Strangers

by Anita Brookner

  ‘I’ll make the tea,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you need it, after such a long trek.’ She laughed merrily. But he noticed that she had some difficulty getting out of her chair, and revised her age upward, slightly. How old was she? Certainly a little older than he was, perhaps by a couple of years.

  ‘Are you looking after your health?’ he asked. ‘We’re told to take exercise. Walking is recommended…’

  ‘I am rarely out on my own. As I say, friends drive me here and there.’

  He gave up. ‘I expect you’ll want a quiet evening,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, one of the girls might look in. More tea? No? Don’t let me keep you, if you have an engagement.’ Another pause. ‘How are you? You’re looking well. You don’t change, do you?’

  It was significant, he thought, that she always asked him how he was at the end of the conversation rather than at the beginning. She was frightened, perhaps, that he might burden her with health problems that should – that must – be hidden from her. And from himself. Such confessions, such intimate alarms, for that was what they would be, must not be vouchsafed.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you for the flowers. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

  She was relieved now that the visit was over, perhaps more so than usual. Once again he admitted defeat. The door closed behind him with an air of finality. Momentarily he feared for her, feared for them both. She, at least, would have company. He would be all too conscious of his small flat. He thought of himself as bounded in a nutshell, with the ever-present thought of bad dreams.

  He bored her, that was obvious. But maybe she preferred the company of women. Women were supposed to be more merciful, or at least less critical, though he was far from convinced of this. And the girls, as she called them, might be loyal and ask after her admirer. ‘Did your admirer come today, Helena? He’s very faithful, isn’t he?’ And that would be the main advantage to be gained from the afternoon. Yet she was wary of him; they could both sense it. It was difficult to know how to justify his attendance in any other terms that she would understand. The sense of continuity, which he sought, between a populated past and a tiresome present, hardly constituted grounds for ardent communication.

  Once the pains of love were relegated to the past the pains of living became more noticeable. He was aware of tiredness. And there was always a slight failure of nerve when the darkness settled in. Helena too must feel this. For all her self-regard, her unspoken demand for reassurance, she was old, and no doubt uneasy. These visits of his were of dubious value, apart from the status they conferred on her in the eyes of her friends, though he doubted that those friends would always be kind. He regretted, as he did so many times these days, the structure of the working day. Without that he was truly alone, a condition he would not allow to become pathetic, but a condition nonetheless which caused him much grief.

  He would, he decided, space out these visits, confine them to a minimum. He would explain that he would be away for a while. In fact he would go away, away from the encroaching darkness that never seemed more palpable than when he was standing at a deserted bus stop on a Sunday evening in late November. He would sit out the Christmas hiatus in some southern resort. He would write to her when he got home. ‘I forgot to mention,’ he would say, and then consult his guidebooks. Christmas was no time to endure a make-believe family.

  4

  He decided on Venice, because it was not the obvious choice, and because he knew he would be comfortable at the Danieli. He justified himself, as he always did, to an audience of unseen critics. I spend virtually nothing, he told these people. And anyway I’ve no one to leave it to. As always he passed the test he had set himself, but by the narrowest of margins.

  On the plane he helped the passenger in the adjacent seat to stow her various packages into the overhead locker. She thanked him profusely. ‘Christmas presents,’ she explained. ‘Such a bore. But it’s worth it to get out of London.’

  ‘A relief,’ he agreed.

  ‘On holiday?’ she asked him.

  ‘Just a break for a few days.’

  ‘Like me. Christmas, I find, is always a problem.’

  He agreed again.

  ‘Why Venice?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always liked it.’ And one can be alone there, he added silently. ‘You’re going to friends?’ he enquired. ‘The Christmas presents,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes, one or two people to see. I’m staying with an old chum near the Accademia. Though she won’t be there the whole time. I’ll be on my own for the last few days.’ She laughed merrily. ‘That seems to be my fate at the moment.’

  He wondered at her unusual expansiveness. Or maybe it was customary; he could hardly tell. In the course of the flight she told him that she worked part-time for a charity, that she was recently divorced, and that after the holiday she would be house-sitting for friends in Onslow Gardens. He forbore to tell her that they would be virtual neighbours, but felt something like anticipation. Her manner was restless, possibly festive. In normal circumstances he would have avoided her.

  ‘Victoria Gardner,’ she offered. ‘Though everyone calls me Vicky.’

  ‘Paul Sturgis.’

  ‘Are you staying with friends too?’

  ‘No, I know no one in Venice.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so sad.’

  ‘Not at all. I rather like being on my own. I’m retired…’

  ‘Lucky you. I can’t wait. But I feel I’m doing something useful, you know. And anyway I can’t always rely on my friends.’

  For accommodation, he suspected. Or at least for hospitality. He stole a sideways look at her. A pretty woman, he decided. In her late forties or early fifties, blonde, well groomed, her appearance only just disturbed by that air of restlessness, her fingers constantly touching her earrings or sweeping back her hair. She seemed anxious to talk, although he gave her few cues. She seemed not to need them, to be used to conversations with strangers. As the plane prepared to land he returned her packages and wished her a happy Christmas.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ she protested. ‘Don’t remind me. I dread it every year. So dark and gloomy. And so many memories, not all of them pleasant. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind to put up with me. Now I’d better face up to it.’

