Incidents in the Rue Laugier

by Anita Brookner

  One or two of the guests attempted to speak to her but soon gave up as she gazed at them without, it was obvious, responding to their presence or listening to their words. At one point Germaine, noticing her at last, insisted on introducing her to the bride’s mother, a tall vaguely smiling woman who shook her hand with a polite lack of interest. Maud went back to her place by the buffet, where she was determined Tyler should see her. She suspected that he had already seen her, had made a note of her presence, was reserving her for later. Either that or he had decided to treat her as just another wedding guest. She drank a third glass of champagne, willing him to join her; her eyes never left him. She saw once again his superiority to every other man in the room, saw the glances of women, saw a speculative look cross several faces: hands caught at his arm, attempts were made on all sides to detain him. It was not merely that he was handsome, absurdly so, or that he was performing his duties with a great deal of charm. It was that he aroused, in that largely middle-aged assembly, old atavistic longings for the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect lover, the archetypal man who would take care of a woman’s desire not only for love but for protection. It was quite clear that many women among the guests felt a languor at his approach, longed to reach out to him, oblivious to what faults of character he might display. Those faults were automatically forgiven, or if not forgiven, excused. The aura of his great glamour was made available to all. It was largely owing to Tyler, thought Xavier, suddenly depressed, that his wedding was such a success.

  At last, his eyes steady, his mouth rueful, he stood in front of Maud.

  ‘Well, Maud. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I remember you, Tyler.’

  ‘You’re looking splendid. Your hair is longer. At least I think it is; I can’t see under the hat. How’s married life?’

  She ignored this. ‘And you? Are you married?’

  ‘Engaged,’ he said briefly. Then with a smile, ‘Well, what did you expect? Since you wouldn’t wait for me, Maud.’

  She registered this without flinching. ‘And will you marry her, this girl of yours.’

  ‘Probably not. Where are you staying?’ he said, in a lower voice.

  She told him.

  ‘I should be free about seven. Wait for me there.’

  He drifted away. Composed, she fought her way through to Xavier and wished him every happiness. Then she embraced her aunt, who looked surprised.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Maud, and looking so well. How long are you in Paris? We must have a talk about Nadine. I am not at all happy about her. How did you find her?’

  ‘I am leaving tomorrow, Aunt. And I’m sure Mother will be perfectly fine. I know you will make it your business to keep an eye on her.’

  She thought how easy it was to assert herself after all the years of being submissive, how even arrogance excites a certain respect, while modesty brings few rewards, calls forth few tributes. Having delegated her aunt to look after her mother, she felt free of all old ties, her life her own at last, her wishes paramount. Escaping from the heat and noise of the Crillon into the starry dark of the Place de la Concorde, she felt inside herself a steadily beating pulse that signified intent. Too impatient to wait for a cab she walked up the Champs-Elysées, anxious now for the hot scented bath she would take. After that she was not quite sure. She only knew that they had met, that they would at last have that conversation that should have taken place long before. She looked back on the quiet years of her marriage with incredulity. How could she so have scaled down her life? She had denied herself, or had been denied, the play of instinct, and instinct was now what was awake in her. She could imagine herself pulling Tyler down with her on to the bed, could imagine it vividly, even scabrously, yet at the same time she knew that that was not what she wanted. All these years she had been over-prepared for her eventual meeting with Tyler. Now she knew that she desired him only as he had appeared to her that summer, and later in the dusk of that room, naked, his head lowered, his desire made plain. The prestigious charmer in the grey morning suit had irritated her, and the irritation had increased her own new feeling of selfworth. Above all she thought that her excitement had less to do with arousal than with anger. She wanted to attack Tyler, to ravish him, but knew that in doing so she would destroy the perfect memory of his own desire that was her most precious possession.

  She had changed, and was brushing her hair when the telephone call came from the reception desk informing her that a gentleman was asking for her.

