She sat on the cliff and watched as the sun went down into the water, and thought in despair that everything had first started to get really serious once he had begun to get involved with Maya. What the hell did he see in this cheap little whore, who wasn’t fit to even clean his boots? Maya was very attractive, but there was no shortage of attractive women, and many of them also had style and were respectable and lived according to certain moral principles. Alan was good-looking and had an interesting job. Beatrice knew that many women adored him. Why did it have to be the most impossible woman on all of Guernsey?
And of course it had gone wrong again. It always went wrong, and, apart from him, just about everybody had known this. For two weeks Maya had apparently kept herself in check, then she had slid back into her usual pattern of behavior. To look at it correctly, she’d probably never really abandoned that pattern. It was just that it had taken two weeks for Alan to catch on.
Mae, that dumb, naïve person! Apart from Alan, she was the only one who still believed that Maya would change.
How offended she was, yet again, when I spoke my mind, thought Beatrice, and yet again her view was that I was exaggerating! It bothers her to no end that someone could speak badly of her little dear. To her grave she’ll see Maya as the picture of innocence.
She shivered. The sun had gone down now and it had gotten cool all of a sudden. The western sky was still a red color, but darkness now crept over the fields and the cliffs. She knew how things would unravel from here: Alan wouldn’t just drink himself to incapacitation today. He would do it every day this week, next week, and the week after that. He would be completely off the grid, could speak to no one; he wouldn’t keep a single appointment at work. His secretary, who luckily was loyal and completely discreet, would wring her hands and try once more with all her might to save the situation, to come up with excuses and explanations to at least protect her boss from his clients, to maintain his reputation. Beatrice suspected she was able to manage it less and less. In legal circles it had naturally gotten around long ago what was wrong with Alan Shaye, and no one was interested in discretion. No one was concerned with protecting Alan’s integrity. It was a matter of time before his clients would jump ship. It depended on how often he cancelled appointments. No one tolerated it for too long. People went off and found themselves another lawyer, and Beatrice guessed that many had already done so, that Alan just hadn’t spoken about it. Maya wouldn’t just ruin his health. She could drive him into a career fiasco.
Beatrice also knew, from years of painful experience, how things would go from here between Alan and Maya. He had broken up with her and was hurting like a dog, and she carried on enjoying herself and waited, calm as could be. She knew perfectly well that he would take her back, that he would beg her to return to him. He’d hit the bottle for about two weeks, then he would go back to the office. He would look like a ghost, pale and sick and wretched, like he’d crawled his way back from hell and still bore the marks, but for now he was back among the living — even though his stay there had a time limit. Hell had a hold on him, it would only take a slight disturbance to send him back. He would drag himself through the daily routine of his job, settle on his “normal” measure of alcohol intake, which, as always after a breakdown of this kind, would be a notch above what it was before the episode. He would suffer, he would feel his solitude, it would press its way into his body’s every sinew and every fiber of his soul, would make him weak, hopeless, and sick. His inner solitude in times without Maya represented his worst enemy — and for Maya, the key to her return. Eventually he was far enough along. He forgot his pride, gave up all self-respect. She vowed she would be better, and because he wanted to believe it, he did so, grabbed hold of the false hope and sped off in the direction of the next crash.
She stood up, buried herself deeper into her jacket, but it was no use now against the crisp wind coming off the ocean. On top of this she was freezing inside, and not even the warmest wool would help her there.
I wish Maya were dead, she thought, as she went back to her car. She felt her despair as a stabbing pain, and wasn’t even shocked at the fervor of her wish. I wish she just simply wasn’t there anymore.
She got in her car, felt small and lost. Sick with guilt. Because some of the guilt was hers as well. Alan was her child. She hadn’t been watchful enough.
She didn’t want to go home. She stayed in the car, sat and watched the night as it sank over the island.
They sat in The Old Bordello, which was as plush as its name implied, and ignored the yawning and throat clearing of the waiters, who were hurrying all around and were clearly just waiting for them to finally ask for the check and go. They were the only patrons. Over the course of the evening there had been another couple there; they however, had eaten quickly and left again in a hurry. Franca suspected that in the past five minutes someone had stealthily turned up the volume of the music. They wanted to make conversation more difficult for them. They wanted to make it so uncomfortable for them that they’d finally be forced to leave.
But they weren’t even speaking to each other anyway, not for the past half hour. Michael had ordered another cognac, and turned the glass left and right as if he wanted to break off the stem. There was a tiny bit of cognac left in the glass, a last golden splash of color on the bottom.
What’s he saving it for? Franca asked herself. Is it his justification for staying here for such an unreasonably long time? Or does he want to keep me here? He knows how absurdly polite I am in every situation. I wouldn’t stand up and go so long as someone at the table hadn’t finished eating and drinking.
