The Collected Stories

by William Trevor

  ‘Gosh!’

  ‘Sit down, Miss Smith.’

  They sat and sipped at their drinks. They talked about the room. She walked out on to the balcony and then came and sat down again. It had become quite cold, she remarked, shivering a little. She coughed.

  ‘You’ve a cold.’

  ‘England always gives me a cold.’

  They sat in two dark, tweed-covered armchairs with a glass-topped table between them. A maid had been to turn down the bed. His green pyjamas lay ready for him on the pillow.

  They talked about the people on the tour, Hafiz and the testy professor, and the Frenchman with the moving camera. She had seen Hafiz and the American girls in the tourist bazaar, in the tea-shop. The minibus had broken down that afternoon: he’d seen it outside the Armenian Museum, the driver and Hafiz examining its plugs.

  ‘My mother would love that place,’ she said.

  ‘The Theological School?’

  ‘My mother would feel its spirit. And its holiness.’

  ‘Your mother is in England?’

  ‘In Bournemouth.’

  ‘And you yourself –’

  ‘I have been on holiday with her. I came for six weeks and stayed a year. My husband is in Bombay.’

  He glanced at her left hand, thinking he’d made a mistake.

  ‘I haven’t been wearing my wedding ring. I shall again, in Bombay.’

  ‘Would you like to have dinner?’

  She hesitated. She began to shake her head, then changed her mind. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Here, in the hotel?’

  ‘The food is the least impressive part.’

  He’d asked her because, quite suddenly, he didn’t like being in this enormous bedroom with her. It was pleasant showing her around, but he didn’t want misunderstandings.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ he said.

  In the bar they had another drink. The Swiss party had gone, so had the Germans. The Texans were noisier than they had been. ‘Again, please,’ he requested the barman, tapping their two glasses.

  In Bournemouth she had worked as a shorthand typist for the year. In the past she had been a shorthand typist when she and her mother lived in London, before her marriage. ‘My married name is Mrs Azann,’ she said.

  ‘When I saw you first I thought you had an Indian look.’

  ‘Perhaps you get that when you marry an Indian.’

  ‘And you’re entirely English?’

  ‘I’ve always felt drawn to the East. It’s a spiritual affinity.’

  Her conversation was like the conversation in a novelette. There was that and her voice, and her unsuitable shoes, and her cough, and not wearing enough for the chilly evening air: all of it went together, only her eyes remained different. And the more she talked about herself, the more her eyes appeared to belong to another person.

  ‘I admire my husband very much,’ she said. ‘He’s very fine. He’s most intelligent. He’s twenty-two years older than I am.’

  She told the story then, while they were still in the bar. She had, although she did not say it, married for money. And though she clearly spoke the truth when she said she admired her husband, the marriage was not entirely happy. She could not, for one thing, have children, which neither of them had known at the time of the wedding and which displeased her husband when it was established as a fact. She had been displeased herself to discover that her husband was not as rich as he had appeared to be. He owned a furniture business, he’d said in the Regent Palace Hotel, where they’d met by chance when she was waiting for someone else: this was true, but he had omitted to add that the furniture business was doing badly. She had also been displeased to discover on the first night of her marriage that she disliked being touched by him. And there was yet another problem: in their bungalow in Bombay there lived, as well as her husband and herself, his mother and an aunt, his brother and his business manager. For a girl not used to such communal life, it was difficult in the bungalow in Bombay.

  ‘It sounds more than difficult.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘He married you because you have an Indian look, while being the opposite of Indian in other ways. Your pale English skin. Your – your English voice.’

  ‘In Bombay I give elocution lessons.’

  He blinked, and then smiled to cover the rudeness that might have shown in his face.

  ‘To Indian women,’ she said, ‘who come to the Club. My husband and I belong to a club. It’s the best part of Bombay life, the social side.’

  ‘It’s strange to think of you in Bombay.’

  ‘I thought I mightn’t return. I thought I’d maybe stay on with my mother. But there’s nothing much in England now.’

  ‘I’m fond of England.’

  ‘I thought you might be.’ She coughed again, and took her medicine from her handbag and poured a little into her whisky. She drank a mouthful of the mixture, and then apologized, saying she wasn’t being very ladylike. Such behaviour would be frowned upon in the Club.

  ‘You should wear a cardigan with that cough.’ He gestured at the barman and ordered further drinks.

  ‘I’ll be drunk,’ she said, giggling.

  He felt he’d been right to be curious. Her story was strange. He imagined the Indian women of the Club speaking English with her nasal intonation, twisting their lips to form the distorted sounds, dropping ‘h’s’ because it was the thing to do. He imagined her in the bungalow, with her elderly husband who wasn’t rich, and his relations and his business manager. It was a sour little fairy-story, a tale of Cinderella and a prince who wasn’t a prince, and the carriage turned into an ice-cold pumpkin. Uneasiness overtook his curiosity, and he wondered again why she had come to Isfahan.

  ‘Let’s have dinner now,’ he suggested in a slightly hasty voice.

  But Mrs Azann, looking at him with her sumptuous eyes, said she couldn’t eat a thing.

