The Furnished Room

by Laura Del-Rivo

  ‘Yes, I always seem to have an attic, don’t I? But I like the roofscape,’ he said. ‘Your raincoat’s wet, love. Take it off and hang it behind the door.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ Shrugging out of the raincoat, she exclaimed: ‘Damn!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Broken a nail.’ She inspected the scarlet claws. He took her hand. After a moment, she withdrew it. There was an embarrassment. He said into the pause: ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Love some.’

  He went down to the bathroom to fill the kettle. When he returned she was lounging in the armchair, swinging a bored foot and flicking ash on to the floor.

  He put the kettle on the gas ring, then shut the window. Rain beat against the panes. A brilliant zigzag of lightning lit the sky, followed by a crash of thunder.

  Ilsa said anxiously: ‘I hate storms.’ She combed her fingers through her wet, waif-like hair.

  Beckett thought: Good, then perhaps she’ll stay the night. Aloud he said: ‘Yes, it’s bad, isn’t it? Likely to go on all night, according to the weather report.’ He started to tidy the room. On the hearthrug were the remains of a meal: the saucepan he had eaten out of, the bathtowel he had spread on his knee because the saucepan was hot, the book he had read while eating, and an apple core in the ashtray. He removed these things from sight.

  Ilsa watched him. After a while she said: ‘I wish you had a radio.’

  ‘Shall I get one?’

  ‘Yes.’ She said in a twangy voice: ‘This is Radio Luxembourg, the Station of the Stars.’ She followed this announcement with an imitation of a pop singer.

  Becket said: ‘Fine. But can you pitch it a bit lower?’

  ‘Huh? Why?’

  ‘The landlady. I’m not supposed to have visitors after ten-thirty. Especially beautiful girls.’

  She accepted the compliment as a matter of course, saying merely: ‘What a drag.’

  ‘I know. It makes me feel so humiliated, having to ask my friends to be quiet on the stairs, and keep their voices down. The old cow makes me feel guilty every time I come in the front door. I want to find a place without a landlady on the premises. I detest the whole race. The constant pettiness and prying, the com plaining notes pushed under the door. That’s why I left the Paddington place, you know. The fool woman was always shoving notes under my door, complaining that I burnt the light too late, or that I walked up and down and disturbed the people below, etc., etc. Finally I told her I was sick to death of reading her everlasting drivel, and that she must either stop pestering me with notes or find another tenant.’

  ‘Heavens! What did she say to that?’

  ‘She asked me, who did I think I was?’

  They laughed, then Ilsa said: ‘I can’t help sympathizing with the woman. You do give the impression that you think yourself superior to other people. It’s a very irritating trait of yours.’

  ‘It’s only because I am superior.’ He said it as a joke, and then realized that he meant it. He had always had a conviction of his superiority; a conviction so basic that it was hardly conscious.

  She said: ‘You’re bloody conceited, Joe Beckett.’

  ‘I know. Can you stand it?’ He took her hand and raised her out of the chair. They stood facing each other. He said: ‘You obsess me. You know that, don’t you? I’ve got you in my blood like fever.’

  He tried to kiss her, but she quickly averted her face so that his mouth only brushed her cheek. She shrugged him off. ‘Stop it, Joe. You’re to leave me alone.’

  ‘But why?’

  There were pinpoints of light in her grey eyes. She looked mean and nasty. ‘Because you get in my way, that’s why.’

  ‘I don’t see that.’

  ‘I can’t explain any better.’

  ‘Well, try.’

  ‘All right, I’ll try. You said you felt superior. Right? If life proves unpleasant to you, you evade it by hiding in superiority feelings. A sort of sour grapes. Well, I am very insecure person, but my cure is different from yours. I’ve got to have people loving me, admiring me, telling me I’m wonderful. Love and admiration build me up, so I don’t feel insecure any more. But you despise me, Joe. You despise me, my friends, my amusements. All the things that are necessary to me. Instead of building me up, you undermine me. That’s what I mean by saying you get in my way. And I won’t stand for that.’

  ‘I see. At least, I think I see.’

