A moment later, I heard him shout: ‘I’ve found it!’
‘Found what?’
‘The way the Germans started up. It must be. There’s quite a promising crack.’
There was a long silence. ‘Where are you?’ I shouted. No answer. ‘Michael!’ I shouted.
For what was probably no more than a minute, I stood waiting. I was badly worried. I knew I’d have to make myself climb around that corner.
But, as I moved unwillingly towards it, I was startled by a laugh, coming out of the air, right above my head. I looked up. There was Michael—spread-eagled on the rock, about forty feet up the face of the precipice.
Even to look at him made me break out in a sweat of fear. ‘Come down, you idiot!’ I told him.
But he only grinned at me mischievously. ‘I’m going up, first. I know I can do it. I’m going to show those damned Nazis. They probably used hook-ladders.’
‘Michael, don’t be such a bloody little idiot! You’ll kill yourself.’
‘What do you care?’
He looked really crazy and at the same time beautiful, laughing so wildly, with his blond hair ruffled by the breeze and his lithe body curved out over the awful sick drop below.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, come down!’
‘What’ll you give me if I do?’
‘What do you want?’ I asked, humouring him as if he were a madman.
‘Will you give me anything I want?’
‘Anything I can—within reason.’
‘Do you swear that?’
‘All right. If you’ll come down at once.’
‘You’ve promised, remember!’ Michael was gleeful with triumph. He began the downward climb. The rock had an overhang at that point, and he would certainly have missed my ledge and killed himself, if he had fallen. Twice, he nearly did, but this didn’t seem to shake his nerve. He was completely relaxed and fearless. Soon, he disappeared around the shoulder of the cliff; and, a few moments later, he was standing beside me.
‘Why, Stephen,’ he said, looking curiously into my face, ‘you really got the wind up, didn’t you? Were you so worried about me?’
‘Not a bit,’ I grinned. ‘That was just empathy. I was putting myself in your place, like the audience does in the movies. It was my neck I was worried about. Thanks for saving it.’
‘All the same, I wish you had let me get to the top. I know I could have. I’ve done quite a bit of rock-climbing since I saw you last.’
We had planned to spend that night at a village called San Bartolomé, which was down in one of the seaward valleys to the south. This was quite a long hike. We had to cross a plateau of tiny jagged stones which showed no trace of a path, and at first it seemed that we would never find the way. But then Michael had the bright idea of following the trail of droppings left by the peasants’ donkeys as they travelled between San Bartolomé and Tejeda. We laughed a lot over our detective-work, and this made the going easier. We got to San Bartolomé at dusk.
This fonda was no cleaner, but more cheerful; and the food was definitely better. We drank a lot of beer with it. An hour later, more than half drunk, I followed Michael upstairs and into a room. It had only one bed.
‘Where’s my room?’ I asked.
‘This is for both of us.’
‘Why didn’t you get two?’
‘There aren’t any more.’
‘I don’t believe it. I’ll ask the landlord.’
Michael grinned. I knew he’d been lying. ‘Is it so important?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘I suppose you’ve forgotten what you promised?’
We stood smiling at each other across the bed, foxy-stupid with drink.
‘Aha!’ I said. ‘The promise! I was waiting for that.’
‘You said you’d give me anything—anything within reason.’
‘You call that within reason?’
‘I call it a very good reason.’
Suddenly, I didn’t care any more. The problem had dissolved itself in the beer; and now there wasn’t any problem at all, no drama, no tenseness. This was all clean fun, I told myself; and it didn’t have to be anything more than that.
In the darkness I remembered the adolescent, half-angry pleasure of wrestling with boys at school. And then, later, there was a going even further back, into the nursery sleep of childhood with its teddybear, or of puppies or kittens in a basket, wanting only the warmness of anybody.
There seemed nothing to be said about this, next morning, and we said nothing. I felt animally cheerful and relaxed; and I thought Michael did, too. We walked downhill all morning, threading our way among the red rocks of the dry river-bed and pushing through rustling thickets of cane. Then, early in the afternoon, we came out into a region of sand-dunes which looked like African desert, with clumped oases of palm-trees, and the lighthouse of Maspalomas in the far distance, a slender white column against the dusky blue of the sea.
