by Muriel Spark
‘An interesting man,’ muses Garven..
She stamps her foot. ‘They fit,’ she says, ‘but they look so awful.’
‘You have to have more boots, Elsa,’ he says. ‘Everyone wears boots. What can you do?’
‘I really don’t often do the same as everyone else does, Helmut. The weather’s turning warm now, besides.’
‘Oh, I know. I know.’
‘I’ll have to ask my husband’s advice,’ she says.
‘He stopped by yesterday. He came in to say hallo.’
‘In here to the shop? Paul came here? What for?’
‘He tried to date me,’ says the salesman. ‘He wouldn’t call me Mueller, he kept on calling me Kiel. He tried to date me for the evening but I told him that I wasn’t that way.’
‘Pierre must have inherited the tendency from his father,’ Elsa says.
‘Your husband,’ says the salesman in his correct accent, ‘is under the impression that he and I had a sentimental encounter in the year 1944, and he wishes to repeat the affair as an experiment, in order to establish my identity. However, I explained that I was not yet born in 1944.’
‘You’re a liar,’ Elsa says. ‘You know, Helmut, that you were with us at the Compound in England in 1944.’
‘In our condition of life,’ says Helmut Kiel, ‘it isn’t possible to lie. Do you want me to keep the boots aside while you think them over or do you want me to send them to your home so that you can show them to your husband?’
‘Send them,’ Elsa says. ‘Scrawl a message on the soles.’
He gives a little bow. She laughs.
‘Did you make a date with Paul, then?’ she says. ‘No. But he says he’ll try again.’ He steps over her shadow and opens the door for her.
She is sitting by the window looking out on the East River.
‘Garven,’ says Paul, ‘is a dangerous man. He’s been shadowing me.’
‘I need a drink,’ she says. ‘Go and get some ice.’
‘I’m in danger from Garven. ‘Why can’t you get the ice yourself? Sitting by the bloody window all day while I’m in danger.’ He pronounces bloody as ‘blawdy’.
‘First it was Kiel, now Garven.. You’re always in. danger from somebody.’
‘Garven has turned against me. At least, he says he’s interested in me,’ Paul says. ‘When a man like that says he’s interested in you, it’s dangerous. Sinister.’
Elsa starts to laugh as if in company with the Nothing beyond the window, high above the East River.
‘He said he was going to leave us, but he didn’t. I wondered why. Now I know,’ she says to the sky.
‘Elsa,’ he says, listening, ‘there’s the key in the door!’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Here comes Garven,’ says Paul.
‘Well, go and conspire with him against me in the kitchen. Get some ice. Ask him to join us for a drink. Say you’re having trouble with me.’
‘He’s been. following me all day.’ He goes out and his footsteps pat along the passage to the kitchen. From that distance his voice hums monotonously and so does Garven’s.
Elsa gets up with her shadow falling blackly towards the west although the sun is setting in the west window. She goes over to the telephone table, lifts the instrument and trails its long cord back to her window seat. She is dialling a number when Garven and Paul come in, Paul holding the ice-bucket and Garven a tray of ice.
‘Miss Armitage?’ she says.
‘Elsa!’ says Paul.
‘Oh, Miss Armitage,’ says Elsa, ‘I’m speaking for Count Paul Janovic-Hazlett. This is Countess Janovic-Hazlett. The Count wishes me to say that if you would care to step over to our apartment for a drink we should be happy to see you … Oh, yes, he’s here. Hold on …‘ She hands the receiver to Paul.
‘Annie,’ he says, ‘this was unforeseen. Yes, of course she means it … No, Annie, we’re very civilised these days and there’s nothing to hide. I—’ Elsa has grabbed the telephone and while Garven says, ‘I hope we’re not going to have a scene,’ Elsa is saying, ‘When you come I’ll read you my daughter’s poem about you and Paul. Our daughter, Katerina, is very talented, you know … Oh, yes, Miss Armitage, I think we did meet in the shoe store … Oh yes, but that was a misunderstanding. You’re my husband’s analyst, yes, I know … But we would simply love to see you in a purely social context. It is very short notice, but Paul … How lovely. We’ll expect you shortly, then.’ She replaces the receiver.