  ‘Please ask him to come up,’ she said carelessly, and also knew, from the tone of her voice, that she was behaving out of character, and that if by any chance he remembered her it would not be like this, in this clichéd setting for a seduction. In that moment she knew she would deny herself her dearest wish, and in that way keep her image distinct in his mind, so that if possible it might stay that way through all the receding summers of his life.

  He had changed into an open-necked shirt and pullover: his overcoat, the collar turned up, brought with it all the cold of the December evening.

  ‘Are we going to bed?’ he asked, eyeing the pink silk kimono spread out on the coverlet, which the maid had already turned down for the night.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘We are going for a walk. Do you remember how we used to walk, Tyler?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Come then.’ She held open the door for him, took her key, left the light on.

  ‘Are we coming back?’

  ‘No. We’re not coming back.’

  Silent, they walked down the Champs-Elysées. She did not take his arm, nor did they instinctively find their rhythm; both were aware of this, although they were hardly aware of the crowds separating them, or the jolt from a careless shopper. Once past the Rond Point they were in darkness. Few walkers, except those with a purpose, lingered in those stony gardens at nightfall.

  ‘There’s a bit in Proust about this part of the Champs-Elysées,’ he said finally. ‘About children, and falling in love as children.’

  ‘I must read it,’ she said. ‘We should have fallen in love as children, Tyler. That way we should have known each other so much better.’

  ‘I always felt I knew you, Maud.’

  ‘But you didn’t really, did you? You didn’t want to know how I felt.’

  He made a gesture of impatience. ‘Oh, women’s feelings! The fuss made over them! Besides, I did know how you felt. You said you loved me.’

  ‘But you are used to hearing that.’

  He glanced at her in surprise. ‘Don’t be cruel, Maud.’

  They walked on again in silence.

  ‘The trouble was,’ she said, ‘that I never felt I knew you. Even when we were making love I felt that you denied me a certain intimacy, a certain knowledge.’

  ‘Look, can’t we sit down? I’m actually feeling rather tired. I’ve been on my feet nearly all day, may I remind you. And I don’t know whether I’m up to the sort of conversation we seem to be having. My suggestion was much better.’

  ‘You’d probably have fallen asleep, if you’re so tired.’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed.

  ‘I want to cross the river,’ she said. ‘Then you can sit down if you must. I’m tired too, now that I come to think of it. The champagne has worn off. I never thought I’d have this conversation with you, Tyler. And in a way it’s too late. I feel too grown up to be talking about myself in this way.’

  ‘You never did talk about yourself. That was part of your charm.’

  They drifted across the Pont des Arts, their steps matching now, and stopped instinctively to lean on the parapet and stare into the water. A crushing feeling of anticlimax descended on her; she felt foolish and ashamed. As if sensing this, he put his arm around her, a gesture familiar to her only from her husband. It seemed out of place, homely, comforting, whereas she was used to Tyler merely taking what he wanted. Which was how he should remain, she thought. He belonged to others now, although those others might ch
ange and be replaced; she lacked, as always, or so she reasoned, some final persuasiveness. She had said all she had to say, and as usual had captured only a fragment of his attention. They straightened up and walked on, again in silence, everything having been said, the longed-for response once more in abeyance.

  He brightened once they were seated in the Deux Magots; the noise and bustle added to his assurance.

  ‘Where’s Noddy?’ he asked. ‘Minding the shop?’

  ‘I like you better when you don’t speak,’ she told him. ‘I remember those walks we used to take, far into the night. We hardly spoke then. Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ he said, finishing his coffee and signalling the waiter for the bill.

  ‘I wanted those walks to go on for ever. I wanted us to walk like that this evening.’

  ‘It’s winter, Maud,’ he said gently. ‘It’s no longer that summer. Not for you, not for me. It’s all in the past now.’

  ‘I loved you,’ she said shakily. ‘I think I still do. At least, I remember you all the time, even when I’m doing something quite mundane, like peeling vegetables, or making beds. I only ever wanted to be with you, Tyler. It hardly mattered that you didn’t love me …’

  ‘I worshipped you,’ he said.