  He handed her his card.

  ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other,’ she said. ‘Venice is such a small place.’

  He agreed. ‘No doubt we shall.’ It seemed a civilized thing to say.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Danieli.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful. Have a pleasant stay.’

  They disappeared into different water taxis, for there were more travellers than he had anticipated. As he was jolted across the dark waters he dismissed her from his mind. Or rather relegated her to the category of strangers to which she truly belonged. He did not expect to see her again.

  Venice enfolded him, as it had done on previous occasions. The weather was dusky long before evening, and he found it appropriate to his mood, which was gentle, ruminative, peaceful. He breakfasted early, and set out to wander to the small obscure campi familiar from other visits. He would drink a cup of coffee in an unfrequented café before making his way back to the Danieli to buy a newspaper, or several newspapers. He did not miss his books: his concentration was reserved for the beautiful silence of the streets, in which it was not possible to regret the absence of company. The chatter of the woman on the plane would not be welcome in this atmosphere of calm, almost of estrangement. Yet, as he made his way back to the hotel for lunch, his newspaper still under his arm, he sighed slightly at the prospect of the afternoon ahead. To sleep was out of the question: waking in a dark unfamiliar room was too alarming to be contemplated. He would go out again, and sit outside Florian’s, linger over more coffee, and listen to the music. Then, at a suitable hour, he would return, take his bath, and go down to dinner. Waiters were kind to h
im, respecting his good manners, his discreet appearance. He would take his time over the meal, reflecting that he had not eaten so much in months. He might drink a nightcap in a friendly bar, even walk again. He would sink into his large bed with a sigh of relief. Yet he was not lonely, or not more than usual. He was almost surprised to find that this desperate journey was after all turning out to be something of a success.

  Then, as usual, he would go to the Accademia, despite his growing indifference to art and beauty. He would look, dutifully, at Carpaccio, registering only his own resistance to that calm distant universe, those pieties, that absence of judgement. The galleries would be silent, dim, empty and – for he knew himself so well – he would relinquish the task he had set himself, seeing it as invalidated by that same sense of duty that had directed his steps a mere half hour ago. He would re-enter the outdoor silence, feeling it no more companionable but more realistic, ensuring he would be forever confined to his own company.

  On his last morning he took his seat outside Florian’s and surveyed Venice for one final time. He did not think that he would come back. But the thought of his return to his dark flat, to the empty days and the ritualistic excursions, oppressed him like a malediction. He would manage, he knew: he had a lifetime’s experience of managing, but this in itself was something of a defeat. He drank his coffee and prepared to leave, although the prospect of a further walk was not attractive. When he saw the woman from the plane crossing the great square he stood up urgently and raised his hand. Her delighted smile transformed the day.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘You survived it, then? Christmas?’

  ‘Only just. Oh, coffee. Yes, thank you.’

  Without her make-up, without her earrings, she looked older. Her city clothes had been exchanged for a black T-shirt, black trousers, and a leather jacket. He thought she must be about fifty-three or -four, still a good-looking woman, but slightly careworn. For a moment he knew the pleasure of companionship, even if his companion turned out to be tedious.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, until the end of the week. I’ve nothing urgent to go back to. And then I’m house-sitting for these friends. I think I mentioned that?’

  ‘Yes. Onslow Gardens. You don’t live in London?’

  ‘I live in the country, in Sussex. Shoreham.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said. ‘I used to walk that way on a Sunday, when I lived in south London. Pretty place.’

  ‘It’s awkward. I love the house but it belongs to my husband. My ex-husband, I should say. He lets me stay there when he’s out of town, which is much of the time. It’s practically a time-share – that’s why I escape when I can. He’s expected back soon, and then I think we’ll have to come to a more formal arrangement. He’s been quite generous, but I think he’ll have to see me settled. Properly settled.’

  She pushed back her hair, in the gesture he remembered.

  ‘Maybe you’ll get back together again. It’s not good to be alone.’

  ‘You’re telling me. He found someone else, you see. Oh, I could get him back, but why should I?’

  To defeat the fear of dying, he thought, and found to his horror that he had spoken out loud.

  She looked at him in surprise. Suddenly they were strangers again.

  ‘You’re not ill, are you? You don’t look it.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I was being silly. What do you plan to do today?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Will you have lunch with me? I leave tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be nice. I’m sorry to talk so much. And you’re easy to talk to.’

  So others had said in the past, while he had been virtually silent. He recognized the pattern, but did not resent it. In fact he was delighted at this turn of events, which would give his departure an almost ceremonious twist. And he decided that he liked her, that she was a perfectly nice woman. Her story was certainly unconventional but in these deregulated days most arrangements were unconventional. He thought the husband a fool, instantly making allowances for any irregularities on her part.

