A Man Over Forty (21 page)

‘I suppose it's possible.'

‘Then obviously he's in trouble with the police. How old is the girl?'

‘Old enough to know her own mind.'

I've heard the Italian police are very strict about the sort of bathing-suits you can wear.'

‘He hasn't been arrested. The telegram was sent from London, this morning, and he expects to be in Dublin by tomorrow.'

‘But he's on the run, that's clear enough.'

‘I think you're exaggerating —'

‘Well, I was only trying to help. I was going to suggest —'

‘His coming here?'

‘But would it be safe? There's Nelly Kate in the kitchen, she's only seventeen, and if he's in the habit of taking girls to Italy —'

‘No, you wouldn't have to worry about that. He's not what your parents might have called a loose liver, so much as an uncured romantic. He's still searching – without much idea where to look – for his ideal woman.'

‘Then I might be in danger! Perhaps a young and attractive widow is what he wants.'

‘I know you're as young as you feel, but thirty-six isn't what he feels to be young.'

‘How offensive can you be? Give me some more sherry.'

‘Shall I say he can come here?'

‘I know nothing about him, except what you've told me, because television personalities don't register west of Slieve Bloom. But personalities of any sort are rare enough – unless you count fox-hunters – and it might be fun. Tell me more!'

On The following morning, soon after seven o'clock, Palladis was wakened by a knuckled tattoo on his door, and Honoria came in.

‘I've ordered breakfast for eight o'clock, which means a quarter past,' she said. ‘I'm coming with you.'

‘Is that wise?'

‘I woke an hour ago and decided it would be silly to miss the chance of a trip to Dublin. I haven't been out of the house for weeks: well, hardly. But I won't be a nuisance, I'll keep out of your way. You ought to have a long talk with Mr Balintore, first of all, and find out if he's really in trouble, and if he'd like to come here. So the thing for you to do is to dine with him at the Hibernian, and spend the night there.'

‘What will you do?'

‘If we start early we'll get to Dublin in time for lunch, and you can take me to Jammet's. I haven't been there for years, but it's where we used to go. Then I'd like to go to a cinema: almost any cinema. I've friends in Dublin, the Stirlings, and I'll spend the night with them. Anne was at school with me, she's English, and we'll have a giggle about – what did Mr Balintore call it?'

‘The last stronghold of civilization.'

‘I must tell her: Anne doesn't know how lucky she is. And tomorrow morning I'll do some shopping, and we'll drive comfortably home again after lunch.'

‘I like a woman who not only knows what she wants, but makes it clear that she's going to get it.'

‘Then you'd better get up. It's a good four-hour drive, counting the time it takes to find a parking-place in Dublin, so we ought to leave at nine.'

It was a grey, clear day, windless and without much colour, and they drove in Honoria's better car: a small, neatly fashioned, black Hillman. Till they reached the little market-town of Claremorris they were on narrow, twisting roads, but then made better speed. Through Roscommon, Longford, and Mullingar Palladis drove in a freedom that motorists in America, England, France, and Germany had long since lost – the freedom from contrary or consorting traffic – for the good road was almost empty except for an occasional grocer's van, or where a monthly cattle-market filled a village street with lowing calves and haltered bullocks. They came into Dublin past Phoenix Park, and promised the Liffey a pair of swans for a near parking-place, but had to go to St Stephen's Green to find one. They walked back to Jammet's, ate Dublin Bay prawns, and in the afternoon laughed contentedly at Peter
Sellers. Then Palladis drove Honoria to her friends' house in Ballsbridge, and returned to the Hibernian Hotel.

He had sent a telegram to let Balintore know when to expect him; whom he found sitting by a window in the lobby. Balintore beckoned to him, held up a finger for silence, and pointed to a group of three people who stood at the reception desk: a small, trimly built, black-haired, bespectacled woman, and two short, sallow-skinned, round-headed men, one of whom wore spectacles and the other had flashingly obtrusive teeth.

