The Bay of Angels (25 page)

I wondered about that. I must have hoped that Dr Balbi would come looking for me, would have neglected his patients in my favour. A moment’s thought showed me that this would have been entirely out of character. Nor would such extravagant behaviour have convinced me. I was now fearful, conscious of the limits of our association; it suited me to keep it at arm’s length, as if it were a mistake that I had made in assuming it to be real. On this radiant morning it seemed like a bargain into which only I had entered. I was too affected by loss to see that I was confusing one loss with another. It would be preferable to rely only on facts, for the dangers of delusion had never been more apparent. It might therefore be wise to pay no more rent than was due. I might hanker after my life in Nice, but to linger when I was no longer expected would be a solecism I need not commit. It would be enough to know that the room was mine for a short stretch of time, for my time must now be used for practical matters, for envisaging a future which I must negotiate alone. I flushed at my belief that it might be otherwise. Such fantasies were no longer appropriate.

I arranged for the curé of Sainte Rita and for
Jourdain, Pompes Funèbres
to perform a brief and discreet ceremony. This was done decently, under a quiet blue sky. It was an interment of which no one need be ashamed. After it had been completed my movements were uncertain, even to myself. How then could I convey news of them to others?

I returned to London, where several further tasks awaited me. The first was to clean the flat and to prepare it for my eventual installation. This took the better part of a day, or rather I allowed it to, for I had no pressing engagements. In fact I had no engagements at all, and this absence of motivation disconcerted me. When I had swept and mopped and polished I made up the bed with clean sheets, and consigned the old ones to the laundry basket, to be dealt with at some future date. Then I washed my hair, but when I looked in the mirror I was alarmed at my appearance. Pale, and with wide eyes, I looked like my mother. This must be rectified. Disregarding my wet hair I went out and found a hairdresser, had my hair cut, and my neglected nails manicured. Then I went to the bank, where the contents of my mother’s account, to which I now had access, were made known to me. It contained a useful sum of money which would assure my future until this could be supplemented by my own earnings. I paid several bills, which had accumulated in my absence, and wrote a letter to Dr Blackburn announcing my permanent availability. My mother had left no will; at least none had been deposited in the bank. As far as I knew she had never consulted a solicitor; her affairs had been subsumed under Simon’s, which meant another visit to Mr Redman. Nothing further came to light. The only news was that Simon’s Swiss account was empty; he had drawn heavily on it during the years at Les Mouettes, no doubt to fund a way of life that would eventually have had to come to an end. Purchasers had long been found for the remaining property in Walthamstow. All in all I had no immediate worries about money. I thanked him for his help in the past and went back to the flat. As this had been accomplished in the space of a single day I was now faced with the problem of filling my time. In the end I went to bed at a ridiculously early hour and consequently lay awake all night.

The next day, Sunday, was the day I had been dreading, for this was the first visiting day when I should not be in attendance. It is possible to miss occasions which one has observed resignedly, or with reluctance, and this I did. The worldly Mme de Pass and the lachrymose Mme Lhomond had retreated into a distant sphere of influence. I should miss the visit of Mme Lhomond’s daughter, although we had never exchanged more than a few words of greeting. There would be no more slow careful walks to the café on the corner, though these had become rare. I dismissed from my mind, as best I was able, the image of my mother applying herself to a cup of coffee, and thankfully relinquishing the task. I was beset with all sorts of doubts as to my own conduct. I should have brought her home, as she had initially desired, although we had both known that this would be difficult to accomplish. In the end I had connived at her weakness, had allowed it to become a determining factor. She herself had come to realize this. Had she not refused to go out, when it was still possible for her to do so? And do not all lives end badly, or at least not as we would wish them to end? My mother’s death had been inevitable and, as deaths go, not particularly terrible. Yet I knew that her expression, as she lay dying, that look of absorption, of preoccupation with an overriding mystery, would haunt me for ever. I understood those people who try to get in touch with the dead. Their desire is not to exchange news, or even to receive a comforting message, but to hear a first-hand account of what the process revealed. How had it felt to die? This was the news that no one was available to tell. Hence the entire business remains unknown, and must remain so until it is one’s own turn to confront it. Then perhaps one would conclude that it is indeed a mystery, and one that no living person, the person so helplessly in attendance, can imagine. One would be more alone in death than one had ever been in life, and that would be the worst outcome of all.

