by David Lodge
– You’re superstitious.
– I’m not. I don’t believe in lucky numbers. I always walk under ladders on purpose.
– Your system’s superstitious.
– It’s not, it’s based on reason. You have to be able to think of things.
– Do you think all the time?
– Of course, you can’t stop thinking. Cogito, ergo sum.
– What’s that?
– Latin. I think therefore I am. He grinned, adding: That makes us one all.
– Timothy . . .
– Yes?
– Were you thinking when we were petting just now?
– Not at the end.
– Only at the end? I reckon that’s why you felt bad afterwards. You’re afraid of not thinking.
– I am afraid, in a way, he admitted.
She gazed earnestly into his eyes.
– But that’s what it’s all about, between guys and girls. To feel and not think. That’s good sometimes.
– Yes, he said, wavering. I can see that. If you’re grown up. Married.
– Oh, married! Who can wait that long? You might be dead before. We might all be dead, from the atom bomb.
– Do you really think that?
– Sometimes. Don’t you?
– No, not really, he said, and grinned. That’s something we’ve thought about. We’ve got it covered.
She punched him lightly in the ribs.
– You’re crazy. She took his hand and turned his wrist to read his watch. Jeepers! I must go.
– Don’t go.
– I have to. Can I wash up here? Don’t look, promise?
– I promise.
He turned to face the wall, and heard taps running. If he wasn’t to look she must be washing herself all over. He pictured her standing naked at the sink and his inordinate flesh began to stiffen again.
– O.K., said Gloria.
He turned to find her all clean and shining, clothes neatly tucked, buttoned and fastened, combing her hair in a mirror on the wall. He felt soiled and ill-smelling and sweaty as he stood up and adjusted his own dress. He went over to the washbasin.
– I’m afraid the carpet’s kind of wet. And I used your towel.
– That’s all right.
He rinsed his face and hands, and dried them on the damp towel, that smelled of her body and his.
– Well, she said, giving a final pat to her hair, and sheathing the comb in the back pocket of her jeans.
– I’ll see you to the bus, he said, putting on his shoes.
– No, skip it.
– I’d like to.
– No, there’ll be lots of kids around. I’d rather leave you here.
She turned back to the mirror and fiddled with her hair again. He went over and put his arm clumsily round her waist, looking at her reflection in the mirror and his own, two strange people.
– Can I see you tomorrow? he said.
– I guess not. We’re having a picnic in the Black Forest. Unless you’d like to come?
– I’d like to, he said, but I have to catch my train in the evening.
She nodded, without speaking.
– Won’t I see you again, then? he said.
– Doesn’t look like it, does it?
– I hadn’t thought of that, he said glumly.
– There you go again, she said, with a choked laugh.
– I don’t know what to say, Gloria, he mumbled, dropping his eyes from the mirror reflections, buffeted by emotions he could not put a name to.
– Don’t say anything, or I’ll bawl, she said, moving towards the door.
– Wait! Give me your address. I’ll write.
Exchanging addresses calmed them a little.
– I’ll write as soon as I get home, he promised.
– I’ll look forward to that.
– And you’ll write too?
– I’ll try. I’m not much of a letter-writer, to tell you the truth.
– Perhaps you’ll come to England on holiday one of these days.
– Maybe. Will you be coming back to Heidelberg?
– Yes, if my sister’s still here.
They stood in silence for a while, holding hands, not really believing in these remote possibilities.
– I suppose you’d better go, then, he said.
– Yes.
– I don’t want you to –
She kissed him once on the lips and slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. The room seemed dead, empty. He went over to the bed and threw himself down on it.
He woke suddenly, with no memory of having fallen asleep. The room was dark, and he thought at first that he had slept through the fireworks and the party. But when he drew the curtains he saw that it was still early in the evening. He was in no hurry to get to the party, except that he felt ravenously hungry. He washed himself thoroughly at the sink, dried off briskly and brushed his teeth. He put on fresh underwear and a clean shirt. The clothes were cool to his skin. Physically he had a great sense of wellbeing. In himself he felt – not sad exactly, and not happy either, but . . . solemn. And old. Old and wise and experienced. He examined himself gravely in the mirror, and wondered whether he looked different.
He checked his watch. It was time to leave, but he was reluctant to break the silence and solitude of his own mind, which calmed him now, like an empty church. He looked round the room and it suddenly struck him as squalid and untidy. With a burst of energy and efficiency, he began to tidy up, making the rumpled bed, collecting his dirty laundry together, throwing waste paper into the bin, opening the windows wide to air the room.
A key turned in the lock, and he swung round, expecting to see Jinx Dobell. But it was Dolores who nudged her way into the room, a suitcase in each hand. Her jaw dropped as she saw him.
– Oh! she gasped, dropping the suitcases.
– You’ve come back? he said.
– You’re Kate Young’s brother, aren’t you? Timothy? I’d forgotten all about you.
She looked tired and drawn beneath her tanned skin. Leaving her cases where they had fallen, she sank into an armchair and closed her eyes.
– Yes. I decided to take your offer, in the end.
– So I see. I didn’t know you were staying this long.
– I didn’t intend to. I’m going home tomorrow.
