The Blue Tent

by Richard Gwyn

  Gabrielle is my friend and travelling companion, says Alice. Evidently she sees no need to engage in the social niceties that the arrival of a newcomer might normally involve. She takes it for granted that I will know Gabrielle has arrived by tent, as it were.

  I, on the other hand, need more assurances.

  Travelling companion? I say. Where are you going?

  Oh, nowhere, Alice says. But in the past we travelled a fair bit together. And still do, occasionally.

  Although, I add, you currently arrive at your destinations separately, and at different times, if by means of the same vehicle?

  Alice smiles at me in saintly fashion, but says nothing.

  The tent? I suggest, not wishing to let the subject go away so easily.

  Ah yes, the tent, says Alice, trailing off into silence.

  Well, I say, somewhat thrown by this lacuna: are we not going to talk about the tent?

  My tent? says Gabrielle, with a convincing impression of innocence. Did you see it?

  I did, I say. And a very fine tent it is too.

  I prefer to not even consider the logistics of the thing: of how she pitched a tent – the same tent or a different one – in the space occupied by the tent that I vacated only minutes earlier.

  Thank you, says Gabrielle. Your aunt, Megan, she gave it to me …

  Yes, I say. I kind of guessed …

  I am, at that moment, wondering how the tent manages its transformations, its shifts of affiliation. More specifically, I am wondering what has become of O’Hallaran’s duffel bag and ethnic blanket. Although I saw them only minutes earlier, could they have already vanished, to be replaced by Gabrielle’s belongings? Mumbling an excuse, I rush out into the garden and vault the fence into the field. The front flap of the tent has been left open. Inside, a dark green backpack lies across the groundsheet, a waterproof jacket slung over it. O’Hallaran’s stuff is not there.

  When I return to the kitchen I am still grinning.

  Gabrielle lives in the Gers, in the south west of France. She and Alice have been close friends for some years: in fact, they were introduced by Megan, who had been best friends with Gabrielle’s mother Zoë since their student days in Zurich … Gabrielle explains herself with exemplary politeness, and her company is immeasurably preferable to O’Hallaran’s. I am almost beside myself with self-congratulation on the success of my experiment.

  From the Gers? Funny that, I say to Alice: wasn’t that where O’Hallaran was living when he met Megan?

  Alice nods, but does not seem particularly excited by the coincidence.

  Although my family originally comes from the Gers, says Gabrielle, I have lived mostly in Paris. I have only recently moved back south.

  And what brings you to Llys Rhosyn? I ask Gabrielle – not, of course, that I object to your visiting. Far from it; just curious, you know …

  Oh, I knew Alice was here, says Gabrielle, and thought I would pay her a visit.

  Really? I say, attempting to sound surprised. I turn to Alice: And you invited her along?

  Alice nods, although she seems uncomfortable.

  I have been here before, says Gabrielle, some years ago now. As Alice just said, my mother was a close friend of your aunt. I heard from her that Megan had died, and decided to visit the house while I was in Wales …

  I don’t know whether to believe this casual declaration – ‘while I was in Wales’ – but decide not to question her story, for now. The improvement in my mental state since emerging from the tent is most welcome. Since O’Hallaran’s arrival I have been sunk into a kind of involuntary torpor, a pathetic state of doubt and self-pity, which climaxed the previous evening, when I drank too much, too quickly, fell over, and was spoken to by the fox. But now all that insecurity seems to have lifted. I reflect that it was just after Alice’s mystery illness, with her as weak as a kitten, that O’Hallaran appeared and the change in me came about: Alice was miraculously cured, while I, by contrast, became weak, jealous and indecisive.

  I was beginning to understand three things: (i) that on each occasion I emerged from the tent, a shift in the makeup and dynamic of the household took place; (ii) that whoever spilled forth from the tent was not necessarily going to provide a rational explanation for their own appearance, and should not be trusted to provide one, and (iii) that the tent and all who travelled in it were part of Megan’s plan for me.

