The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

  “Will passengers for Frankfurt…”

  They had selected a hotel at Nice, large and anonymous, beloved by package tours and businessmen. On the Promenade des Anglais, although the sun shone and the temperature was climbing towards the seventies, the stout Niçoises paraded in their overcoats. February, no matter what the weather, was still winter. The bell-boy showed them to a vast, musty room. When he drew aside the heavy curtains and opened the shutters the sun filled the room with cleansing light, the traffic with diabolical noise.

  Oscar leaned against the wrought iron railings of the tiny balcony. The cars were nose to tail, three lanes each way as far as the eye could see.

  “One either suffocates from lack of oxygen or dies a slow death from carbon monoxide poisoning. In either event you can’t hear yourself think.”

  “I’d forgotten about the traffic.”

  He had chosen the hotel. Fifteen years ago when he had brought Karen the only noise had been the odd hoot and the lapping of the sea.

  Marie-Céleste was unpacking her case; it was lined with pale blue silk.

  “I love you.”

  His voice was swallowed by the traffic.

  “I love you!” he shouted.

  She looked up. “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Walk, before the sun goes down?” She deliberately misunderstood.

  It was a novelty to unpack his own case. Karen usually did it; everything.

  He unfolded the thin slacks and then, Rosy’s sponge bag. There was a small oblong package in brown paper in the centre of the case. He prodded it. It was tied with white string. He pulled the string off curiously. Tore the paper. It was a box of After Eights. No message. He often ate them while he wrote, whole boxes at a time. Karen, thinking he was alone… He stood there holding them, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. Why that single gesture more than anything…?

  Marie-Céleste was watching him.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were quiet for a moment. I thought something was wrong.”

  He looked at her. To tell her about the After Eights would be the ultimate treachery, worse than lovemaking, worse than the going away. He was not going to destroy Karen. He put the dark green box with the gold lettering beneath the shirts on his shelf. For a moment time had stopped like a frozen film still. He started the projector again.

  Outside the noise and the fumes from the cars assailed them. They crossed to the Promenade and joined the strollers in the sun.

  “We have days and nights,” Oscar said. “Not just afternoons. I often wondered how it felt. I’m used to writing about affairs, not having them. I send my lovers here, there and everywhere, in and out of bed, not a care in the world. It’s not like that.”

  “How is it?”

  “Riddled with churned-up emotions.”

  “Such as?”

  “My love for you; Karen; the balls-up I am making of my life. My ability to deny whole chunks of it for days at a time. Happiness, guilt, remorse, ecstasy…the entire gamut. It is not easy to be Oscar John.”

  She put an arm through his and squinted into the sun.

  “Don’t you think you should stop torturing yourself for a few days? Just…let it ride?”

  “Sound advice, as usual.” He put his hand over hers. They faced each other. “Happy?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  When they were tired of walking they sat in deckchairs facing the sea, buying a ticket from one lady and France Soir from another. When the sun sank lower they walked round the side streets away from the sea and looked in the shop windows – the parfumeries and delicatessens with their appetising raviers of carrots, celery, terrine and cooked chicken. They window-shopped a leather jacket for Oscar and a silk shirtwaister for Marie-Céleste. He was surprised when Marie-Céleste stopped at the window of a sex shop. Karen would have pulled him on as she did if he stopped to examine the nude photos outside the Soho strip clubs.

  All tastes were catered for. Girls with girls; girls with boys; boys with boys; men and women with beasts with whips with bicycles, horses, plastic, rubber, fur, sheepskin.

  “The mind boggles,” Oscar said. “My darling, I have a sudden inexplicable urge to go back to the hotel.”

  For the first time they made love without thought of Ernest and Mrs Hubble and evening surgery. They fell asleep on top of the bed where they lay.

  When Oscar awoke it was eight o’clock. For a moment he wondered where he was, then remembered. He put out an arm. The bed was empty. She appeared from the bathroom, naked.

  “I thought you’d never wake.”

  “When I sleep I die. Come back to bed.”

