by David Lodge
“You mean you survived that crash?”
“I wasn’t on the plane. I was supposed to be—this was about three years ago,” she explained parenthetically to Akbil and Oya and the jazz drummer. “My husband was posted to India. I was going with him, but at the last moment my doctor said not to go, I was eight months pregnant and he thought it would be too risky, so John went alone, and I stayed behind with Gerard, our little boy, but somehow our names were left on the passenger list, or some passenger list. The plane crashed, landing in the middle of a storm.”
“And your husband… ?” Oya quavered.
“There were very few survivors,” said Mrs. Simpson simply, “and he wasn’t one of them.”
Oya was weeping copiously. “I pity you,” she said, snuffling into a handkerchief.
“I thought you were dead,” said Philip Swallow again, as if he had not heard this explanation, or, having heard it, had failed to take it in.
“But you see, Professor Swallow, she is not dead after all! She lives!” Oya gave a little clap of her hands and rose on to the tips of her toes, smiling through her tears. Akbil had the sense that his wife was supplying all the emotion that the two English should be exhibiting. The jazz drummer had slipped away unnoticed at some point in Mrs. Simpson’s recital. “You should be happy,” said Oya to Philip. “It is like a fairy story.”
“I am of course very pleased to see Mrs. Simpson alive and well,” he said. He seemed to have recovered his composure, though his face was still pale.
“And the art of pleasing consists in being pleased, as Bill Hazlitt says,” Akbil struck in, rather neatly, he thought.
“But what are you doing in Ankara?” Philip asked Mrs. Simpson.
“I’m just here for a few days, for some meetings. I run the Council library in Istanbul.”
“I’m going to Istanbul tonight,” said Philip Swallow, with some signs of excitement.
“Oh? How long will you be staying there?”
“Three or four days. I go home on Friday.”
“Unfortunately, I’m here till Friday.”
Philip Swallow looked as if he couldn’t believe this intelligence. He turned to Akbil. “Akbil, Alex Custer seems to have forgotten all about my drink, could you possibly… ?”
“Of course,” said Akbil, “I will seek it.”
“I will help you,” said Oya. “Mrs. Simpson also needs a refill.” She took Mrs. Simpson’s glass and almost pushed Akbil towards the door.
“Why did you not stay with them?” Akbil muttered to Oya in Turkish. “They will think us rude.”
“I have a feeling they wish to be alone,” said Oya. “I think there is something between them.”
“Do you think so?” Akbil was astonished. He looked back over his shoulder. Philip Swallow was certainly deep in conversation with Mrs. Simpson, who looked flustered for once. “That man never ceases to surprise me,” he said.
…
Three hours later, Philip paced anxiously up and down the broad platform of Ankara’s main railway station beside the tall coaches of the Ankara-Istanbul express. The train had a period air, vaguely reminiscent of thirties’ thrillers, as did the whole scene. Wisps of smoke and steam drifted out of deep shadows into the bright glare of arc lights. A family of peasants had camped out for the night on a bench, surrounded by their bundles and baskets. The mother, suckling her baby, gazed impassively at the women in chic velvet trouser-suits who led caravans of porters bearing their matched suitcases towards the first class coaches. Uniformed officials clasping millboards strutted up and down, giving orders to menials and kicking beggars out of the way. The second- and third-class compartments were already full, exhaling odours of garlic, tobacco and perspiration from their ventilators; the passengers within, wedged tightly together, hip to hip, knee to knee, prepared themselves stoically for the night’s long journey. From time to time a figure would dart from one of these coaches across the platform to a small kiosk that sold tea, fizzy drinks, pretzel-shaped bread and poisonous-looking sweets.
In the first-class compartments, where Philip had a berth, the atmosphere was more relaxed. Bottles clinked against glasses, and card parties were being organized, though the lights were almost too dim to see the cards by. There was an atmosphere of gossip and intrigue, of assignations made and bribes passed. At the end of the corridor there was a red glow from the small solid-fuel furnace which the sleeping-car attendant was vigorously stoking, sweat pouring off his brow.