  He would be married, she speculated. There was pain in the lines of his face, even though he smiled a lot and seemed lighthearted. She wondered if he’d once had a serious illness. When he’d brought her into his bedroom she wondered as they sat there if he was going to make a pass at her. But she knew a bit about people making passes, and he didn’t seem the type. He was too attractive to have to make a pass. His manners were too elegant; he was too nice.

  ‘I’ll watch you having dinner,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind in the least watching you if you’re hungry. I couldn’t deprive you of your dinner.’

  ‘Well, I am rather hungry.’

  His mouth curved when he said things like that, because of his smile. She wondered if he could be an architect. From the moment she’d had the idea of coming to Isfahan she’d known that it wasn’t just an idea. She believed in destiny and always had.

  They went to the restaurant, which was huge and luxurious like everywhere else in the hotel, dimly lit, with oil lamps on each table. She liked the way he explained to the waiters that she didn’t wish to eat anything. For himself, he ordered a chicken kebab and salad.

  ‘You’d like some wine?’ he suggested, smiling in the same way. ‘Persian wine’s very pleasant.’

  ‘I’d love a glass.’

  He ordered the wine. She said:

  ‘Do you always travel alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re married?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And your wife’s a home bird?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She imagined him in a house in a village, near Midhurst possibly, or Sevenoaks. She imagined his wife, a capable woman, good in the garden and on committees. She saw his wife quite clearly, a little on the heavy side but nice, cutting sweet-peas.

  ‘You’ve told me nothing about yourself,’ she said.

  ‘There’s very little to tell. I’m afraid I haven’t a story like yours.’

  ‘Why are you in Isfahan?’

  ‘On holiday.’

  ‘Is it always on your own?’

  ‘I like being on my ow
n. I like hotels. I like looking at people and walking about.’

  ‘You’re like me. You like travel.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I imagine you in a village house, in the Home Counties somewhere.’

  ‘That’s clever of you.’

  ‘I can clearly see your wife.’ She described the woman she could clearly see, without mentioning about her being on the heavy side. He nodded. She had second sight, he said with his smile.

  ‘People have said I’m a little psychic. I’m glad I met you.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Stories like yours are rare enough.’

  ‘It’s all true. Every word.’

  ‘Oh, I know it is.’

  ‘Are you an architect?’

  ‘You’re quite remarkable,’ he said.

  He finished his meal and between them they finished the wine. They had coffee and then she asked if he would kindly order more. The Swiss party had left the restaurant, and so had the German couple and their friends. Other diners had been and gone. The Texans were leaving just as Mrs Azann suggested more coffee. No other table was occupied.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  He wished she’d go now. They had killed an evening together. Not for a long time would he forget either her ugly voice or her beautiful eyes. Nor would he easily forget the fairy-story that had gone sour on her. But that was that: the evening was over now.

  The waiter brought their coffee, seeming greatly fatigued by the chore.

  ‘D’you think,’ she said, ‘we should have another drink? D’you think they have cigarettes here?’

  He had brandy and she more whisky. The waiter brought her American cigarettes.

  ‘I don’t really want to go back to Bombay,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘I’d like to stay in Isfahan for ever.’

  ‘You’d be very bored. There’s no club. No social life of any kind for an English person, I should think.’

  ‘I do like a little social life.’ She smiled at him, broadening her sensuous mouth. ‘My father was a counter-hand,’ she said. ‘In a co-op. You wouldn’t think it, would you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he lied.

  ‘It’s my little secret. If I told the women in the Club that, or my husband’s mother or his aunt, they’d have a fit. I’ve never even told my husband. Only my mother and I share that secret.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And now you.’

  ‘Secrets are safe with strangers.’

  ‘Why do you think I told you that secret?’

  ‘Because we are ships that pass in the night.’

  ‘Because you are sympathetic’

  The waiter hovered close and then approached them boldly. The bar was open for as long as they wished it to be. There were lots of other drinks in the bar. Cleverly, he removed the coffee-pot and their cups.

  ‘He’s like a magician,’ she said. ‘Everything in Isfahan is magical.’

  ‘You’re glad you came?’

  ‘It’s where I met you.’

  He rose. He had to stand for a moment because she continued to sit there, her handbag on the table, her black frilled shawl on top of it. She hadn’t finished her whisky but he expected that she’d lift the glass to her lips and drink what she wanted of it, or just leave it there. She rose and walked with him from the restaurant, taking her glass with her. Her other hand slipped beneath his arm.

  ‘There’s a discothèque downstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid that’s not really me.’

  ‘Nor me, neither. Let’s go back to our bar.’

  She handed him her glass, saying she had to pay a visit. She’d love another whisky and soda, she said, even though she hadn’t quite finished the one in her glass. Without ice, she said.

  The bar was empty except for a single barman. Normanton ordered more brandy for himself and whisky for Mrs Azann. He much preferred her as Iris Smith, in her tatty pink dress and the dark glasses that hid her eyes: she could have been any little typist except that she’d married Mr Azann and had a story to tell.