  “I was going to take a shower.”

  “I want you.” He held out his arms.

  “Come and get me,” she said simply. They made love in the shower, drowning in passion and water. It wasn’t easy. When it was over the bathroom was flooded.

  The porter knocked on the door with urgency.

  “There is water M’sieur, coming through the first-floor ceiling.”

  “The bath overflowed,” Oscar said. “It’s all right now.”

  They had dinner in the fish market, walking the freshly hosed streets to examine the menus in darkened doorways. Outside the restaurants were piles of oysters, pink shrimps and predatory crabs. They chose L’Oursin.

  Upstairs it was crammed with hungry locals, moist-fingered, napkins round their necks, sitting before great mounds of seafood. The hubbub filled the room.

  “Why did you marry Ernest?” Oscar said over the moules. “You don’t love him.”

  She considered. “I did at the time. At least I think I did. I was a medical student. I stayed with my father and stepmother in Kensington, going back to Marie-Claire and home whenever I could. I have little in common with my father; with my stepmother, nothing. They play bridge and spend the winter in Madeira. The men I was mixing with were English students. I found them very immature. They did not know, understand I mean, about women. My name was Price, Marie-Céleste Price. They called me ‘ice’ because I refused to get involved. It didn’t worry me. I had to live in hospital quite a bit during the final years; the work was hard. I missed Marie-Claire and France.

  “One of the students gave a party to celebrate the end of finals. His name was Jolyon. His people had a place in the country near to Ernest’s. Ernest was there. There was a floodlit swimming pool. At midnight everyone took off their clothes and jumped in.

  “Ernest asked me if I was going in. I told him I couldn’t swim and was afraid of the water. He offered to stay with me.

  “It was one of those magic English summers, the air at midnight warm as a blanket, reminding me of home. The gardens with bushes shaped like peacocks were floodlit. Perhaps I mistook gratitude for love. The party went on all night. In the morning Ernest drove me home. We had breakfast at the Hilton and he asked me to marry him over waffles with maple syrup. I did my pre-registration year wearing a king-sized emerald and accepted a Lotus Elan to get to and from the hospital more quickly.

  “The wedding was at St George’s Hanover Square, and the reception at Claridge’s. He took me to Paris for my dress.”

  “What about the honeymoon?”

  “Jamaica. It had its moments.”

  “Not like us.”

  “Not like us.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about Ernest,” Oscar said.

  “You asked me.”

  “I asked you why you married him.”

  “Why does anybody marry anybody?”

  “I don’t really know,” Oscar said, selecting a mussel.

  They did not sleep. The constant roar of the traffic along the Promende des Anglais kept them tossing and turning. Oscar got up and shut the windows and shutters, pulling the curtains. The room grew stuffy and uncomfortable. They woke at seven and ordered breakfast. There was not enough butter and Oscar didn’t like either strawberry or gooseberry j
am. He didn’t know the French for marmalade which for some reason made Marie-Céleste laugh. They had breakfast in bed, then made love amongst the crumbs and fell into a sound sleep. When they awoke it was noon.

  Oscar came to first. He watched Marie-Céleste next to him on the pillow, asleep on her stomach, her face in profile. Karen slept on her side in a little ball. You never knew someone until you lived with them. Marie-Céleste cleaned her teeth for about ten minutes as if she were carrying out some votive rite, with Karen it was a quick brush round, a spit and wipe. Marie-Céleste slept in a long, slinky nightie which rode up round her waist in the night, Karen in a shortie which scarcely covered her buttocks in the first place. He discovered a joy in lying, simply lying in the bed next to Marie-Céleste, a sensation of great peace and contentment. He knew he must stop making comparisons. He meant to telephone Karen before she left for work. Now it was too late.

  “What are you thinking of?” Marie-Céleste asked.

  He had not realized her eyes were open.

  “Karen.”

  He felt the silence. He wanted to tell her about how it was with Karen, about the fifteen good years.

  “What time is it?”

