A Friend from England

by Anita Brookner

  What remained incredible to me was that Heather, a girl as dull as her name, should have gathered about her such an aura of fatality. But perhaps it was only I who felt this; perhaps I was beginning to find a symbolism in her undistinguished adventure and the light it was shedding on my own life. Its effect on me had already been disproportionate. After all, she was not really my concern. But she had startled me into a recognition of our differences, had made me uneasy in a way which I did not fully understand, had driven me to a pitch of opposition which had something murderous about it. And throughout all these convolutions of mood she had barely appeared, and when she had, there was not one word of her sparse discourse that could be construed as having any intention or flavour. What was happening was happening almost by inadvertence, which made it all the more frightening. It was as if Heather had already removed herself, but had in doing so affected all who knew her.

  But perhaps I was the only one so affected. Her parents sat there, thoughtfully drinking tea, as if nothing could ever disrupt the tenor of lives so established, so comfortable. Outside the leaded windows of the warm and scented room a drowned world vaguely materialized, for the vapour in the atmosphere lingered and the wet pavements evaporated only slowly in the grey air. As the light of that uncertain day faded, it seemed as if it might pass altogether without a single word of any significance being exchanged. The Livingstones were discussing whether or not to go to Spain, or rather when to go: reasons for going or not going were put forward, but this seemed to me a theoretical exercise for I saw no sign in their settled carefulness that they would ever leave that room. I felt that there was something ritualistic about this discussion, as if it were being aired purely pour la forme. I also felt that there was something collusive about it, as if my own presence, my potential contribution, were being held off. They were, without properly realizing what they were about, on the defensive. Finally, unable to tolerate the tension they had unconsciously set up, I asked, ‘How is Heather?’

  Dorrie cleared her throat. ‘She’s very well, dear. You’ve heard her news, I suppose?’

  ‘Her news?’

  ‘Yes. She’s going to get married again. We’re very pleased for her.’

  ‘I see,’ I said slowly. I was determined to say very little, knowing that I had already said too much.

  ‘Yes, to Chiara’s brother. It’s all very romantic. Apparently it was love at first sight.’ Dorrie looked at me brightly. Something of our discussion had obviously reached her.

  ‘It won’t be like last time,’ she went on, with a gesture of dismissal. ‘I’m afraid Michael was too young to be a proper husband. I blame myself for encouraging him. And, you know, Oscar never really took to him.’

  I looked at Oscar, whose face was set in lines of melancholy dignity. It was his other expression, the one I always thought of as peculiarly his. Oh, why so sad? I had once thought. But now it was as if he had always known that he was to sustain a loss for which nothing could compensate.

  ‘When will she leave?’ I asked, watching him carefully.

  ‘Oh, she’s already gone, dear. Didn’t she let you know? I expect she was in too great a hurry. She had such a lot to do before she left.’

  There was a pause. ‘You’ll miss her,’ I said.

  It was Oscar who answered. He sighed. ‘Yes, we’ll miss her. But you see, Rachel, she must have her chance.’

  ‘Her chance?’

  ‘Her chance to be as happy as we have been.’

  He moved across to Dorrie and took her hand. They faced me as if facing some sort of tribunal.

  ‘She wasn’t happy, Rachel,’ said Dorrie. ‘She said nothing to me, but I knew. And she’s always been such a good girl. When she explained to us how she wanted to live, we understood. Didn’t we, Oscar? We wouldn’t want her to stay here just on our account. After all, we won’t always be here.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And we’d rather know that she had had this chance. I didn’t like to think of her growing older and not knowing what true love was.’

  ‘But how do you know …?’ I began, in spite of myself.

  ‘We saw her face,’ Dorrie said simply. ‘We knew.’