  ‘Too late,’ she said, the tears slipping down her face. ‘I wanted to marry you. And now I’m married to Edward.’

  ‘Oh, you’d have had a terrible time with me.’ His tone was light now, unconcerned. She could no longer believe that he had meant a word of what had gone before. She wanted to be alone now, so that she could remember his—what was it? His avowal, his confession? She wanted quite urgently to take the memory home, so that she could keep it safe.

  ‘I’m tired now,’ she said. Her voice was dull, her colour gone.

  He looked at her, faintly shocked by her appearance. ‘A taxi, I think. Or rather two taxis.’

  In the street he took her arm again, and to her infinite surprise she sensed that he was aroused. Even her piteous face had aroused him, restored his predator’s instinct. ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked. ‘There’s nothing to say we can’t spend tomorrow together, is there? And no walking this time. Just your hotel. Unless you change your mind about tonight?’

  ‘I’m too tired,’ she said, meaning too tired for you, too sad, not as you remember me.

  He kissed her. ‘I’ll ring you in the morning,’ he said. ‘Now don’t rush off anywhere.’

  But in those words, she thought, he had told her what she must do, simply because he no longer really expected her to wait for him, because, with his lightning changes of mood, he no longer wanted her to. To wait for him would be to test the limits of his desire, and she knew, obscurely but insistently, that those limits had already been reached. She had known him when his desire was limitless: how could she now sit in a hotel room, waiting for him to call? And even when he did, for she had no doubt that he would, their lovemaking, the real purpose of this further meeting, would be deliberate, self-conscious, and not what either of them cared to remember.

  In bed that night she felt anguish, not at the thought of losing him—he was already lost—but at not having realised earlier how many risks it was legitimate to take. And she had settled for safety, not for freedom; she had been fearful of giving offence, and yet had managed to inflict damage. She might be thought to have acted in a worldly and self-serving manner, whereas in fact she had been frightened. And all the time Tyler might have loved her … But he had not loved her enough, had not overruled her, was finally not convinced that his response to her was stronger than his response to all the other women who crossed his path, cajoled him, seduced him, protested their love for him …

  She had derived from this meeting both more and less than she had hoped. With their admission of love came a certain regret that this had not been made in due time. She had done what she never wanted to do, to make Tyler feel mildly ashamed of himself. She did not want him repentent, in falsely humble mode; she still wanted him to triumph. With the knowledge that he had almost certainly meant what he said went the conviction that she had imagined it so much better, so many scores of times more. Reality was an insufficient record; as if in proof of this the dawn brought no comfort. She felt pity for them both, even embarrassment. Had they made love, she knew, they might no longer have been in accord.

  She had no need for the little travelling alarm clock that Edward had given her. She had to wait until seven before she could order her breakfast and ask the reception desk to prepare her bill. It was barely light when she left the hotel and stepped into the taxi which was to take her to the airport. She shivered in her coat, was impatient to reach home, to take another bath, to begin an ordinary day. Her mind was calm, even blank; the events of the previous evening were put aside for future contemplation. Yet even now she knew that they would not yield much. There was no disappointment in the fact that she had not waited for Tyler, nor did she think that he would be disappointed, or even surprised. He would telephone, to be told that she had left; he would shrug his shoulders, and leave in his turn. She would never see him again.

  In the flat, which felt cold and empty, as if her presence had been removed for ever, she took a bath, dressed in warm clothes, and went out again. She walked to the shop, where Edward and Cook expressed some surprise at seeing her. ‘Have we got a Proust?’ she asked.

  ‘Over there,’ said Edward. ‘The Pléïade edition.’

  Disheartened, she rifled through the thin pages. ‘It’s like the Bible,’ she said.

  ‘To some people it is the Bible,’ said her husband. ‘It will keep you going for some time. Are you going back? If so, I could give you a lift. I’ve got to pick up some books in Wimbledon.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk. I need some shopping.’