  “Twelve.”

  “We shall be late for Marie-Claire.”

  Marie-Claire lived in an apartment high up in the hills above Cannes. From the terrace which embraced two sides of it the view of the bay was breathtaking. Leaning against the balcony, looking out on a sea that was too green and a sky too blue to be real, Oscar thought this is where I belong, not in the cold and damp where puddles lapped at your shoes and the leaves were wet. It did something to the spirits, the soul. The artists who painted it in bright, sticky colours captured only the reality; it was the essence, the distillation of Provence, that permeated one’s entrails. He turned round. Through the glass he could see the two Maries in conversation. Marie-Céleste resembled her aunt. As soon as she had opened the door to them Oscar could see Marie-Céleste in years ahead, tall, elegant, slim, grey-haired.

  She wore a tight-sleeved, red gaberdine dress with beautiful shoes and a red, white and blue silk scarf at the neck. She embraced Marie-Céleste warmly and took Oscar’s hand in both of hers, looking him up and down unashamedly.

  “I feel I know you already!”

  Oscar glared at Marie-Céleste.

  “My niece has described you absolutely!” She spoke English with only a slight accent, giving herself away more with words.

  They drank Pernod and talked politely about the journey and the hotel. Marie-Céleste told about their evening at L’Oursin.

  “Madame Clavanier is longing to see you,” Marie-Claire said to Marie-Céleste. “I promised her a little minute. I knew you wouldn’t mind. She is so fond of you and her heart is very bad. She scarcely moves out. I believe she thinks you will tell her of some great new English advance.”

  “I’ll go now,” Marie-Céleste said. “She lives just opposite,” she said to Oscar. “She’s a dear old soul.”

  “Old soul!” Marie-Claire pretended offence. “She is younger than I!”

  “You are a dear ‘old soul’ too.” Marie-Céleste kissed her forehead. The bond between them was obvious.

  Oscar was aware that Madame Clavanier was a pretext. Marie-Claire wasted no time.

  “I like you,” she said, taking an armchair exactly opposite Oscar. “You are exactly as Marie-Céleste said and you have been good for her. Not only that; you love her as she should be loved. You only have to look at her.”

  “I love my wife,” Oscar said, surprised at himself. He had known this woman for less than an hour.

  Marie-Claire looked at him. “My dear Oscar. I shall call you Oscar without permission. I have been calling you that in my head for so long. The idea that a man can love only one woman throughout his life is one of those romantic delusions implanted by society and maintained by custom. It is not true. One has to face it.”

  “Ernest loves Marie-Céleste.”

  “Ernest is a tight-arse.”

  Oscar blinked.

  “It is true. He is good to her as far as money is concerned. Not all the money in the world could make her look as she looked when she walked in here today. Her eyes were bright and she walked like a goddess. To look that way is every woman’s right. You have done it for Marie-Céleste and I suspect she has done it for you. It is not given to us all and not more than once or twice in a lifetime. You are lucky, Oscar. Marie-Céleste is lucky.”

  She raised her glass. “I drink to you, Oscar, because since her mother died, and even before, Marie-Céleste has been my daughter, my very dear daughter. I thank you for her happiness.”

  Oscar drank. He understood and was no longer angry that Marie-Céleste confided in her aunt.

  He told her about Karen, about the children, even, to his utter surprise, about Dr Adler. He talked as he had never been able to to his own mother who said ‘yes dear’ but did not really listen. He was aware that Marie-Claire understood the language he spoke, how it was with him, with Karen, with Marie-Céleste. When it had all tumbled out like an undammed river, Marie-Claire said:

  “You are in love with my niece. I had not realized.”

  “It was not my intention.”

  Marie-Céleste rang the door bell.

  “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connâit point,” Marie-Claire said quietly. “I hope the problems will not be too severe.”

  She opened the door to Marie-Céleste.

  “I must leave you young people to attend to my gigot or it will be a cinder.”

  “I’ll help you,” Marie-Céleste said.

