The Bay of Angels

by Anita Brookner

  My mother differed from the others only in that her response was one of interest, of respect, as if she were now on the far side of a sexuality that had proved only intermittent. Yet when M. de Pass left the room her colour faded, and she relapsed into the gentle dreaminess that I had always known, but with one important difference. She seemed to know that she could no longer join in, had no part in the world’s business. The other ladies were tactful: for all her relative youth they understood her to be more at risk than they were themselves. They were used to her obvious frailty; she had gained their affection, rather as a younger relative might have done. An occasional sharp glance was directed at her in those moments of weakness, but no officious concern was expressed. They were all face-to-face with mortality, and their own took precedence. That was why it was so important not to give way, even to the extent of asking her how she felt. That was my job, and I discharged it badly. I was always glad to leave her on those Sunday evenings, and to be out once more in the beautiful streets. At such times our homecoming seemed to be a matter of dire necessity, and also a more hazardous outcome altogether.

  13

  Mme Levasseur, the lady with the crooked face who had befriended my mother, suffered another stroke and died. She had been found at the foot of the stairs while attempting to go up to her room, and transported to Dr Balbi’s clinic, where she did not survive the night. I learned all this on one of my morning visits, slightly earlier than usual. I had been eager to get out into the bright day, eager to have the visit behind me. I had thought it to be routine, no more than a brief contact which would then leave me free. Instead I encountered anxious whisperings, and Sœur Elisabeth trying to control and reassure a group of ladies who had gathered in the foyer. The news had travelled swiftly; rightly or wrongly—and I think rightly—it had been thought preferable to announce it straight away.

  The sisters obviously had a friendlier attitude towards death than those for whom it represented a dread reality. Voices were lowered, expressions doleful. Yet Mme Levasseur had not been much liked. In other circumstances the ladies, having repaired their morale, would have regarded her demise as evidence of further incompetence, on a par with her intemperate quest for kisses from her grandson. But this was the very early morning and the death had taken place too recently for attitudes to have been perfected. There was even muted discussion, a desire for company. Yet they could not reassure each other, for all were vulnerable. The ‘accident’, as they called it, was regrettable. It would take some time for them to come to terms with it. An effort of will was called for, and in the early morning, after an unusually disturbed night, they were not quite able to summon up the requisite determination. This was the ugly face of the Résidence Sainte Thérèse, a place where people lived out their remaining lives before being claimed by the sort of event that had overtaken Mme Levasseur.

  As a special concession I was allowed to see my mother, who was naturally distressed. I found her in bed, under the crucifix, two spots of colour burning in her normally pale cheeks.

  ‘Zoë,’ she cried. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘They are talking about it downstairs.’

  ‘I was very fond of Madeleine,’ she said, still in a slightly loud voice. ‘The others didn’t like her. She was not popular.’ Again the school parlance. ‘They thought she was common.’ Another word from the past. ‘But she was unhappy, you see. She felt out of place. Well, we are all out of place. But she wanted to go home, to live with her son and daughter-in-law. And to see her grandson every day. Of course, they didn’t want that. And she was frightened.’

  ‘What frightened her?’

  ‘Everything. She felt unloved, that was what frightened her. As well it might.’

  ‘Have you had your coffee, Mama?’

  ‘I don’t want coffee. I want tea! Oh, for a cup of tea!’

  ‘You shall have tea at home. In those big cups you always liked.’

  She smiled gladly. ‘I got them at Peter Jones. Is it still there?’

  ‘Of course it’s still there. It won’t be long now. You remember what I told you.’

  ‘I remember. Is it true?’

  ‘I promise you. But you must make the best of it here, until we leave. Is there anyone else you might sit with?’

  ‘Mme Lhomond. That silly woman. A sweet nature, but rather slow-witted. When we go out together she drags on my arm, talking all the time. It makes me feel very old, though I shouldn’t mind it.’ She sighed helplessly. ‘I feel out of my depth, Zoë.’

  ‘That’s quite natural. And it won’t be for much longer. Won’t you come out and have coffee with me? I haven’t had any breakfast either.’

  In reply she pulled off her nightdress, in a way that shocked me. Yet she did not seem to be afflicted with any particular shyness, having evidently forgotten that she was an ageing woman face-to-face with someone who was still intact. I helped her out of bed, took her into the adjoining cabinet de toilette, and left her there. For a terrible moment I thought that she might expect me to wash her. I shut the door resolutely and wandered over to the window, aching for a glimpse of the outside world. But there was nothing to be seen from here, only a corner of the courtyard, several empty boxes, and a row of dustbins. In the distance I could hear the sound of a van, come to deliver the day’s supplies. Only the ardent sky served to remind one of the season, which was high summer. In contrast the room seemed dark, as would all interiors deprived of that light. The sounds of splashing ceased; a smell of soap replaced the odours of the night. I noticed them, as I noticed them every morning. However rigorous the efforts, and I did not doubt that they were rigorous, nothing could quite disguise that miasma, which was of women living together. It would have pertained to any school, any convent. It served to remind one of the desirability of other arrangements. Here, among women, efforts would be made, but such efforts would be nugatory, for however great one’s care one would recognize in others that negligence that time bestows and which is time’s sad legacy.