“It supplies heat and hot water to the sleepers,” Custer had explained, when seeing Philip off. “Looks rather primitive, but it’s effective. It can get quite cold out on the plains at night, even in spring.”
Philip managed to persuade Custer and Akbil Borak not to wait with him until the train departed. “There’s no point, really,” he assured them. “I’ll be quite all right.”
“One of the pleasantest things in the world is going on a journey,” said Akbil Borak with a smile, “but I prefer to go by myself.”
“Do you really?” said Custer. “I prefer company.”
“No, no!” Borak laughed. “I was quoting Bill Hazlitt. The essay ‘On going on a journey.’”
“Please don’t wait,” said Philip.
“Well,” said Custer, “Perhaps I should get back and see to the jazz quartet.”
“And I must collect my wife from your apartment, Mr. Custer,” said Borak.
They shook Philip’s hand and after exchanging the pleasantries usual on such occasions, took themselves off. Philip watched them go with relief. If Joy decided in the end to join him, she would not want to be seen doing so by Custer and Borak.
But that had been half an hour ago, and still she had not come.
“I can’t possibly go back to Istanbul tonight,” she had said, when he got her alone for a few minutes at Custer’s party. “I’ve only just arrived in Ankara. My suitcase is still in the hall, unpacked.”
“That makes it all the simpler,” said Philip. “Just pick it up and leave with me.” He ate her with his eyes, wolfing the features he had thought he would never see again, the softly waved blonde hair, the wide generous mouth, the slightly heavy chin.
“I’ve come here on Council business.”
“You could make some excuse.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I love you.” The words came out without premeditation. She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ve never forgotten that night,” he said.
“For heaven’s sake,” she murmured. “Not here. Not now.”
“When then? I must talk to you.”
“Ah, have you two introduced yourselves?” cried Mrs. Custer, coming up to them with a plate of canapés.
“We’ve met before, actually. In Genoa,” said Joy.
“Really? Ah, well, that’s the way, isn’t it, when one is in the Council, one is always bumping into old acquaintances in the most unlikely places. And how are you, Joy? How are the children—Gerard, isn’t it, and—”
“Mrs. Simpson was just telling me that Gerard is not at all well,” said Philip. Joy stared at him.
“Oh dear! Nothing serous I hope?” Mrs. Custer said to Joy.
Philip’s heart thumped as he waited for her reply.
“He had a bit of a temperature when I left,” she said at length. “I may phone my girl later to see how he is.”
Philip turned his head aside to conceal his triumph.
“Oh, yes, please do,” said Mrs. Custer. “Use the phone in our bedroom, it’s more private.” She swept the room with a hostess’s regard. “Oh dear, the saxophonist is browsing at our bookshelves—I always think that’s a bad sign at a party, don’t you? Do come and talk to him, Joy—will you excuse us, Professor Swallow?”
“Of course,” said Philip.
He could not contrive to be alone with Joy for the rest of the evening. He watched her movements closely, but did not see her go into the Custers’ bedroom. When it was time
for him to leave for the station, well before the party was due to end, he was obliged to shake her formally by the hand in the presence of the other guests. “Goodbye, then,” he said, trying to hold her gaze. “I hope your little boy is all right. Have you phoned yet?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Goodbye, Professor Swallow.”
And that was that. He shot her one brief, beseeching look, and left the apartment with Custer and Borak. He could only hope and pray that after he had gone she would have made the call to Istanbul and concocted some story about her child that would require her immediate return home.