– Tomorrow.
– I – we – thought you were coming back next week.
– I was. I’m a refugee from dysentery, or some goddam thing.
– You mean you’re ill?
She nodded, without opening her eyes.
– Well, he said, I expect I can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.
She nodded again.
– You do that, Timothy.
– I’ll just pack my bag, then I could call and collect it tomorrow.
He moved swiftly around the room, emptying drawers and cupboards. Dolores sat immobile in the armchair. She spoke once.
– How did you make out here?
– Oh, fine. I’m jolly grateful . . .
He put a toothbrush and a pair of pyjamas in a paper bag to take with him.
– Well, I’m ready now. Will you be all right?
– You might just knock on the door of my next-door neighbour. Her name’s Jinx, Jinx Dobell. Ask her if she could drop by.
– I don’t think she’s there.
Dolores opened her eyes, with a flicker of curiosity.
– It’s been very quiet next door, he said, for the past week.
– Oh yeah, I remember, she was taking a vacation about now. Well, I’ll call someone else, don’t worry.
He left her sitting in her chair, with her eyes still closed.
The streets seemed strangely hushed and deserted for the hour, but, preoccupied with his own thoughts, Timothy did no more than vaguely register the fact. Though he was now late for the party, he did not hurry. He considered with awe his narrow escape. If Dolores had come back an hour earlier, if
the door had swung open while he and Gloria . . . He couldn’t bear even to imagine it. And if she had come back earlier still, he would never have been alone with Gloria at all, he would have had no room of his own to take her to, he would be walking through the streets of Heidelberg now as ignorant, as innocent, as he had been yesterday. It was extraordinarily lucky. But luck seemed too trivial a word for the occasion. He felt it rather as a kind of dark grace that was granted to those who took the plunge into experience.
He tried to decide how he really felt about what had happened. He felt a certain guilt, but not in the ashamed, despairing way he had felt immediately after he had spilled. The talk they had shared had changed that. A wave of tenderness surged through him, so strong that it almost brought him to a halt on the pavement, as he remembered her lying beside him in her blue briefs, with her arms crossed over her breasts. I shall not go to Confession tomorrow, he decided suddenly, I shall wait until I get back to England. And though it made no kind of sense, he laid the risk to his unshriven soul as a gift at Gloria’s feet.
He suddenly realized that the humming murmur he had been vaguely aware of as he paced the empty streets was the noise of a vast, excited crowd, and as he approached the New Bridge he found himself on the edge of it. The pavement on one side of the bridge was lined with people standing or sitting five or six deep, as were both banks of the river stretching down towards the Old Bridge. The river itself was crowded with craft of every description – pleasure boats, barges, tugs and rowing boats, many of the latter with Chinese lanterns hanging over their sterns in clusters, suspended from slender wands, casting pretty reflections on the water. The windows of every house that faced the river were open and dark with heads. People stood on benches, on ledges, on the plinths of statues, or perched on the roofs of parked cars. And every face was turned towards the east, where the darkness of the mountains was already merging into the darkness of the sky. As the light faded, the buzz of expectation, the laughter and the chatter, subtly intensified.
He made his way slowly along the edge of the crowd, across the bridge, and along the northern bank towards Vince and Greg’s flat. As he climbed through the dank garden, he could hear strains of jazz and saw lights shining from the uncurtained windows of the top floor. The front door of the building was open and bore the handwritten direction, Come On Up. He climbed the polished wooden stairs. The door of the flat was ajar, and he went in.
He put down his paper bag in the hall, and paused on the threshold of the main room. The guests were standing in small groups, talking and gesticulating, blowing cigarette smoke into the air and swirling the ice in their drinks. Kate, fidgeting with the neckline of her dress, was talking to Maria in one corner. Mel and Ruth were there, and Dot, and most of the other faces were vaguely familiar. He couldn’t see Don. Vince, with a cocktail shaker, and Greg, with a platter of food, moved among the guests. It was some time before anyone noticed him, and he felt queerly detached from the party, as if he were invisible, observing without being observed, and somehow getting a sharper, less dazzled view of the people than he had ever had before. They looked so middle-aged, if not positively old. He was aware of thinning hair, ugly rolls of surplus flesh, lines and wrinkles caked with make-up. Smiles seemed strained, eyes empty and desperate, grimaces and gestures like nervous tics. What was he doing here? He wished he could be standing down in the crowds below, holding Gloria’s hand in the twilight, waiting for the fireworks to begin. Then Kate saw him, and came eagerly across the room.
– Timothy! Where have you been? I was getting worried . . .
She kissed him: a sisterly, aunt-like kiss, smelling of face-powder and perfume.
– Bit of a hitch, he said.
He told her about Dolores’ illness and premature return.
– What a nuisance, she said.
– It could have been worse.
– You seem to be taking it in your stride, anyway, she said, brushing back his forelock, with a smile. How was the party last night?
– It was O.K.
He scanned the room, looking for distraction from this topic. Ruth saw him and blew a kiss. He waved back. Vince came up.
– Hi, Timothy, how are things?
– Fine, thanks. What about you? Were you scared the Russians wouldn’t let you go?