‘Paul, you look awful, you need a drink. She said she would be over momentarily, which is ungrammatical to my mind, unless she means she only intends to stay for one moment, in which case it’s less ungrammatical. It’s so difficult to follow people’s meanings when they learn the words from Webster’s. What’s the matter with you, Paul?’
‘This is unnecessary,’ says Paul.
‘Vodka and lemon. for me,’ says Elsa. ‘Garven, I’ll leave it to you. A nice lot of vodka, Garven.’
Paul starts to shout. ‘Garven,’ he shouts. ‘You’re supposed to be a professional man. What have you been saying to Elsa about Annie Armitage?’
‘I’ve never heard of her,’ Garven says. ‘Far less spoken of her. I shall be very happy to meet your analyst, Paul. I thought we had come to an understanding, Paul, but we seem to have come to a rift.’ Garven’s voice breaks excitedly. ‘There’s no need to raise your voice at me.’
‘Garven is going to break down, he’ll weep,’ says Elsa.
‘What does it matter,’ says Paul, ‘seeing that you’re not real, any of you.’
‘My daughter is a little dumb, as you would put it,’ Elsa is explaining as she pulls the piece of paper from her handbag. She turns her head from the window towards Miss Armitage.
‘You said she was smart,’ Miss Armitage says. ‘I took note of it.’
‘I said she was talented. I didn’t say she employed her talent,’ says Elsa. ‘Now,’ she reads, ‘In the crossroads of my life,
I do no longer love my wife.
I love Miss Armitage instead
And wish to be with her in bed.
— Just a minute, Miss Armitage, don’t—’
‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ says Miss Armitage, clattering her glass on the side table.
‘Elsa!’ say Garven and Paul.
‘Let me finish — just one little foolish verse. My wife has come to middle age;
Not so Miss Annie Armitage,
From which you rightly do infer
I like to be in bed with her.
— Cute, isn’t it?’ Elsa folds the piece of paper with a doting smile.
‘She’s not real, Annie,’ says Paul. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Haven’t I been telling you for years? I dreamt her up. I called her back from the grave. She’s dead, and all that goes with her. Look at her shadow!’
‘No, Paul,’ says Garven, stepping quickly in. line with Elsa to conceal her shadow. ‘This is unprofessional. As Elsa’s analyst, I protest.’
‘I don’t understand what the fuss is about, Miss Armitage,’ Elsa says. Miss Armitage is trying to leave but Paul, still proclaiming to the room a general state of unreality, is holding her back.
Elsa says, ‘Is she a qualified doctor? Should I address her as Doctor?’
‘What have I been telling you, Annie, all these years?’ says Paul. ‘She’s a development of an idea, that’s all. She’s not my original conception any more. She took a life of her own. She’s grotesque. When she died she was a sweet English girl, very sweet, let me tell you.’
‘Sweet is funny,’ at last breathes Miss Armitage. ‘Sweet is very funny indeed. She insulted me once before. I should have known better than come over here.’
‘She gets paid for it,’ Elsa says absently. ‘Paul, don’t you pay your doctor? Should I maybe have called her Doctor … Maybe—’
‘My patients call me Annie,’ yells Annie. ‘Plain Annie. That’s part of the routine. I have person-to-pers
on relations with all my patients.’
‘Annie, look at her shadow,’ Paul is saying. ‘Garven, step off Elsa’s shadow.’
Elsa walks.
‘The hell with her shadow,’ says Annie. ‘Haven’t we got enough serious problems in this city? We already have the youth problem, the racist problem, the distribution problem, the political problem, the economic problem, the crime problem, the matrimonial problem, the ecological problem, the divorce problem, the domiciliary problem, the consumer problem, the birth-rate problem, the middle-age problem, the health problem, the sex problem, the incarceration problem, the educational problem, the fiscal problem, the unemployment problem, the physiopsychodynamics problem, the homosexual problem, the traffic problem, the heterosexual problem, the obesity problem, the garbage problem, the gyno-emancipation problem, the rent-controls problem, the identity problem, the bi-sexual problem, the uxoricidal problem, the superannuation problem, the alcoholics problem, the capital gains problem, the anthro-egalitarian problem, the trisexual problem, the drug problem, the civic culture and entertainments problem which is something else again, the—’
‘Down there, outside the United Nations,’ Elsa says, ‘there are three policemen demonstrating in the nude, except for their caps — that’s to show they’re policemen. ‘What are they demonstrating for?’