  So had they known during those nights at the opera, when the heroine, transformed, came forward to sing her aria. Simple intimations, to be ignored by those of us who had seen it all before and who in any case knew the ending, but incontrovertible proof for those of a more trusting disposition. I looked at them in despair. They were both sad now, but noble and resigned, as if the emotions of the theatre had invaded their ordinary, their so ordinary lives. It was what I had been summoned to hear, of course. And yet it did not convince me. This romanticism of theirs was a little too prepared, too official, as if assumed for the occasion. They were not subtle people and I did not doubt for a moment that they believed what they had said. But nothing had broken through their rationalizations, nothing to persuade me that Heather’s decision had been completely internalized. They had accepted it, but more had happened than they would ever let me know. In fact I sensed that they wanted to deflect any comments or questions that I might care to put. I think they were afraid of what I might say.

  ‘Well, I must be getting back.’ I busied myself as one does to announce imminent departure. ‘You’ll let me know how to get in touch with her when you have an address.’ An absurd remark, I reflected: they must already have an address. But I did not want to give the impression that I was intruding, or had any intention of intruding, into what was clearly a family affair.

  ‘Of course, dear. Oscar, wrap that fruit cake in foil for Rachel to take home.’

  When he was out of the room, she leaned forward and whispered, ‘He’s a little upset, it’s only natural. But he’ll get over it. We’re both of one mind.’ She was looking paler, and lines of tiredness had appeared in her face. ‘Oscar,’ she said, as he reappeared, a greaseproof paper parcel in one hand. ‘Tell Rachel she’s to go on just as before. To come and see us just as she always used to.’ She gripped my arm painfully. ‘We shall rely on you, you know. I dare say we shall miss her.’ She burst into tears, searching blindly for a handkerchief and turning her face away.

  Oscar’s arms were round her. ‘All right, darling, all right. She’s over-tired,’ he said to me.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘I’ll leave you now. I’ll telephone tomorrow. Don’t cry, Dorrie,’ I said, kneeling in front of her. ‘It will be all right.’

  Her hand reached out and stroked my face. ‘If only I could see her again,’ she whispered. ‘If only she were here.’

  With strange stiff movements I got to my feet. I knew now why I had come, what everything that had gone before had been leading up to. Oh, why so sad? For there was never any doubt that I would play my subordinate part to the end. I would not come here again, that was clear. The divisions between us were too real to be glossed over. But there was one more thing I had to do.

  ‘If you like,’ I said, ‘I will go and see her. Bring her back for a visit. Would you like that?’

  Dorrie’s drowned face looked up at me. ‘Would you?’ she said, still whispering. ‘Would you go there?’

  ‘Why not?’ I replied cheerfully. ‘I was going to Italy anyway. We’re very quiet in the shop at this time of year. I usually take my holiday about now. I’ll go and have a look round, if you like. Get a clearer picture. And then she can come home with me. She’ll probably be glad of the break.’

  I left quickly after that, wishing to spare myself the exclamations of gratitude that I knew would come my way. I remember Dorrie’s sudden pacification, the restoration of a little colour to her face, the falling back in the chair as if exhausted. When she kissed me, her wet cheek lay on mine for a long time. I remember Oscar standing at the door of the house to wave me goodbye: I was aware of him standing there, but I only turned once to raise my hand in farewell. I drifted through the chill streets as if dreaming, barely noticing the dark and the loneliness. It had been a disrupted day, a day when I had broken with my Spartan
working habits, only to be immersed in the troubled waters of a family drama. I ached with longing for the structure of a normal day, with all the intrigues and adventures confined within the covers of books, and all the books arranged alphabetically by author. Yet I felt no compulsion to get back to the shop. The effect of the afternoon had been to cut me off from reality, so that it seemed to me as if the rest of my life lay before me quite empty, quite aimless, and my only task or mission was to retrieve Heather from her hiding place and bring her safely home again.

  My anger was slow to gather but when it came at last it was monumental. It was also quite cold. I coldly reviewed the plans I would have to make, and prepared for my absence as if I might never return. By the end of the following day all my travel arrangements had been made: tickets booked, letters written, bills paid, Robin alerted. The fact that I had no notion of where Heather was to be found did not seem to hinder me. On the off chance I sent a telegram to the Gritti Palace, remembering that she had once said that she called in there every day. I had no doubt that I would find her, probably in a passive position, in a public place, waiting to be led back. I had visions of myself arresting her outside Quadri’s. And if she did not want to follow me? She was hardly under compulsion, and there was the shadowy figure of Marco in the background to be reckoned with. But I was by now so angry that I saw myself sweeping him aside, taking her by the wrist, throwing her on to the plane, delivering her into the arms of her father, and stalking off, never to speak to any of them again.