She had taken a pill to be able to ride out the evening, then she had driven off and had picked Michael up at his hotel. She wanted to leave the choice of restaurant to him, but it had been too long since he had been on Guernsey, nothing occurred to him. They had driven to the harbor, had parked the car and had walked the street along the shore, and suddenly Michael had said, “Look, that restaurant there is called The Old Bordello. Isn’t that funny? Let’s go inside.”
Franca found tonight’s situation to be anything but funny, and so she didn’t really understand him, but since it didn’t matter to her anyway where they ate, she agreed. At least they were seated at the window and had a nice view of Castle Cornet. Although really, that didn’t matter either. They would be talking about their divorce. On this particular occasion, ambience was of secondary importance.
At first, Michael had made somewhat forced, superficial conversation, small talk about the weather, the island, the mentality of the people who lived there.
“A lady at the hotel was telling me earlier that there are celebrations all over the island on May 9th,” he said. “Parades, floats, flowers … How would you feel if we were to stay here for a week to be there for all of it? I mean, as far as work is concerned I can hardly afford to take off, but I could let things slide for just this once. Close my eyes and just be careless … what do you think?”
That had been the moment when she’d had to take up the subject for a second time.
“I don’t want to go on holiday with you,” she said. “I want to discuss how we’re going to settle our divorce.”
The waiter had brought the food, and Michael had waited a moment before answering, even though the server probably couldn’t have understood their conversation anyway, as they were speaking German.
“You’re upset and excited,” he said then, “and you’ve gotten yourself all worked up … and that was also the reason why I thought it was completely wrong that you just went off and came here. I well understand that my … my affair made you angry.” Somewhat embarrassed, he poked at his food with his fork.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. To know him meant to appreciate how unique the moment was. Franca couldn’t remember that Michael had ever apologized — to anyone, ever.
“It wasn’t right of me. I’ve hu
rt you. I’ll put an end to the matter and it will never happen again.”
“Michael …”
He held up a hand. “Just a moment. I want to add that running away in such a situation is entirely wrong.”
Of course, thought Franca, God forbid I’d have done something right for once.
“It’s not good to withdraw into loneliness and brood about things. I can understand that you wanted distance, that you wanted to be alone. But a person gets foolish thoughts when he starts turning circles in the cramped prison of his own head. You can see that in your case. Now you’re thinking of divorce — which is a complete overreaction.”
Franca pushed her plate away. She suddenly doubted she was capable of eating a single bite.
“It’s not an overreaction,” she said. “Nor did I come up with this plan ‘in the cramped prison of my own head,’ as you call it. The fact is that until this morning I hadn’t thought of it at all. It wasn’t until the second that you came through the door …” She considered how she would put what she was feeling into words. “In that second, I knew that we had to separate. Do you understand, it wasn’t something I was considering. It was something I knew. I didn’t and don’t need to think it over. It’s not working anymore.”
“My God, that’s even worse!” Michael, too, pushed his plate back, lit himself a cigarette. “That’s really a knee jerk reaction! A thought shoots through your head — a thought with such incredibly far-reaching consequences. You imagine it has to do with something you know, and — bam! You’re hitting me with a divorce and don’t even want to talk to me about it!”
“If I were refusing to talk to you, we wouldn’t be sitting here. After ten years I’m not going to go off without a word. We can talk, but it won’t change my decision one bit. And indeed that’s because even if I wanted to, I couldn’t change anything. I can’t! It’s not working anymore. Try to understand that, even on just a physical level, I can’t stay with you.”
He looked at her, unsettled. “You don’t want to sleep with me anymore? But we barely ever …”
“It’s not about sex!” She suspected that he wouldn’t understand what was going on with her. “I felt a physical reaction this morning. I was afraid. My hands were sweating and my knees were shaky. My breathing sped up. I noticed, how I … Oh, God, Michael. That’s not normal, right? No wife should feel like that when her husband steps inside the house.”
“Of course not, but isn’t that a reaction like you’ve already known yourself to have? I really am prepared to take a lot of guilt onto myself …”
That’s exactly what you’re not prepared to do, thought Franca.
“… But I’ve just got to object if you want to claim that this was a reaction to me in particular. You react that way to all sorts of things. That’s how you are! Panicky, overanxious, nervous, and — don’t get angry at me now — on top of all that, hysterical. That’s also the reason for your failure in your career.”
“But even if that’s true — at least with you I should feel safe, right?”
“That would be nice, yes. And I think I’ve done a great deal to make you feel that way.” He gave her an injured look, offended that she hadn’t appreciated his efforts. “But obviously it was no use. You always guarded yourself against my offers to help. I tried to support you, I explained to you what I would and wouldn’t do in your position … but most of the time I was met with the accusation that I was bossing you around, that I was imposing my will. No matter what I did for you, you didn’t like it.”
