Incidents in the Rue Laugier

by Anita Brookner

  She was always relieved to see him, standing in the doorway with an aura of cold night air surrounding him. She never failed to kiss him, anxious for his approval, conscious of the slight constraint between them. If she felt apologetic it was because she sensed an unhappiness greater than her own. Indeed she was not altogether unhappy, having found a setting and a line of duty in which her peaceful temperament felt at home. She knew that all was not well between them, knew that, in ways she refused to examine, the past impinged on the present. She knew that she was more pragmatic than her husband, had settled unadventurously into what had been offered, submitted to her husband’s embraces not unenthusiastically but always with a slight timidity, as if fearful of awakening ghosts, willed herself to be passive so that he could be all the more uninhibited. She discovered something she had not expected, a slight savagery in his lovemaking which she learned to accommodate.

  It seemed to her daily that she knew him less and less, and that she had married a stranger whose kindness was not entirely to be relied upon. Yet she looked forward to his homecoming every evening, conscious, after the long silent day, of loneliness, conscious of the black leafless trees outside her window, and the sad sound of footsteps in the quiet street, where no cars passed all the long afternoon, so that she sometimes had the impression that she was the only person alive in this permanent winter. Combing her hair at her dressing-table, adding perhaps a necklace, she tried to summon up a sense of anticipation. But there was little to anticipate, apart from the mild kiss, the modest meal, the peace and comfort of an uneventful evening. Frequently she would say to him, ‘I’m going to bed now. I’ll read for a while. You won’t disturb me.’ She did this as much for his sake as for hers, knowing how he savoured his solitude, once he had satisfied himself that she was at home, waiting for him. She sensed in him an immense disappointment that he had failed to bring her to life, failed in fact to bring them both to life. Sometimes, when she looked across to him in his chair, she would see his expression as brooding, thoughtful, even yearning, but yearning not for her presence, which he had, but for some promise which she had failed to fulfil. She had seen that look before, in the rue Laugier, when he had offered to marry her. Because that sad look of yearning was unbearable to her she would close her book, bid him goodnight, and go to bed. She longed for darkness and for sleep, but stayed awake until Harrison joined her in the bedroom: it seemed only good manners to exchange a few last remarks with him. Their final ‘Goodnight’ released them both from the day’s obligations. She slid into sleep easily, gratefully; he, his hands behind his head, stared for some time into the darkness, his memory more active in those night hours than it was in the daytime, when he was agreeably besieged by preoccupations of a more practical nature, distracted by decisions and conversations. In the daytime he would think gratefully of Maud, of her fastidious quietness. At night he would feel a certain familiar sadness when he listened to her steady breathing from the other bed.

  She was amazed at her lack of unhappiness, while he was eternally surprised at his sense of loss. In the first three years that followed their marriage they gave the appearance of a well-matched couple. Neighbours who saw them out walking on a Sunday afternoon thought them exemplary, their silence if anything a forceful indication of their inner harmony. Max and Nelly Kroll, dining with them once a month, were charmed by Maud’s ceremonious preparations, her meticulous menus, her poached salmon or her lamb with flageolet beans, her apple tart or her lemon soufflé. Nelly Kroll, a sparkling seventy-five-year-old, exclaimed at Maud’s beauty, and privately thought how greatly she would be improved by a little animation. Max, happy with his cigar, his brandy, and the chocolates that Maud always bought for him, thought how much he would have appreciated her had she been his daughter. But there were no children. The Krolls had made their peace with this long ago, their disappointment faded into a comfortable resignation. Nelly Kroll, in the kitchen, had broached the subject with Maud, relying on an old woman’s privilege to examine this most delicate of matters.

  ‘No,’ said Maud. ‘It’s not that Edward doesn’t like children. It’s just that I seem unable to have them.’

  ‘Have you tried?’ said Nelly.

  Maud turned away. ‘Of course,’ she replied, her voice as calm as she could make it. ‘But I don’t seem able to proceed beyond a few weeks. I’m sorry for Edward’s sake. For myself I’ve more or less come to terms.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m perfectly well. Shall we join the others? You prefer camomile tea to coffee, don’t you?’

  And Nelly Kroll, convinced that Maud’s sadness, and Edward’s too, was the result of this simple incapacity—or were they mismatched?—told herself there were no more questions she could decently ask and returned with relief to her husband’s side. Absentmindedly he took her hand. He had noticed, as she had, that the Harrisons rarely touched each other. He would have liked to have known more, but his tact was superior to that of his wife.

  Besides, there were more interesting matters to discuss, such as the current state of Edward’s business, and—to judge from the lavishness of Maud’s appointments, the comfort of this room and the excellent meals they always ate—the extremely gratifying state of prosperity which he had already attained and which he looked, if anything, to increase in the years ahead, if he had the good sense to rely on Max’s advice.