  As they strolled out of the piazza he felt at last like an authentic traveller, a man ripe for chance encounters, a man not excluded from good fortune. London seemed far distant, some way into the future. Yet for all the splendour of his surroundings, for all the knowledge he possessed of famous painters and writers in this very city, it was, yet again, the humble domestic detail that delighted him: a small reluctant child wearing too many clothes being propelled forward by a grandmother, or indeed his companion’s own fascinating circumstances which he promised himself to look into. And Shoreham, which he knew well, having, as he told her, walked there many times on silent Sundays… Those Sundays, indeed all Sundays, he now rejected with a shudder. They had been his fate for so long that he had accepted them as a way of life. Now, suddenly, this no longer seemed to be the case. Bells tolled, pigeons scattered. Gently he took her arm. ‘Shall we eat fish?’ he asked. ‘I know a good restaurant quite near here.’

  Waiters, with perfect Venetian manners, seemed to celebrate them as a couple. He warned himself not to drink too much; he was in danger of succumbing to a fantasy. She was at least – or at most – twenty years younger than himself and a woman of whom he knew nothing. He liked the way she responded to an invitation, with obvious pleasure; he liked her broad smile. When she asked him what work he was in he was overwhelmed. In his experience women were not interested in one’s work. And anyway he no longer had any work to bore women with.

  ‘I’m retired,’ he said. ‘And before that I worked in a bank, which probably sounds very dull. But in fact I liked it, or perhaps it suited me. I liked to see people turning out every morning with their briefcases and their newspapers. Or perhaps I simply liked workers, or the idea of workers.’ A quick glance at her told him that he had lost her. ‘Tell me about your work,’ he said.

  ‘I’m dull too. I work in an office with three other women, three days a week. For African children with Aids. Can you imagine?’

  ‘It does sound a little extreme…’

  ‘The worst of it is that money – enormous sums; you wouldn’t imagine – doesn’t seem to make any difference to the problem.’

  ‘Yes, that must be very disheartening…’

  ‘I loathe it. I loathe the other women. If anything could persuade me to go back to my husband it would be the prospect of doing this for much longer.’

  ‘Is that a possibility?’

  ‘Oh, we talk about it. There are faults on both sides… I divorced him when he told me about this other woman. I could have got round it, but I’m afraid I wasn’t too polite. He’s not forgiven me, that’s the problem.’

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  She looked at him in surprise and some annoyance. He saw that he had lost her again.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ he said. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Thank you. And yes, I probably do still love him.’

  She slumped back in her chair, clearly unwilling to pursue this line of enquiry, but also tired of it, as if the question had been asked many times. Women, he knew, displayed sympathy in these circumstances whereas he was merely guilty of curiosity. He could not imagine anyone divorcing for such a minor offence, any more than he could imagine exchanging a marital home for a life of expedients. Even his parents, grim and unhappy as they were, had remained faithful to the married state. At the same time he reminded himself not to be too thoroughgoing in his enquiries. That was women’s work. His work was to pay the bill, which was now being proffered.

  ‘This has been delightful,’ she said formally. ‘I was not looking forward to today. Or tomorrow, for that matter.’

  ‘You know we shall be near neighbours when you are in London. Perhaps we could do this again. Or rather, have dinner.’

  It was his turn to sit back, suddenly exhausted. This was entirely out of character. And yet this was how men behaved. Or at least young m
en did. He felt foolish. Nevertheless he gave her the number of his mobile, and said he hoped to see her in London. After that admission he was in a hurry to get away.

  He was aware of the damp cold as they left the restaurant. It was winter, he reminded himself. He was not a young man, and he might be making a fool of himself. The prospect of his flat loomed bleakly. But, ‘I’d love that,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a call when I get back to London, shall I?’

  They shook hands formally outside the restaurant.

  ‘Feel free to get in touch,’ he said, as if he were still a bank manager and she a client. Then he watched her retreating back until it was almost out of sight, and eventually turned away to prepare his own departure.

  5

  The weather in London was unseasonably mild, milder, it seemed, than it had been in Venice, and dark without the expanse of sky and water, and the water’s reflections, that gave Venice its air of nobility. The city seemed emptied of its inhabitants. Even the few shops that were open revealed depleted shelves, as if those who remained were held in contempt. Apparently it was mandatory to go away in the interval between Christmas and the New Year, and he had to remind himself forcibly that he himself had been away, so completely had his journey failed in its purpose, which had been to instil a sense of change.

  The atmosphere in the flat was faintly minatory, as if there had been some failure of vigilance on his part, and as if change might be indicated by something outside his own volition. His own mild journey was now seen for what it was, as something timorous and uncertain. The flat itself was, as ever, unsatisfactory, and for a moment or two he indulged his fantasy of an alternative, filled with agreeable contents and different arrangements: a breakfast room, a scullery with a back door leading to a garden, a proper hallway with a proper hallstand, fireplaces in all the rooms. This was in fact something like his old house, the one he had been so anxious to leave. His mother, he remembered, had sat at a proper dressing-table, with its full complement of silver-backed brushes. People, he knew, still lived in this manner, in properly designed suburban houses, but one would have had to be born into a house of these dimensions, for he had no means now of acquiring one, nor indeed a need for one. But he revisited that old house nightly, in the hour before sleep, found his way up the stairs, hand running along the banister, or sat eating bread and butter at a long-vanished kitchen table.