The headache announced itself again, subtle, still in the background, just a hint, but Franca felt it nevertheless, and knew that it would get stronger with every minute. The pain always came when Michael lectured her. Perhaps it was owing to the forceful way he spoke, maybe to the endless reproaches he made, no matter the subject at hand. He doesn’t realize there’s no sense in us staying together anymore, she thought with astonishment, he doesn’t realize how sick and broken everything is.
But he couldn’t feel it, she thought, because he had never felt like he was under that much stress in their marriage. He hadn’t been beaten down. He hadn’t found himself subjected to constant assault. He hadn’t had to question himself, day in, day out. He had probably never suffered this nagging headache. He quite simply had far more strength left than she did.
By that point the server had noticed that both of them had pushed their plates away, and hurried over.
“Is something wrong with your dinner?”
“We aren’t hungry,” Michael croaked. “You can clear up.”
“But …”
“Take it away. And bring me a schnapps!”
The waiter hurried off with the untouched plates. Michael took impatient drags from his cigarette.
“I don’t know what’s happened,” he said, “but somehow your head must’ve gotten a bit swollen here on Guernsey. I mean, come on, you know you! You’re completely incapable of living on your own. For weeks you couldn’t even go to the supermarket without getting a panic attack, so you just didn’t go. You’d have starved outright if I hadn’t gone shopping. Think for a second about how a woman is going to live alone when she can hardly stick her nose out the door without throwing back anti-anxiety pills beforehand.”
“In spite of everything, I at least made it to Guernsey on my own,” Franca reminded him. “And believe it or not, I go to supermarkets here, too. I’m sitting with you in a restaurant. Up to now I’ve shown no signs of panicking.”
“You’ve probably taken pills.”
“Yes. But I always did before, and still I couldn’t deal with most things.”
I should eat something, she thought, the hunger will make the headache worse. But I can’t get anything down.
“Guernsey is a small, self-contained world, which obviously gives you a feeling of security,” Michael said. “But it’s deceptive. At some point you’ve got to go back to normal life. And then the old problems will be there again.”
“Maybe I’ll stay on Guernsey,” said Franca.
Michael stared at her, dumbfounded. “On Guernsey? What are you going to do here?”
“Live.”
“Live? And on what, I’d like to know?”
“I’ll get along quite well for awhile once we’ve divided our assets. And after that I’ll just have to see.”
“I see. Finally you’re speaking clearly. You want money.”
“I think I’m entitled to half of what’s ours. That’s how it works.”
“Oh, so that’s what you’re up to then! You make me poor and then you make yourself scarce. You’re probably hoping to get much more than half. But I …”
All of a sudden, right then, the pain reached a blinding intensity. It came down on her more violently than she’d ever known it to, save in the rarest of moments. It was as if an animal was sharpening its claws on the inside of her skull.
“I don’t want more than what I’m entitled to,” she said with an effort. “But we can talk about these things later. We’ll come to some kind of agreement. I think we should try to carry out the separation fair and square.”
Michael lit his next cigarette. The skin around his nose had turned yellow, a sign that he was under great strain.
“It’s inconceivable,” he said. “It’s simply inconceivable! We’re sitting here on a goddamn island on the evening of May 1st and we’re talking about our divorce! I don’t believe it!”
“Eventually,” said Franca, “we’ll both just feel relieved.”
She took an aspirin out of her purse and dropped it in her water glass.
“Excuse me. I need a pill real quick.”
From then on, there had been silence, broken only every now and then by the charges and accusations of guilt that Michael voiced, and from gloomy pronouncements he made about her future. In between h
e ordered wine and cognac and had more cigarettes brought. Franca held tight to her glass of mineral water; she noted with relief that the headache was easing up a bit, and hoped that the evening would be over with. She longed to be away from Michael with an almost frightening intensity. She had the sense that politeness mandated that she get through the evening, give Michael the chance to get out what was in his head, even if his words were laced with poison. She had wanted the separation, and somehow it seemed a just penance that she was now sitting here and having to let his rage wash over her. She was determined to endure. If necessary, she’d take a second aspirin.
But at some point, she thought, at some point in the not all too distant future, I’ll have gotten through it. We’ll never see each other again. He’ll go his way and I’ll go mine, and there’ll be no more points of contact.
She searched within herself to see if she could find any sadness at this prospect, or at least a feeling of apprehension. But there was nothing. Instead, it was as if still hidden beneath heaps of old fears and forgotten pain, there lay in wait a living joy, a feeling of happiness which, in its strength and its vitality, was almost frightening. A voice within her warned her to be cautious, while another cried out to her that she no longer had to be. Something had changed, and was about to change still further, but she still distrusted this offer that life was making her. She had gone without any feeling of happiness, without any feelings of joy and confidence, for too long. She had no notion of what it must be like to experience them.
The Rose Gardener Page 46