  With regard to this last point, I was now convinced that my aunt’s obscure intention, her secret legacy, was for me to interpret and resolve the challenges that the tent brought with it, replicating the challenge set by the library and its books, but with real human subjects: One person opens another … compare them throughout and then you get the meaning. By reading one person alone you cannot get it, you cannot otherwise decipher it …

  I made my excuses and went to the library. I was sure Alice and her friend would have plenty to talk about.

  That afternoon I work at my desk with the window open. I am studying an old manuscript, the Aula Lucis by Thomas Vaughan. I keep returning to a passage that demands my attention, no doubt because its reference to ‘his glorious blue vestment’ puts me in mind of the tent:

  Hence you may gather some infallible signs, whereby you may direct yourselves in the knowledge of the Matter and in the operation itself, when the Matter is known. For if you have the true sperm and know withal how to prepare it – which cannot be without our secret fire – you shall find that the matter no sooner feels the philosophical heat but the white light will lift himself above the water, and there will he swim in his glorious blue vestment like the heavens.

  I glance up the drive, once again, just in case there is any sign of O’Hallaran, and at the same time wonder, vaguely, what the ‘true sperm’ might be, and whether I possess it, or indeed ‘know withal how to prepare it’.

  I can hear the voices of the two women, their laughter drifting in from the garden. This does not distract me at all: on the contrary, it pleases me, makes the place feel lived in. I open the window further and lean out. It is by now early evening, and there is the usual animated birdsong.

  The women return inside. I close the window and leave the library to join them, choosing wine, a white Burgundy, and filling glasses from a jug of water, cool from the fridge. As there is a chill in the air, I suggest we eat inside tonight. I cannot help enacting the role of perfect host. I feel imbued with a new-found confidence, so distinct from my fretting, paranoid behaviour of the night before. I put a glass intended for Gabrielle in front of the fourth, free seat, then, in a triumphant moment, clear away O’Hallaran’s place setting. As I do so, I experience a shudder of satisfaction.

  The supper passes pleasantly enough: good food (cooked by Alice, with Gabrielle’s help) and stimulating conversation. I don’t wish to sound smug, but I am on rather good form myself. I feel calm and in control, as if recovered from a longstanding headache. I drink water and join in the talk, slipping in little stories from my travels, but do not hog the limelight, avoid doing that man thing in the company of two women, and I listen when listening seems the appropriate thing to do. However, I must admit to feeling somewhat apart, or disconnected, as though I am merely observing the actions of strangers. The usual sense of being dragged down by fatigue is entirely absent. I have forgotten my insomnia, or else have been magically refreshed by that brief sleep in the blue tent, or else – who knows – have reached a kind of plateau in my prolonged sleeplessness whereby everything that happens to me seems to be happening to another person, who carries on as though a simulacrum of myself, in my own skin and with my own voice, but from whom I am essentially detached.

  It has been dark for some time when Alice says good night, and tells us she is going up to bed. If I think it odd that Gabrielle does not accompany her, I do not show it. But apparently Gabrielle does not wish to sleep; not yet, at least. A pot of mint tea that Alice has made before leaving sits on the table. Gabrielle pours. And as we sit there, the feeling of disconnection I hav
e felt since emerging from the tent continues to mount in me.

  Since I am experiencing a renewed sense of vigour, and am not remotely tired, it surprises me when Gabrielle remarks on how ‘worn out’ I look. I am almost affronted. Although I have indeed been exhausted for several weeks, I do not think it has become etched onto my face. Especially now, feeling rather spry. I deny that I am worn out, or even that I might look tired.

  Yes, you do, she says, there is something about you, forgive me, a worn-out look, a tiredness that is not just of the surface. You remind me of someone I met, though only once. I hope I do not offend by telling you this. (No, no, I insist, go ahead, by all means – although to be honest, I am a little peeved.)