There was no fonda, but we got a room in a farmer’s house. The room had a hole in the wall instead of a window; and its only furniture consisted of a double bed and a brand new sewing-machine.
‘Well, you can’t say I planned it this time,’ Michael grinned, looking first at the bed and then at me.
*
We rode back to Las Palmas next day, on the bus. It wasn’t until we were on the outskirts of town that Michael asked: ‘Are you going to tell her?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Don’t you tell her everything?’
‘Usually. But we don’t have a rule about it, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I expect she’ll guess. People generally can, when they know each other well.’
‘I shouldn’t imagine,’ I said, as crushingly as I could, ‘that she’d think it was worth discussing.’
‘Because it’s happened so often?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘You mean’—Michael giggled—‘that I seduced you?’
I was too annoyed with him to answer. I looked out of the window, blushing in spite of myself, and feeling idiotic. Michael said: ‘I suppose you’re sorry it happened?’
‘What is there to be sorry about?’ I asked him coldly. ‘It simply isn’t important.’
Michael was silent for a while after this. Then he said sadly: ‘I can’t understand you at all, Stephen. First you made it seem important, and now you say it isn’t. I feel as if I don’t really know what’s happened and what hasn’t.’
‘Did you have a nice time, darling?’ Elizabeth asked me, when we were alone together.
‘Oh, not bad.’ I was very casual. ‘We didn’t see any witches, and no one tried to poison us. The scenery’s rather like Hawaii. You didn’t miss much.’
‘I’m sorry. I hoped it was going to be really wonderful.’
‘You wanted me to have a good time—away from you?’
Elizabeth smiled, but there was a look in her eyes which made me suddenly embarrassed. How often, I asked myself, had I said things to her like that? Was I developing a special tone when I spoke to her, a sort of bedside manner? If so, it was a shock to me to realize how completely she must be aware of it; she who so instantly detected the faintest note of falseness. She looked slightly disconcerted now, I thought, as though she had been addressed in a foreign language she didn’t understand.
‘Did Michael take many photographs?’ she asked.
‘No. No, he didn’t,’ I said; and this was the first time it occurred to me that he hadn’t used his camera once, while we had been away.
At lunch, we related all the describable incidents of our trip in detail, making them sound so different from the reality that it was as if two other people had visited an altogether different country. Toward the end of the meal, I realized from Michael’s face that he was getting into one of his difficult moods. And, as soon as Elizabeth had left us, he burst out: ‘I can’t stand any more of this! I’ve got to get out of h
ere. You should have let me leave, last time I wanted to. Then none of this would have happened.’
‘Oh, Michael, for Christ’s sake, don’t be so melodramatic! Nothing’s happened—except in your imagination. How often do I have to tell you that?’
‘Yes. I suppose it really is nothing—to you—’
‘There’s no earthly reason why you should go,’ I went on, hurriedly. ‘It’ll look very odd if you do. As a matter of fact, just before lunch, Elizabeth suggested moving to Tenerife in a few days—the three of us. Wouldn’t you like that?’
‘Would you?’
‘If you don’t come,’ I said cruelly, ‘Elizabeth will be disappointed.’
Michael stood looking at me, and there were tears in his eyes. I knew he half hated me at that moment. I knew how he longed to be able to break away. But he couldn’t, unless he could make me say the word that would release him. He simply didn’t have the strength.
‘All right,’ he said, at length.
‘You mean, you’ll come?’
‘You know I will,’ he said, hopelessly, and turned to go out on to the beach alone.