  For the shop was a success. Since his marriage Harrison had discovered that he had it in himself to be an excellent businessman. Truth to tell, the shop was a refuge from a home life which he could not help but think of as unhappy, though he was careful not to probe too deeply into the causes of that unhappiness. With his lists of subscribers and correspondents, many of them American, brought up to date, he found himself writing to them as if they were old friends. His advertisements had brought him a few regular visitors for whom his unusual stock, now carefully augmented, was a constant joy. It was Maud who suggested that he carry more classics, preferably in good editions, a suggestion for which he was grateful. Further advertisements in literary journals brought in enquiries from retiring dons, or the widows of defunct dons, on the verge of moving to smaller houses, and only too willing to surrender a complete set of Balzac, or George Eliot, or Zola. Out of a delicate feeling for his wife, the feeling that subsisted when all others seemed stale and crude, he concentrated on French books, putting on one side for her books with the names of women, La Cousine Bette, or La Petite Fadette, or Germinie Lacerteux, books he thought suitable to her frail composure, having forgotten what quiet horrors such titles concealed, and in any event immersed, as always, in Dickens. He allowed Cook a little sideline of his own: review copies collected from critics and journalists, and sold on at the book fairs he occasionally attended at the weekends. Cook too had his own list of subscribers, and was becoming increasingly familiar with contemporary fiction. In the afternoons, if there were no visitors, a calm settled on the shop: both read, as if reading were the reason for their being there at all. Customers were impressed. Their reputation was excellent.

  It was when he set out to walk home, in the winter dark, his hands in his pockets, that doubts began once more to assail him. He was oddly reluctant to join his wife, while at the same time feeling an intense relief at the sight of the lights shining from the windows of the flat. This image of home beguiled him every evening, though he knew it was illusory. But it was a necessary illusion. The warmth, the light, Maud’s greeting, and the exchange of what little news they had to impart to each other, soothed him into a feeling of normality, behind which he was aware of serious discrepancies. Their union, he knew, was weak, lacking in solidarity. There were no children, virtually no parents, no significant elders to guide them. After Arthur Harrison’s death Maud declined to accompany him to Eastbourne. ‘You go,’ she would say. ‘Your mother would rather see you on her own. And Bibi is coming up next week—we shall have plenty to talk about.’ He on his side manifested a violent antipathy to Ma
ud’s family, particularly to her mother and her aunt, whom he saw as corrupt and infinitely corruptible. This feeling was largely retrospective, since he in his turn failed to accompany her to Dijon, and was in fact instrumental in dissuading her from going there on her own, with the result that Maud got into the habit of speaking to her mother on the telephone, conversations which both found sufficient for their requirements. Maud and her husband existed in a limbo which had its attractions, most notably in that moment of recognition at the end of the working day, when they would emerge from their respective silences to greet each other with something like joy, only to relapse again, and all too soon, into another silence, the silence which continued to subsist between them, and which neither of them could break.

  Then, as if in acknowledgment of this, Maud would go early to bed, and he with a sigh would eventually join her, only to stay awake, staring into the darkness, long after he could hear her quiet breathing. Yet in the morning, with their blue breakfast cups filled with excellent coffee, and the honey and the marmalade in their pottery dishes, they found it impossible not to feel mildly optimistic again. When Maud put his boiled egg in front of him, remembering that he liked the eggcup with the cockerel painted on it, it seemed to Edward that he was like every other married man, with no more than an average man’s wants and needs, and those largely satisfied. The pristine newspaper, the cheerful buttery smells, the consciousness that he was leaving his home in the hands of an excellent housekeeper, all contrived to make a nonsense of his night-time fears. Even when he heard her sigh he knew that she would never be indiscreet enough to burst into tears, or indulge in public soul-searching, or reproach him with an occasional silence. He knew that he could trust her good breeding. He had little contact with women, had no idea what they did all day. Like most men he preferred to think of Maud devoting her solitary hours to considerations of his ease and comfort. He would not have been surprised to hear that she spent the whole day shopping for his food, preparing his meal. That logic might have told him that these activities took no more than an hour at the most made no difference. In his heart he knew that he could rely on her excellent care. What she did with the rest of her time did not concern him.

  In fact she walked a lot, mostly in the mornings, mostly round the neighbourhood. She prepared her soups and purchased her breads and her cheeses largely before midday. In the afternoon she might visit a gallery, even if Jean Bell were not in town, or go round the shops with Bibi: this she found disheartening, but warmed as always to Bibi’s bright eyes and ingenuous conversation. She was out every day, but particularly appreciated the days when she was left entirely on her own. Solitude did not alarm her, nor did silence. Once she had greeted her downstairs neighbour, a fierce elderly woman with a little dog, whom she encountered at the entrance at the same time every morning, she was fully prepared not to utter a word until her husband came home. She found it natural to keep her thoughts to herself, to be studious, to commune with the characters in a picture or in a book. Every day, after her cup of tea, she would settle down with her book for a couple of hours, rather like Max Kroll’s ideal reader, until with a sigh she would realise that her day, her own particular day, was over, would go into the bedroom, would put on her lapis necklace, brush her hair, and prepare for Edward’s return. She even found herself impatient for him; she thought he felt the same for her. Yet, their sight of each other satisfied, both lapsed into a silence. Paradoxically, it was only the sight of the other that made the silence bearable.

  ‘A letter from Dijon,’ she said one morning at breakfast. ‘Two pieces of news. Mother has broken her ankle, and Xavier is getting married.’