  Dressed, my mother looked more like herself. I placed my hand under her elbow and guided her down the stairs. In the foyer Dr Lagarde and Dr Balbi were attempting to console a red-faced man who was trying not to weep. This was Levasseur fils, I presumed, and I could see why his mother had been thought of as somewhat inferior in rank. Any tiny distinction would have been seized on with alacrity in this place where there was nothing to do. Mme Levasseur had confided in my mother, and in no one else, that her son was in the construction business, as I might have observed for myself from his footwear, massive dusty trainers of the kind worn by men on a building site. He was apparently a successful entrepreneur, able to afford the best of care for his mother, but preferred not to visit her too often, leaving that task to his wife and the boy. Yet he seemed so sincerely affected, struggling against his tears while being assured that his mother had suffered no pain, would have been unconscious at the time of her death. This glimpse of an adult man newly deprived of his mother moved me strangely. I ceased to think of my own condition, and felt a desire to reach out, to comfort. A woman would have managed better, I thought, than this poor fellow, who now resembled no one so much as his son, Jean-Claude, source of pleasure and of pain.

  My mother laid a hand on his arm and murmured condolences, which occasioned more tears. He was a graceless sight, a fact registered by both the doctors, seen here at a natural disadvantage since they had failed to prevent death from taking place. My mother told the son how she had found a friend in Mme Levasseur, who had been so kind to her when she had first come to take up residence. He listened eagerly, smiling from time to time as he allowed her to take over. This she seemed willing to do, even too willing. In a moment she would ask him if he had a handkerchief, and would generally soothe him into acceptance of the inevitable. This might have been touching, but I did not wish to see it.

  ‘You are going out?’ questioned Dr Balbi, who had observed these manoeuvres with a faint smile.

  ‘We have not had our co
ffee,’ I told him.

  ‘There is a place on the corner. It should not be too busy now.’

  I looked at him in some surprise. This solicitude was new, but maybe he too was affected by the death of this unknown man’s mother, of any man’s mother. I was slightly irritated by this, and yet I had seen the man’s tears, had registered the softening of Dr Balbi’s attitude, although it was Dr Lagarde who seemed uncharacteristically gloomy. He too was a mother’s favourite son, as his normal behaviour proclaimed to the world at large. His mother’s preference had not made him a hero, as Freud had said it would, but had turned him into a sexless acolyte for whom his mother would always come first. He hovered at Dr Balbi’s elbow, as if Dr Balbi were Jesus and he merely one of the disciples. And like the disciples he was outclassed, not able to give a good account of himself. Yet with such a charismatic teacher he would eventually amount to something. His slow climb to man’s estate was, fortunately, something we should not be here to witness.

  M. Levasseur shook my mother’s hand wholeheartedly, and at last I was able to guide her out into the sun. The café was empty, for the usual habitués were on their way to work, and the later visitors not expected for a couple of hours. She preferred to sit inside; that was where she had sat with Mme Levasseur, the fact of whose death and absence was just beginning to crystallize.

  ‘Had you met the son before?’ I asked her, curious as to the origins of her briefly authoritative behaviour.

  ‘No. I recognized him from the way she described him. Poor man; he will go home to a wife who will be relieved to have the matter over and done with. There will be little comfort there. And the boy hated those visits. She was so unhappy on Sunday evenings. I was of little use to her then.’

  ‘Eat a croissant, Mama. And drink your coffee.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. I don’t want anything to eat.’

  ‘The coffee, then. And tell me about Mme Lhomond. You might as well have some company while you are still here.’

  She smiled. ‘I have you, darling. Mme Lhomond is a good-natured silly woman who is too naïve to be malicious or unkind. That, alas, does not make her more interesting.’

  She brought her coffee cup to her lips, then abruptly put it down again. ‘I don’t think I can drink this after all,’ she said, bewildered.

  I looked at her. The brief hectic colour had faded from her face, the unnatural excitement of recent events had deserted her, leaving behind a mournful impression of disaster. I went to the counter and paid the bill. Both our cups had remained untouched, though I was now hungry and would have lingered. But then had I been on my own I would have stayed outside, in the light, not sheltering from a day which was already radiant. Had I been alone I should have made my way to the market in the Cours Saleya, where I could feast on the colours and smells, the evidence of appetite, of nourishment, of life itself. The women there would be robust, noisy, ample; they would shout without embarrassment, embrace one another, give every sign of rude health. No inhibitions there, no circumspection; they were as lavish with their insults as with their greetings. And there would be no hurt feelings, for the common currency was boldness, and those who did not possess it might just as well stay away.

