‘How badly what? And I don’t barge into people’s privacy, not the people I know, and certainly not a man I have never seen before in my life.’ With those words Anoushka once again tried to take her leave.
Hadon Calder was astonished. She was not play acting, she did not remember him as the man who had come to her aid. He was fascinated that she could block him, possibly the entire incident, out of her mind. She looked a great deal better to him than she had when he had handed her his handkerchief and she had asked for his help.
He decided, for the moment, not to pursue the fact that they had indeed met but instead rose quickly from his chair and blocked her way. ‘I’m being rude. Inexcusably so. But I am rude, and paranoid about my privacy, difficult at the best of times, selfish and self-centred. A pig, actually. I can, however, also be devastatingly charming when I want something and very pleasant and amusing if I’m not put upon.’ He took her hand in his, and, as if to prove a point, lowered his head and placed the perfect continental kiss upon it. ‘The translation, is it very bad?’
‘I don’t think I want to get into this.’
‘Please, how bad?’
‘As you so rightly pointed out, knowing the words doesn’t make you a translator. I really must go, I’m very late for dinner.’
‘Dine with me.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not good company, I need to be alone.’
‘Maybe that’s just what you don’t need.’
‘How would you know what I need?’
‘I only said maybe.’
‘I don’t know you, I don’t dine with strangers, and frankly I don’t much want to make the effort of getting to know you.’ Anoushka could hardly believe she had said that. She quickly added, ‘Or anyone else.’
‘That’s perfect. I don’t particularly want you to know me. Quite the contrary. And have no fear, I certainly don’t want to discover you. Just pick your brain, and talk about translations. Something to amuse ourselves while we dine well. Shall we say back here in an hour, dressed for the last dinner aboard ship before we dock in Southampton?’
Anoushka hesitated.
‘Oh, shit, who needs this?’ He gathered up the books, placed the fountain pen in his pocket, and said, ‘I can’t stand indecisive women. It’s a really irritating trait. If you prefer a boring evening dining alone, then don’t come.’
Anoushka surprised Hadon when she stepped around him and left the room without a word. He had misjudged her reaction, had expected her to crumble and accept his invitation. He had after all seen what a vulnerable woman she was.
Few people knew what Hadon Calder looked like. There were no author photograph on his books, and his TV and newspaper interviews were rare. His acerbic tongue, quick wit and passion for privacy were all there in his writing, and that he felt was enough. Anything left over was for him. His genre was the big novel, a cross between the geo-political thriller and existentialist thinking. Some wag on The Times had labelled him ‘Camus for the masses’. He was that rare thing in the literary world: a formidable writer that the public read, and still he remained a private man, wealthy from the work he loved, who could roam the world with a certain degree of anonymity.
He was one of those people who believed that work was more fun than fun. That his writing was as much a business as an act of creation. His books were widely translated. No. 1 bestsellers in ten languages. Hadon Calder made it a policy to have translations from the foreign language editions sent to him. He had recently had to hire new translators for two editions after the death of a man whose work had pleased him for more than ten years.
This neurotic woman who had now crossed his path twice was right – the new translator was just not good enough. He was missing the power and beauty, the subtle, smooth, expansiveness of Hadon’s prose. This new translator had lost the heart and essence of Hadon’s writing. He had somehow been heavy-handed, used leaden words that killed the pace. The Calder images no longer gleamed with magic and poetry. He watered down the evil and uplifting goodness, the mix that Hadon Calder’s novels played with so brilliantly, and where was the wit?
Hadon’s first impression that something was very wrong was the first time he saw the proofs of the book. They were no more than one-third the size of the English, French and Italian editions. The man would be fired, the translation junked, but that was not enough for Hadon. In London he and his publishers would interview a number of new candidates for the job but this time Hadon would be there to listen and approve or disapprove. Line by line, they would get it right because Hadon would have done his homework, analysed what was wrong with the present translation, be able to indicate where the losses were in the translation.