  ‘It’s nice in spite of things,’ she explained as she sat down. ‘It’s nice in spite of him wanting to you-know-what, and the women in the bungalow, and his brother and the business manager. They all disapprove because I’m English, especially his mother and his aunt. He doesn’t disapprove because he’s mad about me. The business manager doesn’t much mind, I suppose. The dogs don’t mind. D’you understand? In spite of everything, it’s nice to have someone mad about you. And the Club, the social life. Even though we’re short of the ready, it’s better than England for a woman. There’s servants, for a start.’

  The whisky was affecting the way she put things. An hour ago she wouldn’t have said ‘wanting to you-know-what’ or ‘short of the ready’. It was odd that she had an awareness in this direction and yet could not hear the twang in her voice which instantly gave her away.

  ‘But you don’t love your husband.’

  ‘I respect him. It’s only that I hate having to you-know-what with him. I really do hate that. I’ve never actually loved him.’

  He regretted saying she didn’t love her husband: the remark had slipped out, and it was regrettable because it involved him in the conversation in a way he didn’t wish to be.

  ‘Maybe things will work out better when you get back.’

  ‘I know what I’m going back to.’ She paused, searching for his eyes with hers. ‘I’ll never till I die forget Isfahan.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘I’ll never forget the Chaharbagh Tours, or Hafiz. I’ll never forget that place you brought me to. Or the Shah Abbas Hotel.’

  ‘I think it’s time I saw you back to your own hotel.’

  ‘I could sit in this bar for ever.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at all one for night-life.’

  ‘I shall visualize you when I’m back in Bombay. I shall think of you in your village, with your wife, happy in England. I shall think of you working at your architectural plans. I shall often wonder about you travelling alone because your wife doesn’t care for it.’

  ‘I hope it’s better in Bombay. Sometimes things are, when you least expect them to be.’

  ‘It’s been like a tonic. You’ve made me very happy.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say that.’

  ‘There’s much that’s unsaid between us. Will you remember me?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  Reluctantly, she drank the dregs of her whisky. She took her medicine from her handbag and poured a little into the glass and drank that, too. It helped the tickle in her throat, she said. She always had a tickle when the wretched cough came.

  ‘Shall we walk back?’

  They left the bar. She clung to him again, walking very slowly between the mosaiced columns. All the way back to the Old Atlantic Hotel she talked about the evening they had spent and how delightful it had been. Not for the world would she have missed Isfahan, she repeated several times.

  When they said goodbye she kissed his cheek. Her beautiful eyes swallowed him up, and for a moment he had a feeling that her eyes were the real thing about her, reflecting her as she should be.

  He woke at half past two and could not sleep. Dawn was already beginning to break. He lay there, watching the light increase in the gap he’d left between the curtains so that there’d be fresh air in the room. Another day had passed: he went through it piece by piece, from his early-morning walk to the moment when he’d put his green pyjamas on and got into bed. It was a regular night-time exercise with him. He closed his eyes, remembering in detail.

  He turned again into the offices of Chaharbagh Tours and was told by Hafiz to go to the upstairs office. He saw her sitting there writing to her mother, and heard her voice asking him if he was going on the tour. He saw again the sunburnt faces of the German couple and the wholesome faces of the American girls, and faces in the French party. He went again on his aftern
oon walk, and after that there was his bath. She came towards him in the bazaar, with her dark glasses and her small purchases. There was her story as she had told it.

  For his part, he had told her nothing. He had agreed with her novelette picture of him, living in a Home Counties village, a well-to-do architect married to a wife who gardened. Architects had become as romantic as doctors, there’d been no reason to disillusion her. She would for ever imagine him travelling to exotic places, on his own because he enjoyed it, because his wife was a home bird.

  Why could he not have told her? Why could he not have exchanged one story for another? She had made a mess of things and did not seek to hide it. Life had let her down, she’d let herself down. Ridiculously, she gave elocution lessons to Indian women and did not see it as ridiculous. She had told him her secret, and he knew it was true that he shared it only with her mother and herself.

  The hours went by. He should be lying with her in this bed, the size of a dance-floor. In the dawn he should be staring into her sumptuous eyes, in love with the mystery there. He should be telling her and asking for her sympathy, as she had asked for his. He should be telling her that he had walked into a room, not in a Home Counties village, but in harsh, ugly Hampstead, to find his second wife, as once he had found his first, in his bed with another man. He should in humility have asked her why it was that he was naturally a cuckold, why two women of different temperaments and characters had been inspired to have lovers at his expense. He should be telling her, with the warmth of her body warming his, that his second wife had confessed to greater sexual pleasure when she remembered that she was deceiving him.

  It was a story no better than hers, certainly as unpleasant. Yet he hadn’t had the courage to tell it because it cast him in a certain light. He travelled easily, moving over surfaces and revealing only surfaces himself. He was acceptable as a stranger: in two marriages he had not been forgiven for turning out to be different from what he seemed. To be a cuckold once was the luck of the game, but his double cuckoldry had a whiff of revenge about it. In all humility he might have asked her about that.