  I was working, she says, at a bookshop on the left bank, the fifth arrondissement … and one day this guy came in, I thought he was probably in his twenties, but he looked older; rough, tired and sick. He had lost most of his hair and he wore a bandage around his neck, and he had protruding eyes. He was a young man à l’allure de dandy. I can say dandy? (You can say dandy, if you wish, I tell her.) He carried an elegant cane that came from another world, another century: the cane of a flâneur. It was black, with a silver handle. I was standing by the till. He tapped on the bookshop counter with this cane before he spoke, as though announcing himself by means of an instrument other than his voice, and he asked for Les contes drolatiques de Balzac, the request made, says Gabrielle, with a droll cynicism, an attention to the word ‘drolatiques’ that was most emphatic, to my mind indicating the kind of self-consciousness that I usually associate with writers, or would-be writers, or literary types in general. I have a lot to do with writers.

  From a quick computer search, I learned that the book was out of print, so I told the guy le livre est épuisé,and then of course I felt awful because there is a double meaning to that word épuisé, since it means ‘out of print’ in relation to books but also exhausted, drained out, nothing left, which clearly might have sounded as though it were a direct commentary on the poor guy in front of me, that his life’s book was empty, and I could feel his eyes on me and so I said something to fill the silence, that I knew the stories were frequently out in new collectors’ editions, I mean it’s Balzac after all, so I said to him, just in order to say something. ‘They’ll probably be reprinted some day.’ The guy didn’t seem to react at first, and then he said, with a sad or bitter smile, that he might be dead by then: Mais je serai peut-être mort! Jesus, what kind of a person says something like that to a shop assistant when they’ve just gone in to order a book? There was this conflict between what he was saying and the situation in which he was saying it, and with the two of us alone – well, not exactly alone, there was someone in the office and someone else in the storeroom, but we were alone in the front of the shop – I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was scared. It was as if he was in some way pleading with me, exposing me to all the hurt and outrage that he was suffering, and I felt infected, almost as though his despair was contagious, but, well, the relationship was still that of shop assistant and client, at least outwardly; and then he excused himself, his voice all croaky, and said he was dehydrated, and so I got him a glass of water. He drank it, thanked me, and then he left. And when he was gone I had the impression that for him, death waited at every corner, in every turning season, in every falling leaf.

  When Gabrielle had finished speaking, she stirred her tea for a long time, to let the sugar soak in, and as she stirred she was staring at me, as if in a kind of trance.

  So I said: And this guy reminded you of me? A dying man with a cane who came into your shop and drank a glass of water? I don’t know what to say.

  23

  It is late by the time Gabrielle gets up to leave. I had assumed she would be sleeping in the house, in Alice’s or else the spare room, but no, she seems set on sleeping in the tent. She asks if I will walk with her ‘down the garden path’, yes, she uses that expression – whether knowing its colloquial significance or not – which amuses me then, but not as much as it will later. She takes my arm and draws close, much closer than is necessary, certainly more than seems strictly appropriate. When we reach the little gate that leads into the field she leans forward and kisses me, slipping her tongue between my lips, between my teeth, at first gently, then probing deeper. Her thighs press tight against mine. Her breath is hot on my face and she smells sweet and musty.

  She leads me by the hand and we duck beneath the flysheet, into the tent’s nest, and she undresses, first me and then herself. Gabrielle operates with a skilled determination. She is supple and needy, and any residual fatigue I may have been enduring from my sleepless nights is banished as she sits astride me and shakes loose her long blonde hair, which falls about my face. She leans over me and with her mouth on mine she kisses me deeply, then sucks at my tongue, a most bizarre, but agreeable sensation, while below she manoeuvres me inside her. Then she sits up straight, takes my hands and places them on her breasts, my palms flat on her hard nipples, and her movements and gyrations, slow at first, begin to accelerate, provoking us both into an excited – and she into an exuberantly noisy – state of sustained bliss. After such a long period of sexual abstinence, my body’s mass release of endorphins is overwhelming and I ejaculate, just as she, with laudable timing, pauses in mid-motion, arches her back, and lets out a protracted cry.

