“I just think that’s just how it works. And what happened out there with you confirmed it. I think that for the first time in a long while you let the panic reach its peak. You were forced to, because this time you couldn’t use your pills to hold it back beforehand. But nothing, absolutely nothing can climb higher than its peak. After that it begins to go back down. It’s like the waves in the ocean. They rise higher and higher, build one atop the other, tall, threatening. They grow ever larger. But then they reach the tipping point. They fall over and crash into themselves. And then they roll over the sand, all flat and foaming.”
She pushed her glass away from her. “I am horribly tired. Do you think we could go now?”
His glass was empty again. Normally he would have kept on drinking until he lost consciousness. He was headed in just that direction now. But maybe he should do as she asked and take it as providence. To drive home with her now would save him from an awful breakdown — and from an extremely painful hangover the next morning.
“Okay,” he yielded. “Let’s go.” He stood up. It made him almost crazy to look at the golden liquid in her glass — the whiskey that she wouldn’t drink and that he … No, he wouldn’t do it. Even this unstable person got through today without drugs; it was the least he could do to follow her example.
“You should always think back on today,” he said as they walked outside together, out into the dark. The fresh, salty air did them good. “You should remember what it was like when the panic came and you had nothing to counter it with. How it felt when it rose and rose and you couldn’t breathe and you thought there was nothing for you to do but die. And how then it crumbled back into itself. How you could breathe again, calm and even. How you stopped trembling. How your thoughts were clear again and you realized you were going to live. It will always be like that.”
“What will it always be like?” she asked confused.
“You will never die because of it. You will survive your panic attacks every time. That means you don’t have to feel half as afraid as you do now.”
Very quietly, she said, “But I am afraid. And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop being frightened.”
“Maybe, though. If you think back on today.” He unlocked the car doors. “It was really the first time in a long while that you’ve gotten through a panic attack, right?”
“Yes.”
“You should be proud of yourself. And you should feel that you’ve accomplished something. What you’ve once managed to do, you’ll manage to do again. Every time.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Please, just drive now.”
“We’ll go get your luggage from Reza Karim first,” he suggested. “Okay?”
She didn’t answer. She leaned her head back, as trusting as a little child.
This day couldn’t have ended any differently, he thought, resigned. I should have just not come here.
He gave one last quick look up at Maya’s windows.
It was still dark in the apartment.
3
This horrible double birthday, Beatrice thought irritably. Every year we have to make such a big stink about it.
For her part, she wouldn’t at all have minded if they had let the 5th of September slide quietly past. Getting a year older was not, to her thinking, necessarily a reason for joyous festivity, and certainly not when you’d gotten past seventy. Life could hardly have much good left in store, and she hated it when the well-wishers claimed just that, trying hard to make the bitter pill go down a bit more smoothly.
“You’ll see, Beatrice, life still has its surprises” Mae had said, hugging her and handing over an Hermès scarf. Beatrice would never wear the scarf, and Mae knew it, but she was firmly determined not to give up her efforts to turn Beatrice into a refined lady.
“Drop by drop, the water wears the stone away,” Mae would often say, but Beatrice didn’t feel like this would apply in her case.
“But Mae, I have no interest in surprises,” she had said. Mae had replied that in life, as a rule, one is never asked whether one is interested or not. Mae loved quasi-philosophic prattle — mindless amateur psychology, Beatrice called it in secret.
She held herself removed from the day’s events. Let Helene be the one in the middle of things, the birthday child that everyone was there to celebrate. Year after year, Helene wanted to have the party, and Beatrice was never able to refuse her. Although she felt miserable, seeing Helene’s cheery expression at least brought some consolation for the violent effort this day was costing her. Most of the time Helene looked frustrated and unhappy, but today she was smiling. There was a sparkle in her eyes that was never there otherwise. She wore a floral-print summer dress which she was really too old for — but Helene owned only clothes that would have been suitable for a woman at least thirty years younger than she was. To make things worse, she had put on rather a lot of blush and lipstick and had stuck a plastic rose in her hair, which she wore up. She held a glass of champagne in her hand, chatted with the guests, and looked relaxed and at ease.
Beatrice was watching Kevin, who stood by the buffet and was eyeing the dishes offered there with suspicion. An excellent amateur cook himself, he placed inflated demands on all things culinary. It was rare that something would escape criticism from his spoiled palate. Beatrice realized with amusement that he was obviously finding flaws here as well. The buffet had been delivered by a very good catering service in St. Peter Port, but no doubt Kevin would find something wrong with every dish, then call the company the next day and let loose a torrent of sharp-tongued complaints.
“Hello, Beatrice,” said a woman’s husky voice. “You look like you’d rather be on the other side of the world.”
Beatrice turned around. Maya had come up to her and was watching her with mocking eyes. She wore a thin ribbon of a dress, a sort of black nothing, that revealed far too much of her flawlessly tanned body. Her long hair fell freely down to her waist. She had painted her fingernails and toenails black. A soft tinkling came from the many thin silver bracelets on her right wrist.