‘Japanese,' he whispered, ‘and an hour ago I saw five of them – a group of five – outside Trinity College.'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Downstairs, in the bar, there are three men talking German. The town's full of foreigners!'

‘I don't suppose they'll interfere with you.'

‘You're taking it too lightly. But we can't talk here, come up to my room.'

He led the way to the lift, and a minute page-boy took them up to the third floor. Balintore unlocked his bedroom door, followed Palladis in, and closed the door firmly behind him.

‘From what you told me about Ireland, and about your cousin's house,' he said, ‘I thought I could cross St George's Channel and leave the modern world behind. But what's the truth of it? Last night I dined, alone, at the Shelbourne: on one side of me were people talking French, on the other side there were Americans. And today, wherever I go, I meet Germans and Japanese. Dublin isn't a refuge from the world, it's Babel!'

‘Ireland is becoming prosperous. Perhaps very prosperous. And a lot of wideawake foreigners are beginning to see its possibilities and advantages. Germans are buying land to get away, as far as they can, from the Oder-Neisse line, and who's to blame them – while the Japanese, so people say, are coming in to make leprechauns.'

‘Leprechauns?'

‘Souvenirs for the tourist trade. They're very good at that.'

‘Then it isn't the place for me. I want solitude.'

‘There's plenty of that in the west. County Mayo and
Connemara are very different from Dublin. But what are you running away from?'

‘I am not running away!'

‘Well, let's say you have made a tactical withdrawal – or a strategic retreat. What's your reason?'

‘That girl,' said Balintore.

‘You were feverish with love's heat-stroke when I saw you last.'

‘I was attracted, I admit.'

‘What went wrong?‘

‘She has total recall.'

‘Her memory, you mean—'

‘Is an endless roll of fly-paper! Everything she has ever seen or done, said or heard, is stuck to it: words and episodes, boy-friends and female cousins as undistinguishable as houseflies, but caught alive and buzzing like mosquitoes! Once you let her begin to talk, she unrolls her catalogue and tells you, item by item, the history, structure, and relations of everything her glutinous mind preserves; and there's nothing it hasn't preserved.'

‘I thought she was a shy girl.'

‘She was. But she isn't now.'

‘So you left her?'

‘To preserve my sanity;'

‘In Italy?'

‘In Rome. But she followed me to London. Oh, let's go down and have a drink. I can't talk about her without some degree of anaesthesia.'

The bar was crowded, but as they went in two middle-aged men, talking voluble Italian – Balintore winced – left a small table; and as soon as they were seated a plump barman brought them large measures of John Jameson's whisky.

Balintore drank his in melancholy silence, and called for another before he began to speak.

‘What still worries me,' he said, ‘is that she's a good girl. A really nice, good girl. And to begin with, I suppose, I encouraged her to talk, because she was so frank and uninhibited – but don't think that implies a looseness of reference, because it doesn't. There was nothing salacious in her conversation.
Nothing at all. She was ingenuous, that's what I mean, and because of that I found her amusing. She made me laugh, and for a day or two – yes, I admit it – I egged her on. I wanted her to talk. But then, by God, she wouldn't stop. I had turned on a tap that I couldn't turn off.

‘We went to Florence, for a start and I showed her round the proper places. We went to the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace, to San Lorenzo and San Marco. I took her to Fièsole and Pisa, we stayed in Siena for a few days, and had a look at San Gimignano. I showed her enough to give even a girls' school something to think about, and keep it quiet; but everything she saw reminded her of something else. She recognized all Botticelli's models, they had all been at school with her, and she told me anecdotes about every one of them. And yet, you know – you may not believe me, but it's true – I was very fond of her. She has a good appetite, and that was a great blessing, because she didn't talk while she was eating. And I liked to watch her eat, she enjoyed everything so much.'

‘And you went as far as Rome with her?'