  My anger was of course mixed with fear. I knew Venice but always avoided it. It was the ultimate nightmare: a city filled with water. It was bad enough in the summer, when it was neutralized by crowds of visitors: one could always join a group when crossing a bridge and thus not lose touch with corporeality. But in late winter, deserted, misty, half sunk, it would unnerve me. My own trepidation would be a factor in the forthcoming exchange. I too might fail through inadvertence.

  It was the anger that saved me. I nurtured it as if it were a sacred flame, a talisman that would protect me throughout this journey into the unknown. Without it I would have felt enormously at risk; with it I felt cold, hard, a bully, a brute. With it I could commit murder. And while my victim, in all innocence, sat at a table in some dingy apartment, waiting for her prospective mother-in-law to serve her with a plate of soup, I armed myself with courage, sought out my finest clothes, smoothed the leather of conqueror’s boots against the calves of my legs, slammed the door on my flat, as if the place were of no consequence to me, and walked out into the street, the dearest place on earth to me at that moment, my face haughty with disapproval.

  I did not telephone the Livingstones before I left. My feelings were too mixed to enable me to give them my full attention. Waves of panic and fury threatened my equilibrium: I was not in the mood to offer palliatives. I should have warned them that I was not the best person for this mission, that an aunt, safely backed up by an uncle, a cousin, should have gone in my place, but I remembered them at the hospital, all bereft, devoid of initiative, weakened by tears, and I dismissed the thought. In some curious way – and this was what kept my anger at full strength – I was being used as the most competent member of their entourage to perform this impossible task. I was being seen as tough, and it was true that I gave that impression. No protection was to be afforded me: that was the message. I was in this world to fend for myself, eternally. When I thought of this, Heather’s plight became quite irrelevant. She was merely the pretext for a display of strength that would be forced from me, as if I must live out the fiction that they all entertained. As I got into the first taxi that came along – and it came along very quickly, much too quickly – I vowed silently that if Heather were to make me suffer one moment longer than was necessary I would have a reckoning with her that she would never forget.

  ELEVEN

  I MET an amusing man on the plane, with whom I exchanged addresses. We agreed that he should telephone me in a couple of days’ time, when we would meet and have dinner. The flight was uneventful. I bought myself a large bottle of scent from the stewardess and tried to believe that I was going on holiday.

  I had booked a room at the Pensione Wildner, hoping that it would overlook the back, but here luck was against me, and I had an uninterrupted view of the Grand Canal. I was shaken on arrival, as I knew I should be, by the ride in the water taxi from the airport. Shooting between the posts that marked the passage for traffic in the uneven rocking expanse, or bucketing in the wake of a larger craft, the tiny launch seemed to expend enormous effort just to skim the surface. As I cowered in the little cabin, wincing every time we struck a wave, I could feel the beat of my heart in my throat, in my stomach, and willed myself to a scrupulous calm. It was raining, of course: through the spattered windows I could make out only a swelling sea of grey. Sky and water seemed to merge in a dull uniformity. Low cloud and watery swell, combined with the jittery motion of the launch, made me fear for my powers of endurance, which, I think, up to that point, had never let me down. Venice, a rim, a crust of buildings, barely visible above the horizon, looked as if it were buried in the sea. I marvelled at the insouciance of Venetians, forever stepping on and off boats, bridging that uneasy gap of water with a negligent foot, ignoring the cats that slipped along like shadows, worshipping in bravura churches poised on promontories or islands. A mineral city, sprouting well-heads instead of trees and bridges instead of gardens. And devoid of that expansive, almost operatic, and always endearing good humour that characterizes the centre of Italy or even its farther coast. Venetians were doleful, subtle people, not given to loud voices, public eating and drinking, or effusive gestures of greeting or affection. Even the children were quiet. This I remembered from my previous stay, which had been in the early days of a beautiful summer. I had on that occasion been subdued in mood, an effect of the silence and the immobility of the city. Gondolas, gliding in the dark green caverns of canals, had seemed propelled by the agency of a dream. But now the city looked devoid even of that silent life. It rode low in the water, unconvincing. I wondered how it could sustain the weight of stone it had imposed on itself. It is apparently sinking. But it must always have appeared to be sinking, and perhaps the world is willing to believe that it might be, so vainglorious, so utterly irrational and challenging is its disposition. Its ultimate demise will be accepted as a punishment for spiritual pride.