Garven looks out. ‘It looks like she’s right,’ he says. ‘See that enormous banner, it says, “Justice for us Cops”. And there’s a crowd of police giving them active support, and they’re cordoned off. The people can’t cross the road.’
The noise of the demonstration wafts up to the flat. ‘It’s the police problem,’ says Elsa. ‘You forgot to mention the police problem, Doctor Armitage.’
‘I included it by implication,’ says Annie, and returns to craning down at the demonstration.
‘No you did not,’ says Elsa.
‘Elsa!’ says Paul.
‘I know what you mean by her shadow,’ Annie says savagely. She looks at everybody’s shadow in turn, then at Elsa’s. She turns to face Garven. ‘You’re her analyst, sir?’ she says.
‘Yes, Annie,’ says Garven, meekly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet a colleague, Annie.’
‘Why don’t you take me home?’ Annie says. ‘This apartment’s overheated, and all this infra-paranormalisation is too much. We can discuss our problems at my place.’
‘Garven has lost his monopoly on my shadow,’ says Elsa vaguely to the window as Garven takes Annie’s arm, edging her towards the door.
‘Where is your coat?’ says Garven.
‘They will have to come to an agreement,’ Elsa says. ‘Fifty-fifty on the proceeds of my shadow. I knew this would happen when she saw it in the shoe shop.’
Paul is staring down at the police demonstration. ‘When. the police start demonstrating without their clothes on it’s the end of everything. Your dreams … everything. The Forty-eighth Street Precinct.’
‘They’ll get pneumonia,’ says Elsa.
‘Look, they’re putting on their clothes again,’ Paul says.
‘Yes, they’re putting on their trousers, look.’
‘We’ll see it on the television tonight,’ says Paul. ‘A slightly censored version..’
‘Yes, look, the cameras are packing up and going off. The men just posed for the shots.’
The front door clicks shut behind Garven and Annie.
‘Call the steak shop,’ says Elsa, ‘and order dinner for eight-thirty delivered to the apartment.’
‘We’ll see it on the news,’ says Paul. ‘At least parts of it.’
‘She missed out the mortality problem,’ Elsa says.
VII
‘Scotch,’ says Paul. He sits somewhat miserably at a table in the dim back room of the bar from where, nearly indiscernible himself, he can see the group he is watching. ‘On the rocks?’ says the waiter. ‘On the rocks,’ says Paul. ‘New York is a fun city,’ says the waiter as he swings away with his tray held high at one shoulder, swiping up some empty glasses from another table as he goes.
It is nearly nine-thirty at night. There has been a pause in the music, and now it starts up again. A large grey-haired man., his ochre-coloured face full of planes, ridges and pouching curves, plays the piano; he is an old-timer from New Orleans. A short man with a ginger moustache and a chequered suit plays the trombone, while a fat young man in a white, baggy shirt and grey baggy trousers sits beating the drums with expert boredom. This early jazz music, fast and brazen, does not appear to do anything to Paul’s bloodstream. He pays the waiter for his drink and lets it lie, his eyes fixed on the four people who are sitting in the bright-lit front part of the establishment close by the bar and the band. Elsa and Princess Xavier together with two men. One is plainly Mueller from the shoe shop. Not
Mueller but Kiel, thinks Paul; no matter what they say I’m almost sure of it. The ice in his drink is melting away. He sips and ponders the second man at Elsa’s table.
He has a face recently familiar. Where, thinks Paul, have I seen him the last few days? It is a crumpled, oldish face on a tall body. Maybe I saw him a long time ago, I could have known him somewhere else, at some other time in another country in quite different circumstances. Miles Bunting comes suddenly to mind. He played Peter Pan for Pierre the other night at the first and only performance — Miles Bunting from the Compound during the war, when he was a lanky, handsome, intelligence officer.
