradicting him? He got carried away, made gestures, said he loved England, loved it passionately, that England was going to the dogs. When she got up to push in a log that had fallen from the grate, he asked her for God’s sake to pay attention.
She sat down at once, and hoped that there was not going to be one of those terrible, unexpected, meaningless rows. But blessedly they were distracted. She heard him say “Crikey!” and then she looked up and saw what he had just seen. There was a herd of cattle staring in at them. She jumped up. Mr. Reinhardt rushed to the phone to call the farm manager, since he himself knew nothing about country life, certainly not how to drive away cattle.
She grabbed a walking stick and went outside to prevent the cows from falling in the swimming pool. It was cold outdoors and the wind rustled in all the trees. The cows looked at her, suspicious. Their ears pricked. She made tentative movements with the stick, and at that moment four of them leaped over the barbed wire and back into the adjoining field. The remaining cow began to race around. From the field the four cows began to bawl. The fifth cow was butting against the paling. Mrs. Reinhardt thought, I know what you are feeling—you are feeling lost and muddled, and you have gone astray.
Her husband came out in a frenzy, because when he had rung the farm manager no one was there. “Bloody never there!” he said. His loud voice so frightened the poor cow that she made a leap for it and got stuck in the barbed wire. Mrs. Reinhardt could see the barb in her huge udder and thought, What a place for it to have landed. They must rescue her. Very cautiously they both approached the animal; the intention was that Mr. Reinhardt would hold the cow while Mrs. Reinhardt freed the flesh. She tried to be gentle. The cow’s smell was milky and soft compared with her roar, which was beseeching. Mr. Reinhardt caught hold of the hindquarters and told his wife to hurry up. The cow was bucking. As Mrs. Reinhardt lifted the bleeding flesh away, the cow took a high jump and was over the fence and down the field, where she hurried to the river to drink.
The others followed her, and suddenly the whole meadow was the scene of bawling and mad commotion. Mr. Reinhardt rubbed his hands and let out a sigh of relief. He suggested that they open a bottle of champagne. Mrs. Reinhardt was delighted. Of late he had become very thrifty and did not permit her any extravagances. In fact, he had been saying that they would soon have to give up wine because of the state of the country. As they went indoors he put an arm around her. And back in the room she sat and felt like a mistress as she drank the champagne, smiled at him, and felt the stuff coursing through her body. The champagne put them in a nice mood and they linked as they went up the narrow stairs to bed. Nevertheless, Mrs. Reinhardt did not feel like any intimacy; she wanted it reserved for the hidden room.
They returned to London on Sunday evening, and that night Mrs. Reinhardt did not sleep. Consequently she walked nowhere in her dreams. In the morning she felt fidgety. She looked in the mirror. She was getting old. After breakfast, as Mr. Reinhardt was hurrying out of the
house, she held up the little key.
“What is it?” she said.
“How would I know?” he said. He looked livid.
She called and made an appointment at the hairdresser’s. She addressed herself. She must not get old. Later when her hair was set she would surprise him—she would drop in at his gallery and ask him to take her to a nice pub. On the way she would buy a new scarf and knot it at the neck and she would be youthful.
When she got to the gallery, Mr. Reinhardt was not there. Hans, his assistant, was busy with a client from the Middle East. She said she would wait. The new secretary went off to make some tea. Mrs. Reinhardt sat at her husband’s desk, brooding, and then idly she began to flick through his desk diary, just to pass the time. Lunch with this one and that one. A reminder to buy her a present for their anniversary—which he had done. He had bought her a beautiful ring with a sphinx on it.
Then she saw it—the address that she went to night after night. Number 10. The digits danced before her eyes as they had danced when she drove up in the taxi the very first time. All her movements became hurried and mechanical. She gulped her tea, she gave a distracted handshake to the Arab gentleman, she ate the ginger biscuit and gnashed her teeth, so violently did she chew. She paced the floor, she went back to the diary. The same address—three, four, or five times a week. She flicked back to see how long it had been going on. It was no use. She simply had to go there.