  Her voice took on a more conciliatory tone. ‘Besides, my darling, I’d be bad for you. I’d hurt you. I’d betray you by going off with other men. Oh, I might promise not to, and really intend not to. But I’d do it just the same. I can’t stop with any one man. I’ve got to have new men, new conquests. I suppose I need constant confirmation that I’m attractive.’ She pushed her hair back with quick, nervous fingers. ‘I remember once when I was a kid, a neighbour of ours got run over and killed. Stupid thing to happen in the country, where there are only about two cars a day. Anyway, I thought: Suppose I was to die tomorrow? You know the way kids get obsessions? Well, I got this sort of obsession that I was going to die tomorrow. At first I was frightened, and then I thought: Well, if I’m going to die tomorrow I’m going to rip it up like mad today. And I did, too.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Oh, invited all the other kids in to slide down my dad’s haystack. Dad was furious. I got slapped and sent to bed for it.’

  ‘And what about the next day, when you didn’t die?’

  She laughed, dismissing it like a promise made under stress. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about it by then. I never could think of any one thing for long. But you dig what I mean, don’t you? I always live as if I’m going to die tomorrow. Rip it up and run wild; get all the kicks I can out of life while it lasts. I can’t stay with any one man, Joe.’ Her voice had risen to a strident, ugly pitch. Then she altered again, and looked at him nervously. ‘You do understand, don’t you? I don’t want to be a bitch to you like I am to the others.’

  ‘I wish you would stay with me,’ he said. Then he knew that it wasn’t true. He only wanted her now.

  Torrential rain was still falling and the sky was a battlefield of thunder and lightning. He looked out of the window. Behind him, Ilsa continued to talk in a hard, sophisticated voice, and made stagey gestures. ‘But, I mean, we can still be platonic friends. When people say they don’t believe in platonic friendship, well, I think they’re completely crazy. Well, I mean. I’ve got tons of platonic friends, and you’d be the favourite of the lot, darling. And we’d keep it as a terrific secret that we really love each other.’ She came and stood beside him, flashing a smile. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Don’t be such a child, Ilsa. Do you think men are made of wood or something? I’m not, and I’m not going to be one of the string of men you keep hopelessly in love with you in order to gratify your vanity. That sort of situation may appeal to romantics, but not to me.’

  ‘Oh, Joe, don’t be horrid, when I’ve offered to be friends.’ She pointed to the boiling kettle. ‘I’m going to be awfully nice and make the coffee, it you’ll tell me where everything is.’

  Beckett frowned, preoccupied.

  ‘Did you hear, my honey? Where are the coffee things?’

  ‘Oh, thanks. In the cupboard under the washstand. The mugs are there, too.’

  He watched her making the coffee. The light shone directly on her face, showing up the flaws. Her skin had a stale pallor, there was a sharpness about the bone structure, and her eyes were tired from late nights.

  She put the filled mugs on the mantelpiece, saying brightly: ‘Here you are, then. The Barnes coffee-making service. With a smile.’

  He went to pick up his mug, but instead turned and seized her. He kissed her destructively, forcing her mouth open.

  ‘Joe-Joe...’

  ‘Ilse-Ilse. Oh, honey...’ He cupped his hands over her trim little behind and pressed her against him.

  ‘Oh, honey!’ Her breath caught sharply. ‘Oh, please,
darling, don’t.’ Ilsa the trembler, the unreliable, was a cornered little animal now but behind her eyes was a wary, vicious glint. Ilsa was penitent only when caught; Ilsa with eyes honest-wide made promises that afterwards evaporated when she sold you out and left you only the nail-slashes of her smart remarks and smart-set laughter.

  Beckett clasped all this to him for the sake of the small percentage of their love for each other. Keeping his mouth on hers, he started to ease the back of her skirt upwards. She was wearing some sort of nylon panties. He groaned silently with excitement. With his free hand, he switched off the light.

  The springs of the bed creaked as they collapsed on to it. He raised his hand and wrenched at the buttons of her blouse, excitement making him clumsy. Then he said: ‘Wait a moment.’