Paul sips his drink with its floating wafers of ice, looking over his glass at the group. They have taken. control, he thinks. I didn’t mean it this way. This bar could go up in flames and put an end to them all; but no, it won’t.
How white are the midnight fields beyond the Compound, under the waxing moon! Miles Bunting comes out of a hut. His face is white with black eyebrows marking it like a fur trimming. Inside the half-open. door sits Elsa, crying, her hands folded on the typewriter in front of her.
It is early afternoon and Elsa comes along the road towards him with Poppy Xavier. Elsa is wearing a faded blue dress; her brown arms swing and she is holding a basket of blackberries. The Princess Xavier lumps along beside her, wearing the same baggy trousers she has worn for the duration of the war. ‘Here’s Paul,’ says Elsa.
‘What are you going to do with those?’ Paul says, pointing to the blackberries.
‘Make jam,’ says Elsa.
‘What are you going to use for sugar?’ Paul says. ‘My next month’s ration and another packet of sugar from Poppy’s Care parcel. The only thing we need is jars. ‘We haven’t got any jam-jars.’
He is sitting with Elsa in the office where Colonel Tylden, the security officer, sits behind his desk, with a filing cabinet for his bodyguard, packed as it is with information. which would amaze the people it describes, so true and yet so lonely and isolated are the motionless little facts.
Here in the country the robot-bombs which are already screaming down over London cannot be heard. The Security headquarters are a small house in the park of a large house. The small house is surrounded by hedges, well-clipped in spite of the shortage of gardeners. No gardener, however, is likely to be seen. The bare wood of the floors and staircase bear the general marks of wartime neglect but they are dusted and swept. Who dusts, who sweeps, no one could know — the cleaning woman is never seen by the light of day. Here, every day is a Puritan Sunday. The Security staff move about sedately, sounding their consonants like teachers of elocution when they speak at all, measuring their treads, taking pains with their infrequent cigarette ash.
Here in the green depths of England, in this spring of 1944 a perfectly innocent person can panic; better a P.O.W. camp in the green depths of Germany together with one’s own unit, all in it together. Paul’s mind fidgets around with this thought. Better off in the army, getting ready for the Invasion, preparing, who knows, to meet your death; it is not so very appalling when you rattle and bash over the countryside in an armoured car, in a convoy, and life suddenly comes to an end. Better than burrowing like
a mole with secret work under the omniscient eyes of these creeping Jesuses in soldiers’ uniforms or clean brown corduroys. Colonel Tylden, the Chief of Security comes in. He shakes their hands. He apologises for troubling them. He pulls up his chair and sits down. Overture to Act I.
Since Paul was last called in, Elsa too has been interrogated alone. After a month’s silence, it is still apparently the question of Kiel. Now they have suddenly been invited together. It is almost like a marriage ceremony, so closely does this experience unite them, seeing that the security officer does not care a damn whether his questions will separate them or not. All he wants to know about is Kiel. What does it matter, Paul thinks, as he feels Elsa’s apprehension from where she sits at the opposite angle of Colonel Tylden’s desk, half facing both men. — What does it matter what there was between her and Kiel, and what Kiel might have been to me? All that matters is that we’ve been brought together, at short notice, without chance of rehearsal.
It’s something, Paul thinks, to know suddenly how much trust there is between us. After all, this experience is something.
‘There are just one or two loose ends…’ Colonel Tylden pulls at the right-hand drawer of his desk. It does not move. He gives a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘Locked, I always forget.’ He reaches to the table behind him from which he takes a small dark green government-issue metal box. This he sets before him with due system. He opens the mysterious object. It is nothing but a card-index. Putting his fingers behind the last card at the back he brings forth a key. With this key he opens the locked drawer in his desk, saying with a smile, ‘Now you know where we keep our secret of secrets.’ He opens the drawer, pulls out a file, lays it before him, jerks his arms to ease the sleeves of his coat, gets down to business and opens the file.
He thinks we are school-children, Paul thinks, because he himself has the brain. of a school-boy. Colonel Tylden was responsible for taking Kiel on., and plainly he is now trying to make up a report from a lot of tangled irrelevancies in order to distract attention. from the fact that he was taken in by Kiel.