  Instead of that ideal boldness I accompanied my mother’s slow steps back to the Résidence Sainte Thérèse, alarmed and puzzled by her sudden loss of vigour. She had begun the day well, and apart from that careless act of undressing, had shown her usual delicacy of feeling, particularly with regard to M. Levasseur. Now she looked haggard, even slightly unkempt; a strand of her grey hair blew gently against my cheek as I attempted to take something of her weight. We reached the end of the street in time for her to recover slightly. Nevertheless her hand went to her heart, as if to still its rapid beat.

  Dr Balbi was still in the foyer with M. Levasseur, who did not seem anxious to leave. For all his hefty build he was just another disciple in attendance. Dr Balbi, a man of few words at the best of times, was clearly finding his presence onerous. He looked up with something like relief as we entered, shook M. Levasseur’s hand with finality, and motioned one of the sisters to take him up to his mother’s room to collect her sad possessions. This was no job for a man. I imagined more tears as he faced the pitiful evidence of her clothes, her abandoned necklaces. But there would be no need for fortitude among these relics, for this was the proper place for tears. And when he went downstairs again Dr Balbi would no longer be there, having made good his escape, and leaving Dr Lagarde to deal with further distress.

  But Dr Balbi was still there after I had seated my mother in the salon, which was almost empty. Many ladies were resting in their rooms or perfecting their appearance after the events of the previous night, when their sleep had been disturbed by the sound of precipitate footsteps, muted exchanges, all the paraphernalia of an emergency. I thought it better for my mother to have company, even the company of Mme Lhomond. I went in search of one of the maids, to ask if she might have some tea.

  ‘Tea?’ questioned Dr Balbi. ‘But you have just had coffee.’

  ‘She didn’t want any.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t seem to have had any either.’

  ‘Then you will have some now. As I will. It has been a long night.’

  We went back to the café, where the proprietor seemed to know him, know what he wanted. All I wanted was coffee, though the smell made me feel slightly sick. Dr Balbi ate decisively, motioning me to do the same. I took a croissant from the basket and nibbled it, then found that I was hungry after all. I drank my coffee, in no hurry to leave.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I thought you were going to faint.’

  ‘You speak very good English,’ I remarked. ‘And no, I am not going to faint. I have never fainted in my life.’

  ‘I had a year in Southampton.’

  The consonants slightly eluded him, but the accent was excellent.

  ‘In a hospital?’

  ‘Of course in a hospital. It was an exchange. I hated it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The work was, as always, interesting. But it meant another horrible room . . . ’

  ‘You missed your mother.’

  ‘. . . in a terrible little house, with patterned carpet on the stairs. I preferred our building in Marseilles. It was noisy, but you knew there were other people around, all in the same boat, with the same degree of poverty. Yes, I missed my mother.’

  ‘How did you find this house?’

  ‘One of the nurses at the hospital lived there with her mother. That, as you can imagine, was frustrating. In the end I had to marry her. It seemed the only thing to do.’

  I was shocked. ‘Didn’t you love her?’

  ‘One has the lovers one can afford. And I wanted to get her away from there. I thought that once we were at home, once she was with my mother . . . ’

  ‘And of course they didn’t get on.’

  ‘And she was homesick.’

  ‘For Southampton?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Are you still married to her? Did you divorce?’

  ‘Yes, we divorced.’

  ‘And then you returned to your respective mothers. What a sad story.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I am fully aware of that.’ He patted his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Miss Cunningham.’ It was a conclusion rather than a preamble.

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes, I live alone. Quite near you. I sometimes catch sight of you in the early mornings, or in the evenings. I know you are concerned, not only for your mother, but for yourself. My advice is to use your energies while you still have them. You have friends?’

  ‘I have no lovers, if that is what you mean. I had them once, but that was when I was free.’

  ‘One is never free. One has only the illusion of freedom. One is never free of obligations, whether explicit or implicit. The latter are the worst.’

  ‘That poor man . . . ’

  ‘Levasseur? There you have the trage
dy of a man who knows he will never see his mother again.’

  ‘Even though he avoided her when she was alive?’

  ‘When she was alive he was a man. When she died he became a child again. I will walk you back, if you are ready.’

  ‘You will see my mother?’

  ‘For a few minutes only. As you will. And you will not return until Sunday. The sooner matters return to normal the better it will be for her. For them all.’

  Dr Balbi’s relative loquacity had taken me by surprise, as had his confessions, which were made without any apparent reluctance. If this were a subtle form of treatment I was grateful, for it had worked. I had been jolted out of my nervousness by the sort of exchange that was normal between a man and a woman. My mother too brightened when we made our entrance together. There was an empty cup beside her, and she had her newspaper to hand.

  ‘Has she eaten anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, she is quite all right. She will see you on Sunday, as usual.’

  ‘You have been very kind. You know we are going home soon?’