  It is a most convincing performance. I don’t mean that as a slur on Gabrielle, far from it; more as a reflection that despite the intense pleasure I derive from our coupling, it doesn’t seem to be happening to me, or even to us, but rather to two actors whom I am observing from afar.

  I pull away from under her and fling myself onto my side. The air in the tent is stifling and I pull up the zip, to let the night in. Gabrielle has settled to sleep, flat out after her exertions, and I try to make myself comfortable, which is difficult in the confines of the tent. I drift on the edges of slumber for a half hour or so, the events of the day and its unexpected climax playing out on repeat, with only a dim awareness of Gabrielle’s warm and sleeping body by my side. Even when the afterglow has dissipated, I feel more alive than I have for a long time. But I know I must leave: if by some miracle I were to sleep, I do not want to wake up in the tent. Or rather, I don’t want to be seen emerging from it, and certainly not by Alice.

  So I get dressed, finding my clothes with difficulty in the dark, and return to the house, to the library, and I prepare a fire, or rather I build on the ashes of the fire that has nearly died. I select newspaper and kindling, setting about the task meticulously. Once the logs are ablaze, I am about to get up, when I see a book lying on the edge of the rug, a book I have not, until this moment, noticed lying there, nor – I am certain of this – have I removed it from the shelves myself. It has been left open on a poem entitled ‘Art of War’. I read the poem aloud:

  A rose at the window has the colours

  of a blonde’s young nipple

  a mole walks underground.

  Peace they say to the dog

  whose life is short.

  The air remains sunlit.

  Young men learn to make war

  in order to redeem a whole world

  so they are told

  but to them the book of theory

  remains unreadable.

  I read the poem as though it bore a direct relevance to my own predicament, my own life, even hoping that it might contain some clue or message, beyond the rather obvious reference to the ‘blonde’ at the beginning. I do this simply because the book is there, open at this page, so I deduce, in a not unreasonable way, that it has been left out for me. I am particularly struck by the idea that, for the young men, the book of theory remains unreadable. What else have I been doing in the library this past year, other than studying books of theory instead of living a life? But making war? How is that pertinent to me? And why am I assuming that the poem has something to tell me? I put the book down. I guess that Alice must have been in the library. Perhaps she came here after supper,
when she left the kitchen, rather than retiring to bed, picked out a book at random and neglected to return it to its shelf …

  I am not sure how long I have been seated on the rug – caught between reflection on my recent liaison with Gabrielle and the poem I am studying – when I am alerted by a scratching sound from outside: a grating, or scraping of something heavy against concrete.

  I cannot quite identify the sound, but I know its source is not too distant, and that it emanates from the kitchen garden, or perhaps a little further away, towards the woods. I step out through the French windows onto the patio. It is cold, and there is damp in the air. Despite an almost full moon and a clear sky, the night has taken an inhospitable turn and a wind is stirring, causing the branches of trees and bushes to rustle and sway. I set off in the direction from which the noise originated. To one side of the kitchen garden is an old woodshed, where logs and a few gardening tools are kept, and it is toward this shed that my footsteps lead me. I push open the heavy wooden door and as it drags against the concrete, I recognise the grating sound that alerted me at my desk. Inside, I can see nothing at first. But someone is groaning at the far end of the shed, and I hear their laboured breath. Stepping forward, moonlight floods in from the open doorway behind me. Huddled in the corner is a human shape, draped, it would appear, in a rug or covering of some kind; and I make out – as I knew, a split-second beforehand, that I would – O’Hallaran’s face, haggard in the dim light.

  I step closer, intrigued. I am close enough now to see that his face is bloodied and bruised: he looks as though he has taken a beating. Human sympathy takes over from curiosity and I stand over him, intending to ask him what is the matter. But he cowers from me, pulling his covering close – it turns out to be his ethnic blanket – as though this will somehow offer him protection. I crouch, so that we are at a level, and to help assure him that I mean no harm.