  ‘To one of those awful girls?’

  She consulted the letter. ‘To a Pascale Lacombe. I don’t know her, neither does Mother. Germaine is very pleased, apparently. I shall have to go to France, Edward. I must go and see Mother and I shall have to go to the wedding. She says that she can’t move, and I must represent her. That’s what she says, not what I say. Can you do without me for a few days? Or do you want to come?’

  ‘No, I don’t. You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be more than four or five days. If I go straight to Dijon …’

  ‘Where is the wedding?’

  She consulted the letter again. ‘Paris. Saint-Philippe du Roule. I could catch a late plane back.’

  ‘I don’t want you travelling at night. You’d better stay in a hotel and take an early flight the next morning. You’d better go to the Washington.’ It was where they had spent the one night of their honeymoon. ‘Can you book it yourself, or do you want me to do it?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘And you’d better have a new suit, or dress, whatever.’ No wife of his was going to appear less than perfect.

  ‘Thank you, Edward.’

  She went to the dressmaker that morning, and together they devised a dark red suit with a mandarin-collared jacket, and a small hat in the same dark red ribbed silk. She described this outfit with some enthusiasm to Edward, who only half listened. He liked her in any case in her usual clothes, the silk shirts and the tweed or tartan skirts she had learned to wear. He thought, when he saw her off the following week, that she looked cold, as she so often did, and wondered whether she would like a fur coat. He dismissed the idea after a few minutes, knowing how modest her tastes were. Nevertheless he noticed that she was wearing a different scent, not one he knew. She kissed him at the airport, as if fearful of seeing him go. When he looked back he saw her staring at him fixedly. He waved, she waved back. Then she turned to go.

  In Dijon she found her mother sitting comfortably, with her bandaged ankle on a footstool. Keeping her company was the concierge, Mme Fernandez, now referred to as Clarita. On a table by her mother’s side was a slightly dog-eared pile of women’s magazines, of no great pretension. It was clear that the hoped-for re-entry into society had not taken place, and that Mme Fernandez was Nadine’s constant visitor. It was also clear, after a slightly embarrassed half-hour, that Nadine had found a certain satisfaction in letting things slide, and herself with them. Maud noticed sadly that her mother’s hair was largely grey, that there was a new pair of spectacles on a cord round her neck, that her lipstick was worn away to the corners of her mouth. Yet despite this negligence she was fairly vividly made up, as if following the tips in those magazines which were now her favoured reading. Her eyelids were green, and a wavering pencil had accentuated her fading eyebrows. She gave a small smile in perceiving Maud’s worried expression. She was completely aware of the process by which she had been overtaken, but after a lifetime of unremitting effort had succumbed without protest. ‘You see,’ she said, with a resigned gesture, indicating the far from immaculate room, ‘why I can’t go to the wedding.’ The gesture explained more than the broken ankle. ‘Germaine is on the telephone every evening. The girl is rich, apparently. They are pulling out all the stops.’

  Maud reflected that she would never have used so vulgar an expression in the old days. ‘But who looks after you?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  ‘Clarita looks in every day. We underestimated her, Maud. She really is a very interesting woman. Sometimes we go to the cinema together. You should have asked her to stay. It was not nice of you to be so high-handed, thanking her in that dismissive way.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise she was your friend.’

  ‘You’d better have a word with her when you go downstairs. Make yourself agreeable. How long are you staying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  But after a night in her old room, now cold and dusty, she decided to leave the following day. It was clear that she was no longer wanted.

  In the hotel in Paris she telephoned Edward, unpacked her bag, hung up her red suit, and laid the pink silk kimono on the bed. The weather was misty, wintry. She went out, walked down the Champs-Elysées, then, defeated, walked back again. All around her light streamed out from shops, cafés; crowd
s sauntered in the pre-Christmas euphoria. She felt isolated, conspicuous. She went into a bookshop and chose the current bestseller, knowing that she would not read it, then returned to the hotel. She ate in her room, feeling unequal to the restaurant, any restaurant. The next two days were spent in the same manner: the same walk, the same reclusive meals. She missed her flat and her peaceful habits. A slight feeling of horror dogged her footsteps on her solitary perambulations. She wondered whether she would have the courage ever to speak to anyone again. It was with a feeling of relief, as well as of extreme nervousness, that she woke on the morning of the wedding. The nervousness was of the wedding itself, the relief at the realisation that she could soon go home.

  In the church the first person she saw was Tyler, in a grey morning suit, looking far more resplendent than the bridegroom, whose best man he was to be. Of course, she thought, I knew this all along. Even his back, which was all that she could see of him, looked expensive. She hardly noticed Xavier, or the pale pretty little bride, or Germaine, whose colour was high and whose expression was triumphant. She sat through the service unthinking, and drifted in the wake of the exclamatory crowd to the cars waiting to take them to the reception at the Crillon. There, her colour as high as that of Germaine, who was mercifully too busy to pay her any attention, she took a glass of champagne and waited for Tyler to cross the room to her. She had no doubt that he would do this. Even if he made her wait, she had every faith in their inevitable encounter.