The collected stories (9 page)

'The Times - it is very cheap in Croydon. It is cheap in London?'

'I never read the newspaper, not once. Janwillem read it. I saw him reading it and I did not want to. I can read it here, but not there. There, I can read novels, only novels. In the hotel room, having some gin, with the rain outside, and Janwillem in his offices. No Theo, no Action-Man. There I am different, too. No headaches. I was so worried about Martin I began the migraines. Always on my day off - the migraines. And we did nothing! He only boasted and pinched, and I said, "Yes, it is a good idea, an adventure, but not here."'

'This talk is a bit silly and it is shaming me. Shall we discuss the news? I still have some tea left. Or books? I have seen that there is a new novel by Mister Dursday.'

'Tom Thursday. Extremely violent. He shows an appalling lack of taste. I wish to speak of thumsing else.'

'I have read all his books. Tom's.'

'Do you remember that young American fellow - Jewish fellow - he spoke of the American novel to the Society?'

'He was fantastic'

'He asked me to meet him. That young fellow. How could I meet him? I have my family to think of, I have Janwillem. I cannot simply go off because this young Jewish fellow wishes to have an adventure. He writes me letters: "Come! Come!" I think he is like Martin.'

'Martin is not Jewish. You never said so.'

'Martin and his boasting and his girl friends.'

world's end

'Do not think of him, Henriet. He will give you migraines.'

'Martin is gone, but I still have the migraines. I have to scream sometimes because of the migraines. Do you ever scream, Marianne?'

'I like this. This is better. Yes, one day I was making some soup. Some carrot, some potato, and chicken broth. I am looking for the, yes, the barley. The soup was in an enormous pot. The soup was boiling furiously. It was a very hot day. And then I reached for the barley. The barley was on a high shelf. I reached for it. I hit with my elbow the pot of soup and it splashed upon my arm. And then I screamed.'

'I scream at Janwillem because he is so good. He mentions the church and I scream. I scream when I think of Martin, and Martin is bad.'

'As you say, Martin is wicked.'

'Martin is not wicked, but I cannot trust him. Always his girl friends. I would prefer to have an adventure with another man.'

'I am too old for adventures, Henriet. And this is not the place.'

'Those Germans - they drive twenty kilometers and have their adventures here. Look at them. You're not looking.'

'I have seen Germans.'

'The English people hate them as much as we do. But some do not even remember.'

'How can they not remember the Germans? If once you see them you remember!'

'The young ones. They do not remember.'

'Even the young ones remember!'

'In England.'

'The young ones in England? I do not know the young ones in England. This tea is cold. How do you know?'

'I have asked.'

'What do they say? 1

'They do not know. They do not care now. It is old history.'

'Where do you meet these young ones?'

'I meet them in England. In London.'

k In the hotel.'

'Yes, in there.'

'I have nor met them in Croydon.'

'Do you know young ones in Croydon? 1

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

'Henriet, everyone I meet is younger than me. So I do not notice.'

'I notice. The young ones remind me.'

'That they are young?'

That I am old.'

'But you are not old. What? Forty-five? Very slim and smart. Nice shoot.'

'Forty-three.'

'It's not old.'

'If you are twenty, forty-three is old.'

'This is good English conversation. Question-answer. Those Germans must think we are two English ladies, having our tea.'

'I am not having tea.'

'You know what I am saying.'

'I did not have tea in London. In London, Janwillem has tea, he reads The Times, he takes his umbrella. People think he is a schoolmaster. In London, I sit by the window and read my novel and watch the rain fall. And I wait - what for? For the young to knock on my door and say, "Madam, your adventure."

'You are being silly.'

'In a uniform. A dark jacket and a small black tie and a tray. My adventure is on the tray. "Just one moment," I say. And I get up from my chair and pull the curtains so that he won't notice my age. I am very nervous, but he is more nervous, so it does not matter. I go very close to him. If you go close and he does not draw away, you know he is saying yes.'

'Henriet, you have had too much to drink. Please, the news.'

'I am telling you the news.'

'This is not a discussion. We must discuss.'

'There is nothing to discuss. I need my adventure. I have gone to London with Janwillem for my English, but what is English if you cannot use it except to say, "Please close the door" and "Where is the post office?" and "How much?" Or if you only speak it once a week at a hotel restaurant in a terrible town as this one is.'

'I enjoy it. It is good enough for me. I am happy.'

'I am not happy. English is not enough, Marianne. Books are very enjoyable, and lectures. But always there is Martin in the library, and that American fellow at the lectures. I ask myself: "Am I here because of English, or do I want an adventure?"'