– Not really. Have a Manhattan.
– Have you got a Coke?
– There may be some in the kitchen, but why not live a little? This is your last night, isn’t it?
– Yes, and just as well, because Dolores has come back from her holiday.
– Dolores? Oh, Dolores! Hell, where will you sleep tonight, then?
– I’ll get him a room somewhere, said Kate. It’s only for one night.
– A room? You mean in a hotel? On fireworks night?
Kate bit her lip.
– I suppose they’ll all be full.
– You bet. But Timothy can stay here – no problem.
– That’s jolly nice of you, said Timothy, relieved.
Kate looked doubtful.
– Well, I don’t know. Your couch is in here, and who knows when this party is going to end?
– Don’t worry, honey, I’ll see he gets his beauty sleep. Tell you what, he can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t plan to go to bed tonight, anyway. Let’s have no more discussion. Let’s have another drink.
– No thanks, Vince, I’m fine. Kate covered her glass with her hand.
– Oh come on, honey, pull your weight, we’re all going to get high tonight. It’s a hail and farewell party: hail us and farewell Timothy.
Vince tried to pour into her glass and splashed the liquor over her hand and on to the carpet.
– There! she said, upset.
– Don’t worry, it’s a good mothkiller, said Greg, coming up to dab the carpet with a cloth. First the moths get drunk, then they go out and get knocked down by automobiles. Hi, Timothy! Are you glad to be going back to Blighty?
– Yes and no.
– That’s a good answer, I must remember it when I get married. He stood upright, shoulder to shoulder with Kate. Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? Well, yes and no.
Timothy laughed. Encouraged, Greg put his face close to Kate’s and ran a finger lightly over her bosom. He murmured:
– Honey, are we going to elope tonight or do you want to die without knowing?
This did not go down well with Kate. She flinched and pulled away.
– Come on, Timothy, she said. I’ll get you that Coke.
Kate pushed the kitchen door shut behind them before she opened the huge refrigerator.
– I don’t like the way the boys are acting tonight. I’ve seen them before in this mood. They don’t get drunk very often, but when they do . . . I’d rather you weren’t staying here, really.
– I’ll be all right.
– I suppose it’s natural they should want to let off steam a bit after Berlin. Greg said there were fleas in their cell and the food was uneatable.
– Is Don coming tonight?
– I think not. He said he would drop by the hospital to see how Rudolf was. He’s off the danger-list, anyway, which is a relief.
– Good. Er, I’m terrifically hungry, Kate . . .
– Come back into the dining-room – Greg’s made a marvellous terrine.
She led him to a table spread with a cold buffet. Ruth was there, pecking greedily at the delicacies.
– Hi, Timothy. Like some chocolate ants?
He stared incredulously, then blenched.
– No thanks.
– Mmm, they’re delicious.
She scooped the chocolate-coated insects into her mouth with her long talons. A faint crunching sound came from her moving jaws. Timothy felt slightly nauseous, but, biting into an open sandwich of cream cheese and chopped ham, immediately felt his appetite return.
– Hey! Ruth said, a gleam in her dark eyes. Was it you who turned out the lights on the boat last night?
– What’s this? Kate pricked her ears.
– Didncha hear about the birthday party, Kate? Some kid fused the lights and it turned into some kinda teenage orgy.
– Really?
– No, not really, said Timothy, busying himself with the pate.
– Well, Lola Eastman had hysterics after they got back. What with trying to keep the kids out of each other’s pants and stopping them from falling into the river . . . Never again, she says.
– Well! Kate exclaimed, her eyebrows arching. I want to hear all about this, Timothy.
He was rescued by a sudden huge murmur from outside, and a cheer that rolled down the valley. They crowded to the windows, to see that the streetlights had been extinguished all along the river-banks. Vince clapped his hands
– Fill up your glasses, folks! The lights are going out all over Heidelberg. Everyone out on the balcony.
He went round the room, turning off every light except one low table lamp with an almost opaque red shade. They squeezed out on to the balcony, but it was not big enough to take them all, and some of the guests stood on chairs just inside the room. Timothy, however, had a place at the balustrade. It was quite dark, except for the headlights of cars crossing the New Bridge and a few lights on the river craft. The shapes of the town and the mountains were lost in the blackness, and the floodlights had gone from the castle. An expectant hush had settled over the crowd below and communicated itself to their own tight-packed group. A plane droned somewhere overhead.
– Well, what are we waiting for? Mel grumbled in the darkness.
– Someone forgot to bring the matches, Greg quipped, and they all laughed wildly.
– It’s like waiting for an artillery barrage to begin, Mel complained.
Three rockets soared into the velvet black sky and burst with loud explosions into stars, red, green, blue. A long Ooh! was exhaled from the crowd below.
– That’s the signal to begin, said Kate.
The embers of the rockets faded as they fell, and darkness returned again. Then, magically, the castle materialized, as if floating in the night sky opposite them, burning like an airship on fire. It seemed enveloped in red flames, licking round the walls and battlements, and there was a glow from inside the buildings, throwing the ruined façades into silhouette against the brightly lit windows, where one could easily imagine figures fighting desperately to escape.