  “You do not have to help me. Oscar can tell you himself. You were not very long with Madame Clavanier and I shall get into trouble for the shortness of your visit.”

  “You are a wicked old woman and it is a long time since I have enjoyed the smells in your kitchen. Oscar can read a book or look at the view.”

  “As you wish. Please, Oscar; make yourself at home.”

  “I am at home.”

  He helped himself to another drink. The room was heady with mimosa tastefully arranged. Gros point cushions lovingly worked were scattered everywhere, the dining table, set with three places, polished to a deep patina. On the sideboard, on a little lace mat, was the slightly faded photograph of a thick-set, handsome man with a very short back and sides in a silver frame. That too had received recent attention. He picked up the photograph and was looking at it when Marie-Claire came in with the gigot of lamb on a large platter; Marie-Céleste followed close behind with a bouquetière of vegetables, appetizingly and colourfully arranged on a shallow dish.

  “That was my husband,” Marie-Claire said, putting the gigot on a heavy straw mat on the table.

  “Place the légumes here, my dear,” she told Marie-Céleste indicating another mat, “and I will fetch the plates.”

  The gigot was sweet, meltingly pink and juicy. She cut it with expertise while Oscar filled their glasses.

  “My husband,” Marie-Claire said. “He worked for the maquis. The Germans took him and tortured him one month precisely before the war ended. They sent him back ‘sans hair, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything’. He died very soon.”

  Do not send to ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

  “His name was Claude, but his code name was Petit Poisson, little fish. He slipped many times through the net. How is the gigot?”

  “Superb!” The subject was obviously closed. Oscar raised his glass to Marie-Claire. “A votre santé, Madame.”

  She raised hers with a small gesture to himself and Marie-Céleste. “A vous deux.”

  “I like your aunt,” Oscar said as they drove down the winding road towards Cannes.

  “I knew you would. She likes you.”

  “She lives alone?”

  “She has a ‘petit ami’. He is a beautiful man. A retired avocat who now dabbles in property from here to Roussillon. They are very fond of each other.”

  “Is he ma
rried?”

  “His wife died. He had already been looking after Marie-Claire for over twenty years.”

  “Why don’t they get married?”

  Marie-Céleste shrugged. “They are happy this way. They are used to it. Perhaps even now Marie-Claire thinks she is not betraying Claude. Not unnaturally she has a ‘thing’ about traitors. After his death she did not break down. Simply went blind in one eye with no organic cause. It took years for her to recover the sight. She was so happy to be able to see that she took up tapestry. She’s been at it ever since.”

  When they got back to the hotel there was a message for Marie-Céleste to ring Marie-Claire.

  “Ernest telephoned,” Marie-Claire said. “He missed you by no more than a moment. I told him you had gone to the épicerie for black olives and that you would telephone him on your return. I assured him we are having an excellent time together and that already you were looking better.”

  Marie-Céleste rang Ernest and repeated the story which her aunt had fabricated. Yes, she was happy, Oscar heard her say. Yes, she was having a good time with her aunt. Yes, she missed him. Yes, the weather was fine. She asked him how the locum she had engaged for the practice was getting on with the patients, and said that she would call him the following evening. He was not to call her as they were spending the afternoon and evening with friends of Marie-Claire. Yes, of course she was quite all right and he was not to worry.

  When she had finished Oscar spoke to Karen. She asked how it was going and he couldn’t think for a moment what she meant then remembered Death on the Riviera and said fine, absolutely fine, he felt quite stimulated by the change of milieu. He spoke to Rosy who told him that she was in the choir at school and that they had started fractions and to Daisy who was unable to tear herself away from Crossroads for more than a moment to tell him that there was no news and to give him a big kiss down the receiver which nearly shattered his eardrum. He said goodbye to Karen and told her, in reply to her question, that he missed her.

  He and Marie-Céleste were sitting on opposite sides of the bed.

  “It’s no use pretending it doesn’t exist,” Marie-Céleste said.

  “We can try. For a week.”

  “Four days.”