It was not an easy job at the best of times but it was twice as bad now when Hadon was angry over every omission, the stupidity, the waste of time and money with every sentence that went wrong. It made for a lesser book, a bad book in his eyes. For a perfectionist who insisted everything be right, having the wrong translator was a seriously bad business.
Hadon was late. He had taken his time bathing and changing into evening clothes. A royal blue silk handkerchief frothed from the breast pocket, his only deviation from the formal dinner jacket so elegantly cut, so perfect with its wide black satin lapels, the white linen shirt and soft black silk bow tie.
The bar was deserted, except for the bartender and two waiters who snapped to attention. Hadon went directly to the bar and asked for a double martini, no olive and a twist of lemon. He seated himself at a table near a porthole, drawn to that particular place because of a white full moon that cut a path of silver across the water. He ordered a second martini and asked the waiter to fetch a menu from the dining room for him. She was approaching the table while he was still talking to the waiter. He added to his other instructions, ‘You’d better make that two menus,’ and rose from his chair to greet Anoushka.
‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Well, that makes two of us. Neither did I.’
And for the first time they smiled at each other. He kissed her hand and they sat down. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘The idea of dining alone, of getting bored with myself.’ This time the smile was teasing. ‘No, none of those reasons.’
‘Then dare I ask why?’
‘No. I think not.’
He ordered a martini for her and after the waiter departed, he said, ‘That’s quite an evening dress. You’re a lady full of surprises.’
‘No. My husband was full of surprises. He bought me this gown.’
‘Oh, there’s a husband?’
‘I thought we weren’t going to pry into each other’s lives, not discover each other? You weren’t interested, remember?’
‘And neither are you?’
‘No.’
He drained his glass while Anoushka sipped from hers. ‘I’m famished,’ she declared, and picked up the menu.
Hadon was surprised to find he liked her. She was interesting, complex, vulnerable and strong-willed. How else could she have blocked him, her Good Samaritan, so completely from her mind? He couldn’t decide how bright or clever she might be, but he knew enough about character to know that she had been cheating on herself for a good many years. He could wager that that family she had left behind on the dock in New York had buried the real woman in her years ago. Wife, mother, matron of suburbia, she was more than that. Did she know it? He liked her looks, whereas he hadn’t considered them when he had seen her at the ship’s rail, although he had earlier this evening. Now he found her downright attractive.
‘Caviare and quails’ eggs,’ he ordered, looking across the table at Anoushka for approval. ‘To get on with.’
‘And vodka, not chilled but very cold, don’t you think?’ she asked.
He raised an eyebrow approvingly. ‘Yes, you’re quite right, caviare and vodka, perfect mates. And followed by, for your first course?’ He waited for her to choose. Watching the indeci
sion on her face made him suggest, ‘Shall I order for us?’
Anoushka lowered the menu. He was amused by the look that came into her eyes when she answered. ‘No. I had a husband who used to do that, take me over, and all the time I thought it was a charming gesture. Not any more. I’ll manage, thank you.’
A flash of hatred, was that what he had seen in her eyes? And she had used the past tense. He was even more intrigued by his dinner guest.
‘I’ll have the foie gras en croûte, consommé, baby lobster, lamb cutlet, potatoes rosti, Caesar salad. And for pudding, Baked Alaska.’
‘May I at least make a suggestion? The lemon sorbet, served between the lobster and the lamb, to clear the palate, as it were?’
She smiled at him and answered, ‘Suggestions are acceptable.’ And turning to the waiter, added, ‘The lemon sorbet, please.’
‘I don’t have a problem about women taking me over, on the rare occasion that is. I consider this a rare occasion.’ He closed the menu and handed it back to the waiter, telling him, ‘The same for me. And could you have them call us when our table is ready?’
‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ Anoushka commented.
‘You’re not expected to say anything.’
‘That’s good to know. Do I seem awkward to you?’
‘An odd question? No. Not particularly.’
Anoushka looked pleased. She smiled and said, ‘Oh, good, that’s a start.’
