Her Lover (92 page)

'I remember days gone by and do weep their passing.'

He blew his nose on a piece of lavatory paper then pulled the chain, although there was no need, seeking comfort in the efficient working of the flush. It wasn't exactly enough to constitute a goal in life. He picked up the comb which lay on the glass shelf and sat down again on the seat, though he did not feel a need. When he was a little boy and Mummy scolded him, he used to shut himself in the lavatory to cheer himself up. He got to his feet. On legs shackled by his pyjama trousers, which had fallen round his ankles, he shuffled over to the mirror to see the little boy he once had been, whom he recognized under the wispy beard, Didi aged eight, a good boy, a happy boy, who had worked hard at school, had embarked on life's journey with hope, had had no idea of what lay in store for him, and had worked so very hard for his exams.  He looked on himself pityingly, shook his head, gave Didi a gentle smile, a woman's gentle smile. . 'Poor boy,' he told the mirror.

Keep busy, pick up the threads. Smoke his pipe? No, he only smoked his pipe when he was happy, when she came to see him in his office. He'd imagined he cut rather a fine figure then, poor fool that he was, hadn't had any inkling of what was cooking. Awfully clinging, that dress last night. Especially round her behind. It had clung for her new man. He stroked his cheek in the mirror. Well somebody still loved him, somebody stroked his cheek. He poked his tongue out, to see if it was coated. Yes, somebody still worried about him. Spotting a blackhead on his nose, he squeezed it, inspected the little worm of grease on his fingernail, and squashed the little bastard into nothingness. Touting her behind to whoever-he-was, that was her goal in life from now on. He removed the stopper from the bottle of cologne and breathed its fragrance to rekindle his lust for life. Then he washed his hands. Who could tell, perhaps when the soap was nearly used up, when it was a thin, flat disc, she might come back. In two months, or three. Hurt, disappointed, she would seek sanctuary in his arms, and he would hold her close and comfort her. Trying to mimic the voice he would never hear again, he murmured: 'He made me so unhappy. I've come back to you.'

Sitting down again, he tore a sheet off the roll, made it into a tube which he put to one eye, like a telescope, then let it drop on the floor. No, he wouldn't change his will, too bad if this other chap did gain by it. That would make her see the calibre of the man she had deserted. He tore off more sheets of lavatory paper, one by one. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not, she loves . . . him. Yes, that was clear from the letter. Talked about 'him' all the time, 'he' this and 'he' that, went on about her new man. So in love that she couldn't see how cruel she was being.

It was a very cruel letter. Stroking the lapels of his mackintosh was cruel. His lapels were the only thing of his which she stroked now. Saying 'my darling' was cruel. Cruel, saying that there was everything he needed for today in the fridge. But if there wasn't anything in the fridge tomorrow, her darling could run up a shutter and die for all
she cared. She might feel awful about putting him through the mill, but that wouldn't stop her, you know, tonight with her man. Have lunch with his colleagues! As though that would make everything all right! It was the unfeeling charity of the heartless. So she needed to be happy! And what about him? Didn't he need to be happy?

He unfolded her note, underlined the cruelties, and put exclamation marks in the margin. Pity he didn't have cancer. If he had cancer she wouldn't have left him, he'd have had another two or three good years with her. Downstairs, on the little table in front of the sofa, was the propelling-pencil he had given her. It was cruel to have left it there, for it had seen all the disgusting things she had done with her man on the sofa. He arched his eyebrows and smiled faintly. For with one stamp of his heel he had pulverized the propelling-pencil and had spat on the sofa. Served them right. See, that's what I've come to!

'I'm hungry,' he told the teddy-bear. 'Let's fetch something to eat.'

When he got back from the kitchen, still holding Patrice under his arm, he put an old copy of a woman's magazine, a hunk of bread and a whole garlic sausage - Marietta's favourite snack — on the stool. Loosening his pyjama trousers, he sat down, removed the skin from the sausage, which he wrapped in lavatory paper so that his ringers would not get all messed up, bit into it, and smiled at the teddy on the stool facing him. Feeding his face was company, a comfort. Sitting on the lavatory eating garlic sausage was pretty disgusting, though. Who cared? Nobody loved him, so he was entitled.

Hunched over the magazine, sausage in one hand and bread in the other, he read the adverts as he munched. The Modern Way to Monthly Hygiene. Femina Tampons Being Worn Internally Are Undetectable. Femina Tampons Are Super-Absorbent. Her new man wouldn't be making any hot-water bottles for her, that was for sure. The World's Most Exciting Bra, Will Not Sag or Stretch. For That Attractive Shape, Superb Uplift, Ideal For The Smaller Bust, Be The Most Popular Girl In Town. The bitches! That's all they ever thought about.