  Yet, as always, once out of the wretched little boat, and relatively safe on relatively dry land, I found it curiously humdrum. Stout black-clad figures with oilcloth bags slipped into dark shops pungent with sweating sausage, or lingered by windows occupied by tall glass jars in which floated olives or small blanched cheeses. In the Piazza San Marco, which was always smaller than I thought it would be, there was already a party of schoolchildren, meek faces under gondoliers’ straw hats, eyes turning towards the pigeons, away from the church whose mosaics they had been sent to study. Weak and desultory Viennese melodies were being sawn on inexpert violins as I took my first cup of coffee there. The city was quiet, for few visitors would choose to come so early in the season, when the mists made the air clammy and frequent rainstorms pocked the surface of the water. Even as I sat I saw the sky darken, and a brief bolt of lightning ushered in a flood of silver rain: some hidden light in the atmosphere illuminated the heavy drops as they struck the ground and bounced up again, translucent as fishes. A bell boomed the hour. With a sigh I picked up my bag and paid my bill. Then I set out to look for Heather.

  In my telegram I had told her where I would be staying, and I assumed that she would leave a message there. But some instinct had urged me to drop my bag in my room and to hasten away without asking for my letters. I had this absurd idea, which was nevertheless extremely tenacious, that I would find her in the street somewhere. In my mind I could see her quite clearly, motionless, in her black garments, poised to vanish into some dark alley. But I would be there before her, spirited and relentless in my fine leather boots, and I would ta
ke her by the arm and lead her back in triumph to the Pensione Wildner, where I would sit her on the bed and invite her to a final accounting.

  I set off, therefore, without aim or direction, striking inland wherever I could. Of course the water eternally intruded, but I marked off for future reference a tiny bar on a corner, with two small metal tables outside. Janus-like, it faced two ways. If I took up my stance at one of the tables, I could command a wide sweep of the little square, which had the advantage of many entrances and exits, rather like a stage set. A broad-hipped church stood modestly off-centre. A child, muffled in scarves, one of which was crossed over its chest and tied behind its back, chased a ball round my feet. ‘Marco, Marco,’ called its mother. This seemed like a sign. I ordered another cup of coffee and increased my vigilance.

  Apart from looking for Heather there was nothing that I wanted to do. I had not chosen to come here, after all, nor would I ever voluntarily choose so watery a place for my delectation. As the grey day wore on I found myself at a loss. Frequent showers of rain kept me dodging from café to café, staring out from behind silver-streaming windows for a glimpse of that black-clad figure. Time seemed to be passing very slowly. I had lunch, then forced myself to go to the Accademia. The gold polyptychs of what seemed to me a primeval time gleamed dully in the high wooden arched rooms; short flights of stairs floated me down to more altarpieces, curious repositories of mournfulness on these secular walls. The flailing limbs of several martyrdoms assailed me. There seemed to be no visitors. I sought the refuge of corridors, unable to tolerate those dark floating spaces. Bellini’s Madonnas turned cheeks shadowed with sorrow in my direction, their heads describing an arc of grief which nevertheless excluded my inheritance. In a deserted room I found the only picture I wanted to see. The woman suckling her child had a heavy face, immanent with meaning, but from which all explanation had been withdrawn. To her right, on the left of the picture, stood the mysterious and elegant knight, intense and remote, his face in shadow. The storm that broke on the scene bound the two together in puzzling complicity. In the background, a banal hill village. In the middle distance, two broken columns.