I returned to Nice to pay the final accounts. At the Résidence Sainte Thérèse I was received rather more favourably. I had done the right thing in some way.
‘On a vu l’annonce dans
Le Figaro,’ I was assured, for I had thought to follow the wording that these ladies would find acceptable, even adding
‘Priez pour elle!’
to the meagre facts of her name and age. I had no doubt that one or two of her former companions would offer a prayer, and that comforted me more than anything else could have done. The rest was up to God, in whom I had no belief, but they might have fared better. I hoped so, for their sakes, as well, rather shakily, for my own. I paid the bill and thanked everyone again, but by now I was an unwelcome reminder. It was my duty to disappear. The obituary notice might have been my last useful manifestation. There would have been constraint on both sides had I lingered.

At the clinic I paid the bill. I made my way instinctively to Dr Balbi’s office until a kindly hand diverted me to the seat of commercial operations. I could hear snatches of conversation in the corridor outside, but none that were familiar to me. I lingered over the business of writing the cheque for longer than was necessary, but none of this was of any use; it was clear that no one would disturb me. I asked the secretary to convey my thanks to the nurses and to Dr Balbi. I was assured that this would be done. On my way out I heard a familiar voice somewhere in the background, untraceable. I thought I could hear the voice growing louder, a door opening and shutting. Then, overcome by the futility of my behaviour, I left, letting the front door swing slowly behind me, just as I imagined the footsteps approaching me. I was out in the air before they could overtake me. I knew that they would not follow me into the street.

Since leavetaking seemed to be appropriate I thought that I had better pay my respects to the Thibaudets, something I should have done earlier. They might have been expecting me to keep in touch; on the other hand they had not visited my mother more than once, though Dr Thibaudet may have been aware of her progress. Certainly he would have been advised of her death. But he was retired now, and had been for some years. I did not know whether he continued to take an interest in the affairs of the clinic, or whether he had been thankful to relinquish his former duties. An entirely formal visit on my part might make up for my long absence, though this was regrettable. It was regrettable, but it was not entirely regretted. I had not returned to the district since I had been so summarily ejected from Les Mouettes. And it was possible that the Thibaudets had made their peace with the new owners, as prudent neighbours always must. My presence might be something of an embarrassment after so long an interval. Yet they too would have seen the notice in
Le Figaro
and would be expecting some sort of a gesture from me. I reminded myself that they had not known where to find me. But they had known where to find my mother. It was as my mother’s daughter that I would present myself, their fault cancelling out my own. In that way the rules of good behaviour would be observed, with no blame attaching on either side.

In the event I was able to avoid any possible awkwardness, for the Thibaudets were not at home. Their housekeeper told me that they were on holiday, a fact for which I was grateful. Already on the bus, the bus that had taken me home so many times, I had regretted this gesture. They were better and more practised than I was in consigning the past to a region it would be better not to disturb. Simon’s death lay between the Thibaudets and myself as an event on which it was no longer proper to dwell. They might see it as somehow fitting that my mother too had disappeared, so that their former friendship belonged to history. The Thibaudets were old; they might not care to be reminded of what lay in store. I left my name, and an assurance of my affection. This was not entirely false. They had been witnesses to a time when I had been happy. It does not do to neglect such people, for if they care to examine their memories such memories may supplement one’s own.

I wandered back down the road to Les Mouettes, as I knew I should. The white villa blazed red in the setting sun. I stood behind the hedge of tamarisk that shadowed the side entrance, the one nobody used. Visitors, such as we had had in the past, entered by the conservatory, the doors of which were opened on such occasions. There was some sort of party in progress. I could hear voices, hear too the sound of a glass being shattered. High-pitched laughter was interrupted by male shouts of welcome, as cars drew up and stopped in a spurt of gravel. Great attention was paid to these cars, small knots of men congregating to examine them, to congratulate the owners. Less attention seemed to be paid to the women who occupied the chairs on the terrace, their conflicting scents pungent in the evening air. There was no possible way for me to take a last look at the house, as I had hoped to. It had passed finally out of our possession, its epitaph a cocktail party attended by noisy strangers. I walked away, not caring too much if I were noticed. My right to be there was in doubt, but that seemed a minor offence. The right of those other people to be there seemed to me much more questionable.