  ‘What is it?’ Her face in the twilight looked wan, and from under her rumpled hair she regarded him with the eyes of an ancient child. There was something pathetic about this, and about the way her raped blouse hung agape, that made him pick up her hands and kiss them. Then his previous train of thought reasserted itself.

  ‘Wait a moment, I’m going to bolt the door.’

  ‘Oh yes, better, I suppose.’

  When he returned she held her arms wide to receive him. They lay in silence except for his breathing and her occasional whimpers. Suddenly she said: ‘Wait, I’m going to take my nylons off. They’re my best ones; I don’t want them laddered.’ Her voice sounded unnatural after the silence. Recognizing this, she gave a nervous laugh. ‘I bet they’ve got splashed, damn it, from walking in the rain.’

  Naked, she had a Cockney body, pale and thin. But it was lithe, for her habits of jiving and late nights kept her body fit and unpampered. Her tuft of pubic hair had a jaunty look.

  Beckett said in a hard, hating voice: ‘I adore you.’

  She said: ‘Darling.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Does my face change when I make love?’

  He propped his bare elbow on the pillow and looked down at her. ‘Yes. Your face looks all clean and shining in the moonlight. Like a newly born angel.’

  ‘Yours does too. You look like a god.’

  A bit later she said: ‘You are in love with me, aren’t you?’

  He lied quickly: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then say it. I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘I love you, Ilsa.’

  ‘Say it again, Joe. Keep saying it. Say you love me. Keep saying it. Don’t stop.’

  He woke with a start and sat up in bed. The luminous dial of the clock said nearly two.

  Ilsa woke too, and asked: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Going to get a drink of water. Do you want one?’

  ‘No, thanks. I say, I’m streaming with sweat.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Has the storm stopped?’

  He listened. ‘I think so, yes.’ He got out of bed, treading on something soft: the pile of their clothes. He padded across the room and switched on the light.

  Ilsa shielded her face with her arm. She murmured sleepily: ‘Joe-Joe.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Still love me?’

  He returned and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Of course.’

  She flung her arms round his neck. ‘Promise you’ll stay with me. Promise to be kind to me and love me for ever. And oh, darling, I promise and faithfully swear that I’ll always stay with you.’

  He kissed her lips. ‘I’ve got a lazy and conservative nature. There’s no reason, as far as I can see, why I should leave you.’

  ‘Then keep me safe, love me and look after me, and I’ll never get into any scrapes.’

  He stood up, putting on his raincoat for a dressing gown and thrusting his bare feet into his sandals. He emptied one of the mugs of cold coffee into the slop basin, and took the mug with him.

  The house was in darkness. He groped his way down the stairs. The unbuckled sandals were loose and made a noise. He curled his toes, trying to keep the sandals on and make them less noisy. His warm skin contracted where the wet raincoat touched him. Thus he clopped slowly down the unlit flight.

  The bathroom was on the ground floor. A strip of worn lino ended at the iron claw-feet of the bath. The bath was marked by horseshoes of rust under the taps. There was a large, old-fashioned gas geyser. On the medicine cupboard was a cup from which someone had drunk cocoa, a stub of shaving soap, and a litter of spent matches.

  He ran water into the mug, wiping it clean with his fingers. Then he filled it again and drank thirstily. The coldness went straight down to his stomach. He wanted to urinate but could not be bothered to shuffle laboriously to the lavatory, so he used the bath.

  The window had been made opaque by covering it with adhesive paper. The paper was varnish brown, with a pattern of fleurs-de-lis. He pushed the window up, letting the cool night air blow in on his forehead. Somebody’s socks, which had dried stiffly on the string from geyser to window-frame, swayed in the breeze.

  He had contained a wolf, which had become steadily more ravenous the longer he had led his monkish life. The wolf panted towards the moment of orgasm, the moment when he knew that there was nothing except this. Then the wolf disappeared, leaving only a man who felt anticlimax and disillusion, who grasped air instead of a prize, and who resented Ilsa’s presence in his room.

  He conscientiously went back over all the things he had said to Ilsa, and tried to discover whether he had meant them. He did not know, but suspected that he had not.