“Hello, Maya,” Beatrice replied. As always, even if only a day had passed since she’d last seen her, she felt momentarily overpowered by the young woman’s attractiveness. Maya radiated such youth and eroticism that at times she could leave others speechless. Her body seemed poised in a state of constant expectation and provocation. Her small, firm breasts formed a single, perfect challenge.
“All the girl has to do is make a single gesture, speak one word, or really even just stand there,” Mae had said once, “and in doing so she always seems to be extending an invitation to go to bed with her. What is that! I’m always asking myself. She probably can’t even help it.”
But she knows full well, Beatrice was thinking now. She is aware at every moment of the effect she has, and she makes use of it in the most calculated way possible.
“I suppose I should wish you happy birthday now,” said Maya. “But since I’m assuming you can’t stand to hear from one more well-wisher, I’d rather leave it. Can I get you something to drink instead?”
“No, thanks. I’m asking myself how you all can drink so much champagne on a day like this. It’s far too hot out for me.”
“Oh, I can always drink champagne, really.” Maya let her gaze wander and come to rest on Kevin, who meanwhile had carefully arranged a few morsels on a small plate for himself, and was looking completely put off. “Doesn’t Kevin just look marvelous?” she asked. “I’ve never had a man with a body like that. And he knows exactly how he should dress. Those jeans are simply amazing.”
For Beatrice, one pair of jeans was like any other; she never managed to figure out what criteria young people used to classify this type of clothing as either impossible or the latest rage. But in any case, Maya was right: Kevin looked fantastic. Next to her he was the best-looking person in the room.
“The two of you would be a dream couple, visually speaking,” said Beatrice. “It’s too bad nothing could come of it.”
“It would really have to stay at just the visual level,” said Maya. “And in the long term that wouldn’t be enough.”
Beatrice laughed. “Especially for you. You’d have a kind of life crisis.”
Maya laughed with her. “You’re probably right. Oh God, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell Helene happy birthday. Once again she’ll give me this look that makes me feel like a slut, and then I’ll realize that my dress is a tad revealing. Funny, isn’t it? Helene is the only person I’m at all intimidated by. Do you think it’s because she’s German? You know they say that Germans …”
“Careful,” Beatrice warned. “Don’t even think of saying something like that to her! It could make her lapse into hysterics. She hasn’t at all come to terms with where she’s from.”
“She’s complicating something that isn’t complicated at all. She’s German. So what? The old rivalries ceased to exist a long time ago.”
“For you and your generation, sure, and it’s good that that’s the case. But there are a lot of people living on Guernsey who experienced the war and were keenly aware of what was happening at the time. Helene came here as the wife of an officer in the occupation force. She can’t forget this, and there’s a whole bunch of others who don’t forget it either.”
“She might as well be from here by now. No one holds anything against her.”
Beatrice looked over at Helene, who just then was speaking to a little girl who had given her a bouquet of flowers.
“That time,” she said, “left us all traumatized to a certain degree. Everyone deals with it differently, but there are some things there that won’t ever be forgotten.”
The look on Maya’s face made it plain that her thoughts were wandering. Beatrice knew that expression well. Young people didn’t like hearing anything about the war, about the time of the German occupation of the Channel Islands. That was a long time ago. It no longer had anything to do with them. They weren’t interested in what had happened back then — and Maya, with her passion for men, night clubs, and love affairs, had no interest at all.
“I might as well go over to Helene and get it over with,” she said. “We’ll see each other later, Beatrice. Bye for now!”
She walked over to Helene, whose expression darkened immediately.
She and Maya won’t ever find common ground, thought Beatrice.
She had a strong urge just then to slip away, unnoticed, from her own birthday party, but then she saw that Alan had walked into the room. He hadn’t shown himself all morning. She let out a deep sigh. She couldn’t disappear at the very moment her only son came to tell her happy birthday.
The older he got, the more Alan looked like his father. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and there were times when he came off like some lothario from the south of France. He was attractive, but his excessive drinking had clearly left its mark. He was only forty-two years old, but already his skin was becoming slack; he had heavy bags under his eyes. He had long been an alcoholic — Beatrice had no illusions there — even if, on the surface, his life still seemed to function. He was a success in his chosen career, and he could still hide his addiction well. Beatrice knew that he’d had a fling with Maya a few years before — at least she’d thought it was just a fling. But at some point it had become clear to her that Alan was more entangled in his relationship with the young woman than he would ever admit. It was like he was obsessed with her. Beatrice couldn’t understand how an interesting and cultivated man could be drawn so strongly to such a superficial person. As pretty as Maya was, no man with any sense would seriously consider trying to forge a lasting relationship with her. Nothing could turn Maya into a faithful wife. She’d make a cuckold of whatever man was at her side — many times over. Beatrice hoped that at some point Alan would recognize this and be repulsed.
“Hello, Alan,” she said once he was standing in front of her. “It’s Sunday, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and you’re already awake. Should I take this as a special sign of your affection for me?”