‘Would you like to elaborate on that?’
She hesitated, not sure whether she did or didn’t. Was he irritated by her silence? She thought he might be and told him, ‘I sense that hesitation annoys you. You should be more tolerant, especially with strangers. Not everyone can be quick, or may want to be. My timing is not the same as yours.’
That’s quite sharp of her, thought Hadon. She gets better and better. He raised his glass and toasted her. ‘Touché.’
‘I haven’t dined alone with a man other than my husband since my marriage thirteen years ago. The experience is new, I hardly know how to behave.’
‘You’re doing just fine.’
Anoushka relaxed enough to consider this man for the first time. He was, she thought, in his early sixties, very fit and quite handsome. Big and very rugged, John Wayne, Texas, kind of big. She imagined he lived on a ranch. His masculinity was appealing. The ache returned, the loss of Robert, the security of having a man to care for her, a man of her own, a man to escape with into a world of sex and fulfilment, erotic oblivion. She looked across the table at this attractive stranger and the ache diminished. There were other men in the world, if not for love at least for sex. How had she not thought of that once in all her years with Robert? Blind love had indeed a great deal to answer for.
On the way to the dining room, she stumbled and Hadon caught her with an arm round her waist. Pulling her up against him was instinctive. He liked how she felt in his arms, the sensuous body discernible under the crêpe-de-chine. Sensuality and vulnerability, for him a real turn on in a one night stand. A crude thought, Fuck her and leave her. A few seconds, that was all it took for him to deduce what a very sexual woman this lady was, and how much years of marriage, children, husband, and the security of family life had taken her over. Here was a woman of carnal desires who was hiding behind respectability. She gave out enough signals, albeit without intending to.
He was amused by his discovery, and also excited. He had a taste for carnal ladies, women who left love and all its trappings out of the bed. Hadon Calder was a genius at the three-day romance, but even better at the twenty-four-hour, sex ’em and leave ’em.
Chapter 5
Hadon felt Anoushka draw back as they entered the dining room. Her explanation was, ‘All these people, chatting and laughing together. I’ve been dining alone in my room too long.’
‘Are you all right?’
She hesitated then answered, ‘Yes. It merely took me by surprise.’
‘Just another restaurant, only it floats. People out to have a good time. It’s all quite ordinary.’ With that he took her firmly by the arm and they followed the maître d’ to the table reserved for them and resplendent with flowers. Their places were set with a bowl each of the best Beluga caviare sunk in a larger silver bowl of crushed ice, individual small carafes of vodka and small-stemmed shot-sized glasses. They were hardly seated before one waiter arrived to fill their glasses, another with a mound of hot buttered toast.
Anoushka raised the glass to her lips and said, with a hint of a smile, ‘Nastrovia.’ Then she drained the glass in one swallow, the right way, the Russian way. Hadon was impressed.
‘Nastrovia,’ he toasted, and drank it down in the same fashion.
‘My name is Anoushka Usopova Rivers.’
‘And I’m Hadon Calder.’
‘Oh.’
Hadon placed several triangles of the buttered toast on his side plate and took up the polished amber pallet, one of the traditional ways to scoop some caviare on to toast. If possible one never used silver. He had written that in one of his books. Remembering made him smile.
‘The writer?’
‘I’ve never heard there were two Hadon Calders, though of course there might be,’ he said, not unkindly.
‘How presumptuous of me, correcting your work. You were quite right to be angry.’
He reached across the table and refilled Anoushka’s glass. ‘A woman who likes to go at her own pace, you told me. I’ll leave it to you then to pour your own vodka after this one gentlemanly act. Don’t be embarrassed, your presumption is what got us here dining together.’
‘I do have an excuse,’ she told him.
‘You don’t need one.’ He was genuinely trying to put her at her ease.
His assurance did not stop Anoushka. ‘It was such an insensitive translation. I know your work, am in fact an admirer, you’ve given me many hours of great pleasure. I didn’t realise it was your work I was reading. I should have, but I’m not quite myself. What I did know was that line for line the work was losing something in translation.’