'I was too nice. That's what cooked my goose.'

Oh, he'd had the occasional inkling, which was why he would come on strong and manly, but it never lasted, he couldn't keep it up, he always forgot. He was a weakling, no good saying otherwise, and that was the root of the matter. Sometimes, when she was being impossible, he would lose his temper, and then, afterwards, he would go and say he was sorry and next day he'd bring her presents. What was he supposed to do now with the presents he'd brought her from Syria and Palestine? Some fellows had all the luck, the ones who were strong all the time, didn't need to try, didn't know they were doing it. Waiters in restaurants never came when he called, he always needed several stabs at it, but was that his fault? Was it his fault if he scared easily, if he was afraid of not pleasing, if he smiled when a superior talked to him? It "was all due to hormones. He had defective glands, and she'd made him pay for it. Raising his fist, which still held the stump of the garlic sausage, he bellowed menacingly at the ceiling.

'No God! There is no God!'

The sausage was all gone. If he could only spend all the time eating he wouldn't feel so bad. There was a horrible taste of garlic in his mouth. He wiped his sausage-greasy hand on his pyjama coat. Being dirty was a sort of way of getting his own back. That dress had clung everywhere. Her behind. Her new man would be making the most of it now. Here he was thinking piggish thoughts, that was how low he'd sunk. Being unhappy made you think piggish thoughts. So be it, then, he was a pig, a sausage-eating pig. So much for God. He tore off a sheet of lavatory paper, wrapped it round the comb, hey presto, the harmonica of his youth, and he growled out the theme of wedded bliss across the thin, vibrating paper. 'With willing marriage kiss, In Hymen's temple true, Strew our path to wedded bliss With flow'rs of every hue.' He stopped, ran the comb through his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, sweeping it straight back, and then repeating the operation.

Ensconced on his solitary throne, he went on combing and uncomb-ing his hair. Now and then, for a change, he twisted it between thumb and forefinger, making it into a kind of knot which he screwed tight and then suddenly combed out, deriving sensual pleasure from tearing out whole tufts, masochistically maiming himself. Or again, he would open his pyjama coat and run the comb through the hairs on his chest, while dipping at random into Dada's book
which lay open on his knees, and signally failing to take in any of the different ways of removing stains. But reading helped further to deaden his unhappiness. After a while he returned to his hair.

Still plying the comb backwards and forwards, he read on, moving his lips to give each word its shape, to force it into his mind, to make it mean sense. She was terribly keen on whipped cream, and when her plate was empty she used to scrape away at it with her spoon, like a little girl. Would her new man notice, would he love her the more for it? He stood up, bare-buttocked, gave another heave on the chain, though there was still no need, to fill the silence of the house, to hear the sound of reality, so that he did not feel alone.

He sat down again while the cistern refilled, and resumed his obsessive combing with a sense of humiliation. But why not? Fiddling with his hair was all the fun he had left. You needed a little fun to bear the misery, to go on living, he knew that now, any kind of fun would do, even if it wasn't much fun, even if it was stupid. Besides, when he was combing his hair and twisting it into knots and pulling it out by the roots, he did not feel so lonely. He was in dialogue with his hair. He had a relationship with his hair. His hair was company.

Sitting there fiddling with his locks, his companions in misery, he mulled over old joys. The morning tea he used to bring her in bed on Sundays. He would come in holding the cup feeling pleased as Punch. 'Morning, sweetie-pie. Did my little sweetie-pie sleep well, then? Feel rested? Here's a nice cup of tea for my sweetie-pie!' She would be so fast asleep that at first she'd open just one eye, looking dazed, and he loved her terrifically when she looked at him with one eye. Darling, darling girl. And then she'd sit up, open the other eye, and hold the cup with both hands, fuddled with sleep, hair sticking up like a clown, a very pretty clown.

He murmured: 'Here's a nice cup of tea for my sweetie-pie!'

And she would say 'Goody' as she took the cup, 'Oh thanks,' she'd say, and she would hunch over the cup and his heart would be riveted on her face as she drank. He would watch carefully to see if she liked the tea he had made for her and waited on her approval. 'That's nice,' she would say after the second or third sip. 'Nice tea,' she would say in her waking-up, little-girl voice. And then he, proud of having made a nice cup of tea, gratified by this small thing which made her happy, would watch the happiness on her face as she drank, still half-asleep, a coddled baby-doll, while he stood with hand braced to steady the cup if it tilted too far. 'Goody! And when I've had this I'm going back to sleep,' she'd say.