Alan gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His breath smelled strongly of peppermint, but the candy, which he’d obviously popped in for camouflage, couldn’t hide the insistent smell of whiskey underneath.
“Happy birthday to you, Mum. You look good for your age, you really do!”
“That’s probably meant to be a compliment. Thank you, Alan.” She saw that his gaze swept the room in search of something. “Maya is standing over by Helene, in case you were trying to find out if she were here,” she said. “You’ll have the chance to say hello.”
Alan laughed, but he looked a little pained as he did so. “I wasn’t looking for Maya at all, Mum. I was only looking around to see who all was here. A whole lot of old women, it would seem. Do you have this many friends? Or are they Helene’s?”
“They’re people I know. I’m not particularly close to any of the old bags, but whenever there’s free food and free drinks somewhere, they show up in droves. To be honest, I could do without every single one of them, but Helene needs to feel that her birthday is something special, and so I play along.”
“Hmm.” Alan’s gaze lingered for a moment on Maya, who was still speaking with Helene. He quickly looked away when he noticed that his mother was watching him.
“So Mum, how are things otherwise?” He asked casually. “How are the roses doing? Have you hit upon any amazing new hybrids?”
“I haven’t tried in a long time. No, I’ve pulled out of the business completely. I take each day as it comes and do only what I want.” She made a face, half mocking, half sad. “Life gets boring when you get old, you know.”
“But certainly not your life, Mum!” Alan took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He drained half of it immediately, in one thirsty gulp. “You’re always planning something and you’re constantly busy. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be idle.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that the things I do are boring. But let’s talk about something else. Is everything going well with your job?”
“Sure.” His glass was empty but he was in luck: the tray passed by him a second time; right away he had a fresh supply. “As you know, contacts are highly important in my line of work, and I’ve never had problems there. I know some fairly influential people in London, and it has made my job easier time and time again.”
“How nice. I’m glad everything’s going well,” said Beatrice. The faint tremor in the hand that held his glass had her worried. He had been drinking on the day of his arrival on Guernsey. He’d shown up at some point that evening, coming from the bar in St. Peter Port, with a young woman in tow whom he’d picked up off the street. It had angered her that on arriving on Guernsey the first place he’d headed was a pub, but at least it had been in the evening. He’d stayed home on Friday and Saturday, had had wine with dinner in the evening but not so much that she had been alarmed. Now it was early morning and he’d already started in on the whiskey. Maybe, she thought, he’s done the same in the last few days, and I just haven’t noticed.
This thought made her deeply depressed. He was further along in his decline than she’d suspected.
“And … what about your personal life?” she asked cautiously. “Anything new?”
“My personal life is going very well,” Alan’s reply came at once, almost too quick and too cheerful to sound believable. “A thing here, a thing there. It never gets too constricting. A normal, bourgeois relationship isn’t the thing for me at all.”
Beatrice knew that a normal, bourgeois relationship was indeed what he was longing for, but it was clear he would never admit to it. “A person should absolutely have a steady companion in life,” she said. “Everything is just better that way. This so-called freedom has a deceptive ap
peal. Eventually all it consists of is emptiness on the one hand, glut on the other.”
“Mum …,” said Alan impatiently, but she immediately interrupted him. “It’s your life, I know. I have no right to insert myself. But I do wonder if your personal life is really going as well as you say it is. The fact that you can’t get by without alcohol, not even in the morning, suggests that you might have a few rather serious problems.”
“What is that supposed to mean, I can’t get by without alcohol?” Alan asked, annoyed. “This is a party, isn’t it? Look around, everybody here is drinking champagne except for you! I mean, why would you serve alcohol if you’re then just going to grouse when people actually drink it?”
“I didn’t mean the champagne, Alan,” Beatrice said softly. “You had already been drinking when you came in. I could smell it rather distinctly, it couldn’t have been just a small amount.”
“My God, two or three nips of whiskey after breakfast! Do you seriously consider that a catastrophe?”
Beatrice shook her head. “No. But it can become one. You’re numbing yourself, Alan. I think the emptiness I was speaking of has already taken hold inside of you and you’re trying to fill it. But it’s a shallow comfort that whiskey brings. It tricks you into thinking that everything is easier, but the truth is it only makes things worse.”
Alan knocked back his second champagne with an aggressive flourish. “You know, Mum, I’ve got a good idea for how you could drive away the boredom of old age,” he said angrily. “Take up preaching over at Alcoholics Anonymous. You’ve got a real talent for it. Just think how many lost sheep you’ll bring back to the fold. And …”
“Alan, you should …”
“I’ve got a suitable candidate for your ambitions. Alcohol isn’t at play here, but it’s something similar.” He looked around, finally pointing to a corner of the room, where Franca Palmer sat cowering on a chair, looking around her with frightened eyes. A man had exchanged a few pleasantries with her and had apparently made an effort at starting conversation. Now he was walking away, exasperated. It was extremely difficult to get Franca to start talking.
The Rose Gardener Page 6