They were of course perfectly entitled to amuse themselves; even I was willing to concede this point. It was just that my thoughts had been so sober, so fearful, for so long, that I had no notion that such entertainments could be, almost certainly were, entirely innocent. It was just that I disliked leaving the house to be despoiled in this way. The raised voices, the intrusive scents had seemed so out of place compared with the quiet manners of former times. Once more I saluted Simon’s memory. He had created a domain out of what was in reality a misappropriation, and had done so with something like dignity, a dignity that might have escaped him in previous incarnations. To me he would always be a part of my life. The house would signify an enchantment, though it had never been more than a sort of fiction. But it is the duty of fictions to supply other lives, and this Les Mouettes had done. That is why the house, and the brevity of our tenure, had something of the finality one recognizes when closing a book. I should never attempt to re-create the fiction of our lives there. I was the only one of the three of us to have believed the fiction to be fact. Both my mother and Simon had known the truth of the matter, and had dealt with it in their respective ways. Simon had believed in his own ability to sustain it. My mother had admitted to herself that she was not safe. Hence her longing for a home built on less dubious territory. I doubted whether she knew of the existence of the rightful owners, had indeed known that there were owners other than Simon. Yet her instincts had told her that there might be a reckoning of some kind, that all was as temporary as her marriage had seemed, even more temporary than she had suspected. The end, when it came, was a perverse relief. And my mother was never at all comfortable unless living in the light of the truth. Although she had once been an avid reader she had never made the mistake of confusing fiction with fact.

I decided to walk back into town, a distance of some five or six miles. The intense heat of the day persisted, but with something disturbed in the atmosphere: there might be thunder later. A new moon made a brief appearance before being engulfed by cloud. I made no wish, turned no money in my pocket. The adventure was over. Dr Balbi had not pursued me, as I thought a man should pursue a woman. I had not rid myself of my childish imaginings. I doubt if one ever does. I was as near to doing so as I should ever be, and a certain peace descended on me as I realized this. There would be no happy ending. I should have to live without such consoling fictions, as most people do. The disadvantage was that the fictions exert such a power that one comes to accept them as revealed truth. But they were always fictions, and must remain so. And one’s powers are limited, for that is the unarguable truth of the matter. That was the whole point of the fairy godmother in the Cinderella story. That is why one longs to believe in some kind of intervention, divine or otherwise. That is the wish lurking behind all songs of praise, even in the hearts of the righteous, the obedient, the well-meaning. To live with unalterable truth is a very hard discipline, though one may receive many reminders of it along the way. Those who manage to do so are to be congratulated. Such acceptance is not within the competence of the indifferently endowed. Yet that was the path I must now follow.

It must have been very late, but I was not tired. I was now so short of sleep that I seemed to have passed into a different state, a state which imposed its own laws of what seemed like normality. Sounds were muted, perhaps because of the approaching rain. I was prepared to walk all night if need be: the day had already been so long that it might just as well merge into the next. No one would note my absence, which now seemed a matter of little importance. Warning signs, the sudden feeling of faintness that I had come to recognize, prompted me to sit down and eat a meal, or rather to drink several cups of coffee in lieu of a meal, for in this incorporeal state I doubted whether I could digest food. The shutters were being pulled down as I left the café. Night had thickened, aided by the now menacing clouds, which could be felt rather than seen. I was still reluctant to go home, made my way, as I had not intended to do, down to the beach. I was without volition, merely being moved along by memory. I was familiar with this procedure. I was devoid of intention; it was merely a fitting way to end the day. I should be glad when it was over, yet did not seem able to bring it about. When a few heavy drops of rain began to fall I turned and made my way back over the sliding pebbles. It was so dark that I nearly missed the pale disc of a known face, or should have done had Dr Balbi not come forward to meet me. We stood for a few seconds in the rain.