‘Arezzo, Perugia, Orvieto, Rome: I had set my hand to the plough, and I wasn't going to give up without a struggle. But Perugia, because of the view, reminded her of a holiday in Malvern, and Rome started a new stream of memory that ran bigger than the Tiber. She has seen every film that's been made in Italy, she knows the names of all the producers, directors, actors, and actresses. Between the Via Veneto and the Fontana di Trevi I endured a hagiology so crowded, lush, and opulent that I began to think of hermits and Stylites – sundried, filthy, isolated, and remote on their ridiculous pillars – with an overwhelming affection. I left her two days later. Sanity was at stake.'

‘You abandoned her? In Rome?'

‘I'm not a monster,' said Balintore tetchily. ‘I made provision for her.'

‘How much?'

‘I bought her a first-class ticket to London – by rail, not air – and I left her all the Italian money I had. It would come to about £60.'

‘That's not much.'

‘I wrote a letter, explaining why I had to leave, and a cheque for £250.'

‘You can't afford it.'

‘It wasn't a time for petty accountancy.'

‘What was the explanation you gave her?'

‘Have another drink.'

‘Not for me.'

‘I think I need one. Well, we'd spoken of you, of course, and I had told her how dependent on you I am – she was interested in that, and became increasingly interested in you – so I thought a plausible excuse would be to say that I'd had a sudden appeal from you – a telegram, I said – to come to your rescue in a serious domestic difficulty.'

‘Like Shakespeare, you saw no need to invent a new story when a very old story would serve your turn.'

‘The old stories are best, they've stood the test of time. And, of course, I didn't want her to think I was leaving her because I was tired of her company.'

‘Or that you had any selfish motive.'

‘I've convinced her of that, unfortunately. I flew back, and the moment I got to Albany I was given a telegram: “Following you Rome Express tonight. Depend on me to help all I can.” At that I had a moment of panic – well, it would have been panic if I hadn't kept my head. As it was, I went in, packed another suitcase, and caught the next plane to Dublin.'

‘Did you leave a forwarding address?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Then you're safe enough.'

‘Not here. Not in Dublin. I'm surprised I haven't been recognized already.'

‘Honoria wants you to come and stay with us. In the solitude of the west.'

‘That's very kind of her. Do you think we'll get on together?'

‘I like her. She's English, and she talks a lot; but not as much as Polly Newton. Poor Polly!'

‘Poor, poor Polly!' said Balintore lugubriously. ‘But it was either Polly or my sanity: I couldn't keep both.'

They went up to the restaurant, and at the entrance Balintore
paused to say, in a tragic tone, ‘Dido on the desert shore! I feel like Aeneas – as Aeneas must have felt – when he looked back and told himself that he had callously left her, and lost her forever.'

‘But your Dido followed her Aeneas.'

‘Yes, perhaps that makes a difference. And she'll have no difficulty in finding a new employer, of course: that's another difference. She's a first-rate secretary, and nowadays even fifth-raters can pick up jobs like strawberries in June. And they do!'

He found temporary release from his troubled thoughts of Polly Newton in contemplation of a catholic wine-list. They dined leisurely and well, and presently, having discovered that it was lightly raining, put on waterproofs and went out to walk for a little while.

They looked at Oliver Goldsmith outside Trinity College, and having dutifully remembered Swift and Congreve said, ‘That's enough,' and turned back to walk round Merrion Square. The wet black pavements were empty, and the tall houses preternaturally straight-faced. They spoke of Oscar Wilde, and Balintore said sourly, ‘If he had been born in our time, he would have put the blame on his parents. They were open to criticism. But he didn't.'

‘A paederast and a gentleman.'

‘For a different reason, I have never blamed mine.'

‘Oh, don't start that again!'

‘I might have good reason, if I knew the truth.'

‘Look at that doorway. Isn't it fine?'

‘I have never blamed my parents, because I don't know who they were. Or who they are: they may be still alive.'

‘If they are, they've forgotten you. And you should forget them.'

‘I can't.'

‘It was a very good claret we drank at dinner. Why has it made you melancholy?'

‘I told Polly Newton. I regret it now, of course – it was a great mistake – but that's what emotion does to you.'

‘If you had told everybody, twenty years ago, you wouldn't give it a thought. You have nothing to be ashamed of—'