At Orotava, on Tenerife, we stayed at a little hotel-café run by a German. ‘Such an anxious creature,’ wrote Elizabeth, describing him in one of her letters. ‘He has a haunted, jumpy look, as if invisible alarm-clocks were going off throughout the day, to remind him of undone duties. His fat Spanish wife is just the opposite; as relaxed as a suet dumpling and such a marvellous cook. Although Herr Knauer has lived in the Islands for fifteen years and is a Spanish citizen, he has a large photograph of Hitler in his sitting-room. I noticed it the first time I went in there, on the day of our arrival. Then, a week later, we got the news of Roehm’s arrest and the great purge. We could see that Herr Knauer was tremendously excited, though it was hard to tell whether he was glad or unhappy about it. At any rate, the Hitler photograph disappeared. And now that it’s quite certain, alas, that the Nazi Government isn’t going to collapse, the photograph is back again. Herr Knauer saw me glancing at it this morning, shrugged his shoulders, and said apologetically: “What am I to do? There are many Germans living on this island. A man has to be careful. The Party has ways of keeping discipline, even here.” Hearing him say that, as we stood looking out at this heavenly subtropical garden in the brilliant sunshine, I got a feeling of sudden creepy horror. It was as if the flowers of the trumpet vine might be microphones, listening.
‘Still, this place is perfect for work. I write out of doors, mostly, under a big eucalyptus, with a wide view of the sea. Stephen is very well. Michael Drummond is still with us.’
By this time, my relationship with Michael had become acutely uneasy and guilty. Whenever we went out together—to the beach to swim or down to the store for cigarettes—I was careful, on our return, to account to Elizabeth for the time we had spent. I found myself saying things like ‘Señor Ortega insisted on showing us his new boat—we simply couldn’t get away,’ or ‘It was so hot coming up the hill that we stopped for a beer.’ Elizabeth never commented on these unnecessary apologies.
In the house, Michael and I were hardly ever alone together. I only saw his bedroom once, for a moment, on the morning of our arrival. That first evening, I had walked with him halfway along the passage to it, and there we both stopped, with such a sense of the taboo upon us that there was no need to say anything except Goodnight.
I knew, of course, that this situation would come to a natural end, sooner or later: Michael would have to go back to work. If I hadn’t known this, the situation would have become unbearable immediately after our return from the Tejeda trip. And yet—such was the doubleness of my feelings toward him—I was sorry as well as relieved when he got a telegram one morning from an editor in Paris, asking him to go to the Asturias as quickly as possible. I think Michael felt the same way as I did: he hated to leave us and yet was thankful for an excuse to do so. And the prospect of this new assignment evidently excited him. ‘I’ve been trying to get them to send me there for months,’ he told us. ‘It’s the obvious place for the communists to start trouble; they’re very strong among the miners. I ought to take off from here by the end of the week.’ He hesitated, and then added: ‘Stephen, there’s something I’d like to do before I go, though. I’d been meaning to suggest it, anyway. Couldn’t we go up the Pico? If we start tomorrow, we could be back again on Thursday afternoon.’
This time, it seemed to me, there were no hidden tensions or emotional overtones. Or, if there were, I chose to disregard them. Michael was certainly entitled to this trip, if he wanted it; and the least I could do was to go along with him. So I agreed at once—little as I relished the idea of hiking uphill for twelve thousand feet.
All next morning, Michael and I plodded up through steamy-hot banana-plantations, stripped to the waist and dripping with sweat. Above the bananas were open fields, and above the fields was the plateau called Las Cañadas which formed the roof of the island, a volcanically blasted region of grey lava-beds scattered with chunks of obsidian. The cone of the Pico stood in the middle of it.
The first part of the trip had been such hard work that we had made it mostly in silence; but, when we got on to the plateau, Michael began to talk. His talk was all about the future: how he planned to work for a while in a mine or a factory, learn Russian, and spend some time in the Soviet Union. He spoke excitedly, with an enthusiasm which seemed a bit forced. He’s trying to convince himself, I thought; and show me how dull and useless my life is, compared with his. Well, that was all right. I must just be careful not to lose my temper. I was afraid that I might, if I didn’t watch out. The altitude was already beginning to make me feel nervous and tense, as well as short of breath. And I could see that it was having the same effect on him.