Philip took another turn beside the wagon-lit and checked his watch against the station clock. There were only three minutes to go before the train was due to depart. The suspense was agonizing, yet he felt strangely exhilarated. The depression of the past week had lifted, was already forgotten. He was again a man at the centre of his own story—and what a story! He could still hardly believe that Joy was not dead, after all, but alive. Alive! That warm, breathing flesh that he had clasped in the purple-lit bedroom in Genoa was still warm, still breathed. He felt himself transformed by the miraculous reversal of fortune, lifted up as by a wave. He heard himself saying to her in the corner of the Custers’ drawing-room, “Because I love you,” simply, sincerely, without hesitation, without embarrassment, like a hero in a film. He was not, after all, finished, washed up, ready for retirement. He was still capable of a great romance. Intensity had returned to experience. Where it would lead him to, he did not know, or care. He had a vague premonition of difficulties and pain ahead, to do with Hilary, the children, his career, but pushed them aside. All his mental energy was concentrated on willing Joy to reappear.
Doors slammed along the length of the train. Railway officials, posted at intervals along the platform like sentries, stiffened and looked to each other for signals. The minute hand of the station clock twitched forward. One minute to go.
Philip climbed reluctantly into the train, lowered the window of the door, and hung out of it, looking desperately in the direction of the ticket barrier. A uniformed official standing just beneath him looked to his left and right, then raised a whistle to his lips.
“Stop!” cried Philip, opening the door and jumping down on to the platform. He had seen a woman’s figure suddenly appear at the ticket barrier, her fair hair catching the light of the arc lamps. The man with the whistle, protesting in Turkish, tried to push Philip back into the train; then, when this failed, to close the door. As they wrestled, Joy came running across the broad platform, swinging a small suitcase in one hand. Philip pointed, the official stopped struggling and indignantly adjusted his uniform. Philip gave him a large-denomination banknote. The man smiled and held the door open for them to board the train. The door slammed behind them. A whistle shrilled. The train jerked into motion. In the dimly-lit corridor curious faces peered out of doorways, as Philip propelled Joy towards his compartment. He ushered her inside and slid the door shut behind him.
“You came,” he said. It was the first word either of them had spoken.
Joy sank on to the made-up bed, and closed her eyes. Her bosom rose and fell as she gulped air. “I have a ticket,” she gasped. “But no berth.”
“You can share this one,” he said.
…
As the train rocked and rumbled through the night they made awkward but rapturous love on the narrow bunk bed, their sighs and cries muffled by the creaking and rattling of the rolling-stock. Afterwards they clung together and talked. Or rather Joy talked—jerkily, hesitantly at first, then more fluently—while Philip mostly listened, responding with phatic strokings and squeezings of her soft limbs.
“That was so lovely, it’s the first time since John… Yes, I’ve had opportunities, but I’ve been so racked with guilt… I thought John being killed was a sort of punishment, you see. For being unfaithful to him. With you, of course—did you think I was promiscuous, or something? The only time, yes, does that surprise you? Why did I let you, yes, I often wondered about that. I never did anything so insane, before or since, until now, and this is different, anyway, since I know you, in a manner of speaking, and John isn’t here to be hurt. But that first time, there I was, a happily-married woman, well fairly happy anyway, as happy as most wives are, and I gave myself to a total stranger who suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night, as if you were a god or an angel or something and there was nothing I could do but submit. When I woke up the next morning I thought it had been a dream, but when I saw that John had left and your bags were in the hall, and realized that it had all really happened I nearly went mad. Well I may have seemed calm to you but I can tell you that I was on the verge of hysteria, I had to keep going into the bathroom and jabbing a pair of nail scissors into my hand so that the pain in my hand would stop me thinking about what I had done.
“Do you ever have a feeling when you’re driving fairly fast, in heavy traffic, that the whole thing is extraordinarily precarious, though everyone involved seems to take it for granted? All the drivers in their cars and lorries look so bored, so abstracted, just wanting to get from A to B; yet all the time they’re just inches, seconds, away from sudden death. It only needs someone to turn their steering-wheel a few inches this way rather than that, for everyone to start crashing into one another. Or you’re driving along some twisty coastal road, and you realize that if you were to take your hands off the wheel for just a second you would go shooting off the edge into thin air. It’s a frightening feeling, because you realize how easy it would be to do it, how quick, how simple, how irreversible. It seemed to me that I had done something like that, only I had swerved off the road into life, not death.