At the mews, she found the key in the flower tub. In the kitchen were eggshells and a pan in which an omelet had been cooked. There were two brown eggshells and one white. She dipped her finger in the fat; it was still warm. Her heart went ahead of her up the stairs. It was like a pellet in her body. She had her hand on the bedroom doorknob, when all of a sudden she stopped in her tracks and became motionless. She crept away from the door and went back to the landing seat.
She would not intrude, no. It was perfectly clear why Mr. Reinhardt went there. He went by day to keep his tryst with her, be unfaithful with her, just as she went by night. One day or one night, if they were very lucky, they might meet and share their secret, but until then Mrs. Reinhardt was content to leave everything just as it was. She tiptoed down the stairs and was pleased that she had not acted rashly, that she had not broken the spell.
Baby Blue
Three short quick death knocks resounded in her bedroom the night before they met. He said not to give it a thought, not to fret. He asked if she would like a kiss later on and she nodded. They were alike in everything and they talked with their heads lolled against the back of the armchairs so that to any spectators it was their throats that would be readily visible. The others had gone. He had been brought in unexpectedly by a friend, and as she said, somewhat frankly, it wasn’t every day that one met an eligible man. He for his part said that if he had seen her in a restaurant he would have knocked over tables to get to her. Her hand was on the serge of his knee, his hand on the velvet of hers, and they were telling each other that there was no hurry at all, that their bodies were as perfectly placed as neighboring plants.
She escorted him to the corner to get a taxi, and on the way they found a pack of cards on the wet road, cut them there and then, and cut identically. Next day he would be making the short flight across the Channel to his home, which sounded stately, with its beech trees, its peach houses, its asparagus bed, and Corinthian pillars supporting the front porch. In time she would be acquainted with the rooms, she would ask him to describe them one by one—library, kitchen, drawing room, and last, but very last of all, bedroom. It was his wife’s house. His wife was her coloring and also five foot seven and somewhat assertive. His children were adorable. He had thought of suicide the previous summer, but that was over, meeting her had changed all that. It was like Aladdin, magical; his hair would begin to grow again and he would trim his black beard, so that by the next weekend his lips would feel and imprint hers. He worked as a designer and had to come back each week to continue plans for a little theater that was being built as part of a modern complex. It was the first thing he had done in years.
The card he sent her was a historic building going up in flames and she thought, Ominous, but because of the greetings on it she was in an ecstasy.
He would arrive on Fridays, telephone from the airport, and in the hallway, with his black mohair bag still in his hand, he would kiss her while she bit at his beard and got to the secrecy of his lips. Then he would hold her at a distance from him and tilt her head until she became flawless. There she would be, white-skinned, agog, and all of a blush, and there he would be, trying not to palpitate so hard. His smell was dearer to her than any she could remember and yet it was redolent of some deep, buried memory. Her mother, she feared. Something of the same creaminess and the same mildness united them as if poised for life’s knife. He plaited her hair around his finger, they constantly swapped plates, glasses, knives, forks, and were unable to eat, what with all the jumping up and down and swapping of these things. He took her hands to his face, and she said all the little pouches of tension would get pressed away, and not long after this, and during one of those infinite infinities, he cried and she drank in two huge drops of very salty tears. He confessed to her that when he was little and got his first bicycle he had to ride around and around the same bit of safe suburban street so that his mother would not worry about his getting run over on a main road. She said that fused them together, that made him known to her throughout, and again she thought of slaughter and of some lamb waiting for life’s knife.
“Will it last, Eleanor?” he said.
“It will last,” she said.
She never was so sure of anything in her life. In the bedroom she drew the pink curtains, and he peeled the layers of her clothing off, and talked to her skin, then bones beneath it, then to her blood, then their bloods raced together.
*
“I can’t stop my wife coming to London to shop,” he said, getting out of bed, dressing, and then undressing again. He scarcely knew what he wanted to do. He had a migraine and asked if she ever suffered from that. She said go, please go. They had known each other for six weekends and he intended to get her a ring. Her mascara was badly crusted on her lashes and had smeared onto her lids.
This was no way to be. She had left her earrings on and knew that the crystal would have made a semblance of a gash on each side of her neck. They had gone to bed drunk, and were drunk oftener than they need be. He used to intend to go early to the family he was supposed to be staying with, but always his resolution broke and he stayed with her until breakfast time, or later.
“Go, please go,” she said it again.