'Goody! And when I've had this I'm going back to sleep,' he murmured.

When she was done, she would hand the cup back to him. 'I'm going to snuggle down again now,' she'd say, and she would face the wall, turn over on her side, pull the covers up to her chin, and curl up into a ball, and it was an agreeable thing indeed to see her curl up into a ball. 'Have a good rest, darling, sleep tight, I'll bring you up breakfast later on, in an hour, all right?' With her mouth pressed into her pillow, she'd say: 'Yes'. Sometimes she said: 'Yeah', because she was so sleepy, and she'd curl up into an even tighter ball. Seeing her curl up like that, seeing her so snug, made him feel good. Before he went, he always leaned over for another look at her face and packed the bedclothes firmly round her back to make her even more comfortable. Once, when he'd brought her morning tea, she'd said he was a good husband.

'So why, for God's sake, why?' he muttered, and he tweaked his pubic hairs, tried to pull them out.

After morning tea, when she'd had her bath, it was time for her breakfast, which he brought to her in bed, only too happy to wait on her and sucks to the way Mummy glared when they passed on the stairs. Everything set out nicely on the tray: toast, butter, jam. The slices of toast she could put away! And he was so pleased to see her lay the butter on thick, on account of the vitamins. He would watch her eat, loved watching her eat, watching her build up her strength. Sometimes he'd play a trick on her as he came in. He'd say the gardener's donkey was very sick, or that Mariette had broken a leg, so he could enjoy telling her straight away that it wasn't true, so he could see her smile, so he could make her happy.

After breakfast she'd light up a cigarette, and the smoke always got into her eyes. Oh, what pretty faces she'd pull! And then they used to chat like old pals, husband and wife together, they'd talk about everything under the sun. When she told him about her pet owl or her cat, she'd get so excited. She was so sweet then, interrupting her tale to see if he was listening appreciatively. Sometimes she would read out stories about animals faithful unto death. She got carried away, was so innocent, and interrupted her reading to see if he liked the tale, to see if he was joining in, to make him see for himself just how faithful that old elephant was. He always made a great show of being interested, to keep her happy. Sometimes she told him about her childhood, how when she was a little girl she used to say letters' instead of'lettuce'. They'd go on chatting endlessly, they were friends at breakfast time. He was her husband, she was his wife, and it was good, it was what life was all about.

'Please return, come back to me, Life's not worth living Now you're not near,' he hummed sofdy, still sitting on the mahogany-effect lavatory seat, trousers undone, buttocks bared, hands joined in prayer.

God, how he used to love phoning her from the Palais, to say hello, for no reason, to hear her voice, to know what she was doing at that moment. And when VV got up to one of his nasty manoeuvres, quick, he'd phone home and ask her to come down to the office, and just knowing that she'd soon be there made him feel better. From the stool where it sat with its legs splayed, the teddy-bear watched him with equanimity.

'A couple of fat-heads sitting face to face.'

Cruel, she was so cruel. But what was the good of calling her cruel? It wouldn't make her come back. It wouldn't stop her, you know, with him. Weak, that's what he was, weak, that was the size of it. Serve him right, he'd been punished for being weak. Without getting up, he pulled the chain, shivered as his buttocks were splashed by the rushing waters, ran the comb through his hair once more, brought it low over his forehead, and then swept it back. Strong men and dictators never fiddled with their hair, nor did they stay perched on a lavatory seat for hours on end. But that was all he was capable of doing.

Losing interest in the comb, he felt for the loading-clip. Six bullets. The first one, being on top, was fully exposed to view. So small and yet quite a little number, eh, sweetie-pie? He inserted the clip, removed the safety-catch, pulled the loading-mechanism and then released it. Right you are, the first bullet was in the spout. That line in the kitchen, absolutely taut, dead straight, a pleasure to behold. He'd managed to put it up awfully well, he liked looking at it whenever he went into the kitchen, he'd made a definite success of it. He was attached to it, but there it was, he'd have to say goodbye to it now. Oh yes, the first one was in the barrel for sure. Did you sleep well, sweetie-pie? No, got thoroughly pleasured, more like. The hell with it, who gave a toss about her? She went to the lavatory like everyone else, didn't she?