We had borrowed a key to the rest-hut which had been built about a third of the way up to the summit. It was made of piled rocks, and a cold wind whistled through the cracks between them: the temperature was dropping rapidly with nightfall. There was no chimney in the hut, but we started a fire in a brazier that stood in the corner, and let the place fill with smoke. By the time we had done this, it was quite dark. Our only light was from two bicycle-lamps which Herr Knauer had lent us. We ate some of our sandwiches and made a pot of coffee; drinking it tepid because, at that height, it would have taken so long to boil.
I was tired but not in the least sleepy. I hated to feel so wide awake. We were sitting together on one of the four bunks. Michael reached into his rucksack, produced a bottle of brandy, took a deep drink and handed it to me. I drank too, hoping it would relax me. It didn’t seem to. I gave the bottle back to Michael. He took another drink immediately, as though he was in a desperate hurry to empty it, and held it out to me again.
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘Drink up.’
‘What’s the rush?’ I asked.
‘Well, you needn’t take all night about it.’
‘I’m not ready for another one, yet.’
‘Then give it here.’ Michael almost grabbed the bottle from my hand, and took a third drink.
‘You’d better be careful of that stuff,’ I said. ‘If you get drunk at this altitude, they say you have an awful hangover.’
Michael smiled at me nastily: ‘Who says so? Elizabeth?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ Michael exclaimed. He stood up off the bunk and began pacing the floor.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s all wrong.’
‘What’s all wrong?’
‘You are. My God, Stephen, I just wish you could hear yourself! Such an old auntie, fussing about the altitude and hangovers! What’s been happening to you, all these years? I bet you don’t even know how you’ve changed. It’s pitiful. It makes me sick.’
‘That’s too bad,’ I said, trying not to show how angry I was. Half of me was longing for the relief of a fight.
‘At the Schwarzsee, you were quite different. Or I thought you were. If I hadn’t been such an
idiot, I’d have seen what you were going to turn into. It must have started, even then—’
‘Michael, why don’t you stop talking tripe?’
He gave an angry laugh. ‘You don’t like being told, do you, Stephen? I don’t suppose anyone’s ever talked to you like this before? Well, it was time somebody did. Because, if you don’t realize what you are now, it’ll be too late. Perhaps it’s too late already. In another year, you’ll be afraid to cross the road without Elizabeth holding your hand.’
‘Have you quite finished?’ I asked sarcastically.
‘There’s plenty more I could say.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But now you’re going to listen to me … I never asked you to come to Las Palmas, and run after me like this. Yes, I admit I may have encouraged you and given you some wrong ideas. But I’m not that way, and I won’t ever be. If you are, I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry for anybody who’s twisted and warped. But I’m not going to let you spoil my life. You don’t understand the kind of life I have with Elizabeth. You don’t understand any kind of real happiness. You know that, inside; and all this talk about being sorry for me is just a defence. You’re the one who’s pitiful. I’m sure Elizabeth’s sorry for you, too. That’s why she’s been so kind to you, and let you hang around—’
Michael had stopped in front of me. I could literally feel his rage; it was as infectious as fear. It made his face look quite horrible in the dim smoky light.
‘Well, listen to the big he-man! For Christ’s sake, Stephen, who do you think you’re fooling with that kind of talk? Your happiness! Your beautiful life with Elizabeth! You can tell that to strangers, people you meet in hotels. Don’t try it on me. I’ve got nothing against her. It’s not her fault that she’s sick. Only, for Christ’s sake, don’t pretend. I know you two don’t have a real marriage, any more. I’ll bet the doctor won’t even allow her to—’
He didn’t get any further, because I’d jumped up and hit him in the face. I saw the blood spurt from the corner of his mouth; and then he hit back at me with all his strength, catching me on the eyebrow. We grappled and rolled on the floor, punching at each other with short jabs. Within a few moments, in that thin air, we were gasping for breath. We let go of each other and scrambled slowly to our feet, panting.
The World in the Evening Page 21