His smile was like a cowl placed over a very wretched face.
The next weekend it didn’t work out too badly. It was a question of him running back and forth to her, and from her, helping his wife with shopping, getting his daughter a diary, getting his son some toy motors, once having to fail her by not showing up at all, and then in a panic ringing her from the flat in the middle of the night—presumably his wife was asleep—saying, “I have to talk to you, I will see you tomorrow at ten; if you are not there I will wait, I will see you tomorrow at ten, I have to talk to you, if you are not there I will wait …”
At ten he arrived and his complexion was that of an old gray sock.
“What is it?” she said sympathetically, and still relatively in control of herself. If only she had crystal-gazed.
“I dread looking into my wife’s eyes and telling her that I am in love with another woman.”
“Then don’t,” she said.
“Do you love me anymore?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and they sat in the dining room, on a carved chair, looking out at the winter trees in the winter sky, feeling sad for each other, and for themselves, and remembering to the future when the trees would be in leaf, and they would walk in the gardens together and there and then, a bit teary, unslept, and grave beyond belief, they started to build.
Christmas come
s but once a year, and when it does it brings families together. He went home and, as the friend who had introduced them said, was probably busy, dressing the tree, going to parties, pulling crackers, and, as she silently added, looking into his wife’s eyes, or his old cat’s eyes, putting drops into his cat’s eyes, doing his duty. He used to tell her how he sat on the stairs, talking to his cat as if it were her, and then biting one of his whiskers. No letter. She didn’t know it but the huge gilt mirror in their hall fell, broke, and just missed his wife by inches; she did not know it then, but that miss was relevant. New Year’s Eve saw her drunk again and maudlinly recalling dead friends, those in the grave and those who were still walking around. She would not leave the restaurant but sat all night at the corner table until the waiter brought her coffee and a little jug of warm milk in the morning. He found her curled up in her fox cape.
“Gigo, am I old …?” she said.
“No … not old, well-looking,” he said.
He knew her well and had often helped her out with her parties. He knew her as a woman who worked for a public relations firm, and brought them nice customers and did lots of entertaining. They sat and talked of towns in Italy—Siena, Pisa, Padua, Fuerti di Marmi, Spoleto. At the mention of each town he kissed the air. On the twelfth day—little Christmas—he wrote to say, “Only that I love you more and miss you desperately, I am in a spruce wood and it is growing dark.” It was. She saw that but she refused to comprehend.
When she saw his wife she thought that yes she would have known her and felt that the scalded expression and marmalade hair would make an incision inside her brain. “I will dream of this person,” she said warningly to herself as they shook hands. Then she handed him the bottle of white wine but kept the little parcel of quails’ eggs, because they looked too intimate and would be a revelation in their little nest of chaff, speckled, freshly boiled an hour before, blue-green with spots of brown, eggs as fresh as their sex. It was at his hospital bedside, and there beside him were these two women and above him a little screen denoting the waver of his heart. It was all a bit unreal to Eleanor. No two people looked more unsuited, what with his shyness and his wife’s blatancy, his dark coloring and hers, which had the ire of desert sand. For a moment she felt there was some mistake, it was perhaps his wife’s sister, but no, she was busying herself doing a wife’s things, touching the lapel of his pajamas, putting a saucer over the jug of water, acknowledging the Sowers. The lilies of the valley that Eleanor had sent him were in a tumbler, the twenty sprays dispatched from Ascot. Asked by his wife where they had come from, he said an “admirer” and smiled. He smiled quite a lot as he nestled back against the pillows, seeming like a man with nothing on his mind except the happy guarantee that there would be hot milk at ten, two sleeping pills, and oblivion. She kept eying his wife, and the feeling she got was of a body, tanklike, filled with some kind of explosive. His wife suddenly told them that she was something of a seer and he asked politely if he would recover. The wine she brought they drank from cups. Exquisite, chilled white wine, such as she and he had often drunk, and such as he had drunk with his wife in the very first stages of their courtship. He was a man to whom the same thing was happening twice. The nurses were beginning to busy themselves and bade good night overloudly to one lame visitor who was getting up to leave. The man in the next bed begged if he could have his clothes in order to go home to his own house, whereupon the night sister gave him a little peck on the cheek.