  ‘You had a good time?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very good. I’ll tell you about it this evening. Goodbye, Tom. Nice to see you.’

  She walked through the blank streets, suddenly violently missing Paris, where the crowds had seemed so indifferent. She thought at last of Tyler, of the walk of the previous evening. ‘I worshipped you,’ Tyler had said, but his voice was flat. Their steps had been ill matched. She was left with a conviction of defeat, and was almost sure that he must feel the same.

  In the flat she made a leek and potato soup, ate lunch, then settled down to read. ‘Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure,’ stated the first sentence. She looked up, marvelling. The early dusk found her still reading, her tasks ignored. When she got up to switch on the lights she had to shade her eyes, so immersed had she been in that other summer, in which a small child waits anxiously for his mother to come and kiss him, waits for the guest to leave, for the gate to click shut, and for the sound of her steps on the stairs. Steady now, as if she had found an occupation for the dark days of winter, she went into her bedroom, brushed her hair, and put on the pearl necklace her mother had given her for her wedding. When Harrison came home he found her quite composed, as it was his joy and his torment to find her.

  It was not until they were seated at the table, and he was drinking his tea, that a monstrous realisation exploded in his mind.

  ‘Was Tyler there?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, Tyler was there.’

  ‘Did you know he was going to be there?’

  ‘No, of course not. How could I? He was the best man,’ she added.

  ‘He always was, wasn’t he? The best man?’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Edward.’ He looked at her in some surprise; she had never criticised him before.

  ‘And did everyone fall for him?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Everyone falls for Tyler, don’t they? Everyone is in love with Tyler.’

  Even you, she thought; but managed to say nothing.

  ‘We went for a walk,’ she said, still calm. ‘We needed the air.’

  ‘And then you went back to the hotel,’ he said, his expression excited and f
urious.

  ‘I did. I don’t know where Tyler went. I don’t know what he did. I didn’t see him again. More tea?’

  That night she went to bed earlier than usual, hoping that she might be asleep before Edward came in. But he chose to be early too. They lay in the dark, listening to each other’s breathing.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Maud,’ said Edward suddenly.

  She was aware of blackness, of silence, of days and nights of winter before the sun could break through and bring them back to life.

  ‘Maud? Did you hear me?’

  ‘Of course I heard you. And of course I won’t leave you.’ She took a deep steadying breath. ‘You are my life now.’

  THIRTEEN

  THEIR DAUGHTER, MARY FRANÇOISE, SOON SHORTENED TO Maffy, was born in the ninth year of their marriage, when hope had been given up on all sides. There seemed to be no particular reason why a child should have been conceived at this time. There had been no noticeable increase or decrease in affection, no heightening or lowering of the emotional temperature, no jealousy on the one hand or longing on the other. They were successful partners, but partners rather than husband and wife: they tended each other’s needs and respected each other’s wishes. The flat was warm, welcoming, but always appeared empty if one walked into it unexpectedly; the food was lavish and inventive, but they ate little of it, reserving it for the dinner that was served to Max and Nelly Kroll, or the lunches that Maud occasionally gave for Jean Bell and Bibi, both of whom, slightly irritated by her passivity, urged on her the qualities which they thought desirable in the modern woman and to which she seemed such a stranger.

  It was true that she was quiet, and dependent on her privacy; she was even more dependent on her husband, who preferred her to exhibit a slightly invalidish calm. His strength, it was felt, increased as hers declined; if anything he would have preferred her more passive, confined if possible to a chaise-longue, Elizabeth Barrett to his Robert Browning, with the promise of their flight indefinitely postponed. He was born, he thought, to cherish, though all the while he realised that his attentions were received absentmindedly, as if Maud were engaged in some deep mental process which would eventually make sense of her life and set her free. Since, at some heavenly tribunal, she would have been prepared to defend her actions, both irrational and rational, she would have been at pains, if questioned, to explain why this process took up so much of her time and her attention. But she was not in the habit of explaining, moved easily and equably through her life, performed her domestic duties admirably, and gave no cause for complaint.