‘The toast will be cold and the caviare is delicious.’
Anoushka spread some caviare on a corner of hot buttered toast and squeezed drops of lemon on the succulent black beads from a wedge wrapped in muslin. She ate with gusto.
‘Where did you learn your Japanese? How is it you chose to learn Japanese? It isn’t exactly like taking up French or Italian.’
Anoushka looked across the table at Hadon. ‘Oh, how wrong you are. It’s exactly like taking up French or Italian.’ There was cynicism in her voice. ‘I had done those: beginners’ and advanced courses, plus art appreciation, literature courses, poetry. I was running out of the courses the local university offered for the bored and ambitious housewife who wanted to better herself and impress. As it happens, I impressed no one. There was only Russian, Chinese, and Japanese left and I was already fluent in Russian. It is after all my native tongue. I favoured Japanese first because I like the modern Japanese writers, Mishima and many others. No doubt Chinese would have come next, only my circumstances changed quite suddenly and there was no longer spare time to fill. Now it’s all just spare time. Have you brought that sheet of paper I was so audacious as to work on?’
Hadon drew from his breast pocket the sheet of paper now folded in four. He handed it across the table to Anoushka without comment on what she had just revealed. She placed it on the table next to her plate and filled her glass. This time she took a sip of the vodka, smiled quite charmingly at Hadon and then emptied her glass in one swallow. He had been preparing another triangle of toast heaped with caviare. Carefully he handed it across the table to Anoushka. She ate the delicacy before she picked up the paper and read several sentences written in English by Hadon, then she read the same sentences from the Japanese translated back into English. She saw the rage rising in Hadon’s face.
‘Butchery,’ he exclaimed.
Anoushka became very bold. She held up a hand to silence him and t
hen proceeded with the translation she had made from English into Japanese, and then read how her translation from the Japanese read back into English. She watched with some pleasure the calm that replaced his rage. Anoushka folded the paper again and handed it back to him. ‘I hope this vindicates my intrusive behaviour.’
‘And more,’ he told her as the waiters returned to the table to clear and produce their first course: foie gras en croûte.
Over dinner they spoke of nothing but the two paragraphs Anoushka had worked on, the nuances, how the juxtaposition of words can make poetry of even the most banal thoughts, can create art from intelligence, imagination, and passion. Anoushka was quoting from the Japanese writer Shusako Endo which prompted her to quote another passage, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She stopped mid-sentence and all the enthusiasm seemed to drain from her face.
Hadon said nothing, merely observed the change in Anoushka. Her head lowered, she said, only just above a whisper, ‘I used to talk like this sometimes to my husband. Only now do I realise he never heard me, only pretended to.’
Hadon remained silent. What after all could he say to that? Marital unhappiness … how boring, how unnecessary, and why would a woman live with that? The waiters returned. The main course arrived. Hadon cut into the lamb cutlet, done to perfection, pink, sweet and succulent. He was enjoying his food and felt some disappointment that his dinner companion had suddenly gone off hers.
‘You really should try these baby cutlets.’
Anoushka took a deep breath, a sigh, and then raised her head and gazed across the table at him. ‘ “Conversational French, and my wife speaks conversational Japanese.” I always thought those many many times Robert said that, to his friends and colleagues, it was his pride, and love for me that prompted him. Not only was I blind but deaf. Only now do I hear the scorn in his voice.
‘All those lessons for all those languages, a married lifetime of lessons, of filling in time – and for what? For my husband so he might be proud of me in front of his friends, so that they could smirk and make wry comments about my penchant for learning and my linguistic abilities that I never used. “Conversational Japanese, for someone who has never been to Japan and has no particular desire to go. Now we are obliged to so Anoushka can practise,” he once said at a dinner party, then kissed me sweetly on the lips and patted my cheek, took my hand in his and kissed it.’
Objects of Desire Page 7