  He thought: No prizes in life. Only mirages that disappear when you arrive at them. Freedom from sexual desire results from gratifying it. But there must be another sort of freedom. Not just a passive lack, an emptiness, but an active, positive freedom.

  He looked out of the window. The row of solid buildings opposite were a negation of his love-making with Ilsa. His thoughts wandered to building construction; to men in overalls, to planks and scaffolding, to the bulldozers whose jaws scooped up mouthfuls of rubble.

  Somewhere in the house a clock struck twice. He switched off the bathroom light, and groped his way back to his room, Ilsa lay with the spun silk of her hair on the greyish pillow, and the warm smell of sleep around her.

  Chapter 7

  The sunlight made metal patches on the office window. A fly buzzed dustily against the letter T of TONS & PAC.

  Beckett looked at the clock. It was only three minutes later than the last time he had looked at it, a desert of boredom ago.

  On his desk was a pile of invoices to be entered in the ledger. The first stage in the task was to pick up his Biro. But he could not do it. Even the thought of doing it drained away his energy.

  The cover of the ledger had a marble pattern. He stared at the ledger until it seemed alive, swelling like yeast. He did not think. Thought had been replaced by consciousness of the ledger.

  The door of Presgate’s glass tank was ajar. His cracked, clerical voice could be heard dictating to a typist: ‘... we would advise that Credit Note Number — look it up on the carbon — was despatched to your good selves on the 28th ultimo comma against our invoice.…’

  Beckett looked at the clock again. It seemed stationary. He realized that it was no good hoping for five-thirty. Five-thirty was in the future and did not exist. Only the present existed. He was fixed in the present like a man in a photograph. And tomorrow he would have to endure it all again. Not only tomorrow, but for all his life until he retired at sixty-five. He was resentful. He had only one life; why should he be forced to waste it in this manner? It would be different if he believed in immortality.

  His thoughts started down this new track. Hard work and active patriotism declined with the decline of belief in immortality. When people knew they had only one life, they were not inclined to waste it by working or end it by dying for their country.

  He daydreamed of a small private income. He did not want much and he was enough of a moralist to admire austerity. He wanted only sufficient to live modestly, to purchase food, cigarettes, and books
, without having to waste time at a job. Syd asked him: ‘What’s the matter? Have you got the total wrong again?’

  ‘Yes. I loathe sums. I never could do them. At school I enjoyed algebra and geometry, and loathed arithmetic.’

  ‘Why not try brains, the new wonder head-filler?’

  ‘Oh, drop dead.’

  Beckett got up and wandered out of the office. In the corridor he felt dizzy with boredom, as if he were going to faint.

  He went into the cloakroom, which, to his relief, was empty. Waves of faintness broke out like sweat. A notice on the wall forbade staff to throw cigarette ends down the washbasins. All the hot taps were fixed with wire so that they would not turn. He leant against the wall, and pressed his forehead against the white, lavatory-smelling tiles. The coldness made him feel better. Then he sat on the edge of one of the washbasins and smoked a cigarette.

  After a while he supposed he should return to the office. He yawned. A tap was dripping and he turned it off. Then he turned it on again and washed his hands, tipping liquid soap from the container. The roller towel was damp as usual.

  On his way back to the office, he knocked on the managing director’s door and was told to enter. Mr Glegg was fat, like a pig, with his neck seeming thicker than his head. He had a small moustache. He was sitting weightily behind the two telephones and the fan arrangement of Packaging Worlds.

  Mr Glegg said: ‘Won’t keep you a minute.’ He shuffled through some papers. His stertorous breathing gave the effect of stupidity. He ironed the topmost paper, picked up his fountain-pen, and signed the document.

  Beckett thought with sudden surprise: How can he sign anything? His name means nothing. He isn’t real. There was something absurd about the flourishing signature, the mark of a man who certainly thought himself real.

  Mr Glegg set the papers aside, breathing. Then he asked: ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m resigning. I want to leave on Friday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Glegg waited for an explanation. When none came, he said: ‘Pastures new? You’ve found another job?’