“I couldn’t complain about John as a husband. He was a kind man, faithful as far as I know, doted on Gerard, worked hard at his career. By normal standards it was a successful marriage. The physical side was all right, as far as I could tell. I mean, I didn’t have any experience to compare it with, and John didn’t have much either. We met when we were students at university, and we lived together for several years before we got married, our parents were terribly shocked when they found out, but actually it meant that we were pretty innocent about sex, never having known anybody else that way. I sometimes had an uneasy suspicion that John had decided to, not consciously you know, but well decided to find himself a girl as soon as he could in his first year and settle into a steady relationship, so as not to be distracted from getting on with his studies by sex. I mean, it was just like being married, really, and when we actually got married it was a purely social event, an expensive party, there was no difference in our lives before and after. The honeymoon was just a foreign holiday. I remember feeling rather sad on our wedding night that it was all so familiar, that neither of us was nervous or shy, and I had a wicked thought that perhaps we should go out and find another couple in the same situation—the hotel was full of honeymooners—and exchange partners, or all get into bed together. I wasn’t serious, it was just a thought, but I suppose it was symptomatic. I didn’t mention it to John, he wouldn’t have understood, he would have been hurt, thought I was getting at him. He was a conscientious lover, read up books about foreplay and so on, did his best to please me, and he did please me—I mean I never actually wanted to make love with him, not enough to take the initiative, I left that to him, but if he wanted to I usually enjoyed it.
“But somehow there was something missing. I always felt that. Passion perhaps. I never felt that John desired me passionately, or I him. I used to read about people making love in novels, and they seemed so ecstatic, so carried away. I never felt that. Then I would read sensible books about sex and marriage and the correspondence columns in the women’s magazines and decide that the novels were lying, the writers were making it all up, that I was jolly lucky to be having sex at all, never mind whether it was ecstatic or not. And then, that night, you appeared, and for the first time in my life I knew what it was like to be desired, passionately.”
&n
bsp; Here there was a hiatus in Joy’s monologue while Philip once more fervently demonstrated how well-founded this intuition had been. Some time later she resumed.
“While I was sitting on the sofa with John, opposite you, and he was chuntering on about phonetics and testing techniques and language laboratories, I could feel your desire coming from you like radioactivity, burning through my dressing-gown. It astonished me that John couldn’t sense it himself, that he was so oblivious to it that he was going to go off and leave us alone together. I was fascinated, excited. I had no intention at that point of letting you make love to me, indeed I didn’t think you would have the nerve to even make a pass. I was so sure of myself that I let John go off to Milan without a qualm. But when I came back into the living-room and you started to shake, I started to shake too—you noticed? And then when we were in the bedroom and you were shaking more than ever, it seemed to me that you were like the core of a nuclear reactor that’s, what’s the word, gone critical, that you would shake yourself to pieces, or melt a hole in the floor, consume yourself with your own passion, if I didn’t do something.”
“I had come back from the dead,” Philip groaned, remembering. “You were life, beauty. I wanted to be reconnected to life. You healed me.”
“I took my hands off the wheel,” said Joy. “I went over the edge with you because I had never been wanted like that before.”
…
In the early morning, they sat face to face in the restaurant car, with their fingers entwined beneath the table, sipping glasses of hot black tea from their free hands, as the train trundled through the pleasant little towns and villages on the Asian shore of the Sea of Marmara. There was vegetation here—trees and shrubs and vines—between the houses. The landscape seemed positively lush after the arid heights of Ankara. A few early risers were out in their gardens, watering the plants, or enjoying a quiet smoke in the slanting light of the rising sun. They waved as the train passed.
“You never wrote to me,” said Joy.