'What is the answer?'

'There is no answer. But English is not enough, I know that. If

WORLD S END

that could be so I could sit in the chair in the hotel and talk with the boy and be happy.'

'There was a boy?'

'I have told you of the boy. With the tray and the tie. Twenty. English. Thin face. Very nervous.'

'You talked with him in English?'

'Very little.'

'You are smiling. No more English!'

'I can only tell you in English.'

'You have said you talked very little.'

'He took his clothes off, I took my clothes off. We were naked. After that, there is very little to say. "We were naked." It is so easy to say, "We were naked," if you say it in another language. It would be harder to tell Janwillem - I could say it to him in English. But he would not understand, would he? No, he would shout at me. "Do not speak of it!" and then he would go to his church and hug and kiss those women. And formerly, I had the migraine and I have thought all those years of shooicide. Instead, I have the lessons - we have them here. But in London I know why I have the lessons. It is clear to me there. The boy. We say very little because we both can speak. So we don't need to speak. It is a small thing. As for Janwillem, it means nothing. Now we are here and it is gone, but it is not gone. There is only the English.'

'A good lesson today, Henriet.'

'Yes, Marianne.'

'Some new words. A jolly time.'

'We will say no more about my adventure.'

'Next week we will read The Times.'

'I will drink tea.'

'You are fantastic'

'Yost so. That is the most faluable ting.'

After the War

Delia lay in bed and listened and studied the French in the racket. Downstairs, Mr Rameau shouted, 'Hurry up! I'm ready!' Mrs Rameau pleaded that she had lost her handbag. The small bratty boy they called Tony kicked savagely at the wall, and Ann Marie who five times had said she could not find her good shoes had begun to cry. Mr Rameau announced his movements: he said he was going to the door and then outside to start the car; if they weren't ready, he said, he would leave without them. He slammed the door and started the car. Mrs Rameau shrieked. Ann Marie sobbed, 'Tony called me a pig!' Someone was slapped; bureau drawers were jiggled open and then pushed. There were urgent feet on the stairs. 'Wait!' The engine roared, the crying stopped. The stones in the walls of Delia's small room shook, transmitting accusations. Mrs Rameau screamed - louder and shriller than anyone Delia had ever heard before, like a beast in a cage, a horrible and hopeless anger. Mr Rameau, in the car, shouted a reply, but it came as if from a man raging in a stoppered bottle. There were more door slams - the sound of dropped lumber - and the ratchetings of gears, and with a loosening, liquefying whine the car's noise trickled away. They had set out for church.

In the silence that followed, a brimming whiteness of cool vapor that soothed her ears, Delia pushed down the sheet and breathed the sunlight that blazed on her bedroom curtains. She had arrived just the night before and was to be with the Rameaus for a month, doing what her mother had called 'an exchange.' Later in the summer Ann Marie would join her own family in London. Arriving late at the country cottage, which was near Vence, Delia had dreaded what Ann Marie would think about a stay in London -the semi in Streatham, the outings to the Baths on the Common, the plain meals. She had brought this embarrassment to bed, but she woke up alarmed at their noise and looking forward to Ann Marie's visit, since that meant the end of her own.

The cottage, Mr Rameau had told her proudly, had no electricity.

WORLD S END

They carried their water from a well. Their water closet (he had used this English word) was in the garden. He was, incredibly, boasting. In Paris, everything they had was modern. But this was their vacation. 'We live like gypsies,' he had said, 'for one month of the year.' And with a candle he had shown Delia to her room. He had taken the candle away, and leaving her in the darkness paused only to say that as he did not allow his daughter to use fire he could hardly be expected to let Delia do so.

The Rameaus at church, her thoughts were sweetened by sleep. She dreamed of an unfenced yellow-green field, and grass that hid her. She slept soundly in the empty house. It was not buoyancy, but the deepest submersion in sleep. She was as motionless as if she lay among the pale shells on the ocean floor.

She woke to the boom of the door downstairs swinging against the wall. Then she was summoned. She had no choice but to face them. She reached for her glasses.

'Some people,' said Mr Rameau at lunch - he was seated at the far end of the table, but she could feel the pressure of his gaze even here - 'some people go out to a restaurant on Sunday. A silly superstition - they believe one should not cook food on the Lord's Day. I am modern in this way, but of course I expect you to eat what you are given, to show your appreciation. Notice how my children eat. I have told them about the war.'

His lips were damp and responsive to the meat he was knifing apart, and for a moment his attention was fixed on this act. He speared a finger of meat and raised it to his mouth and spoke.

'Madame Rameau asked me whether English people ever go to church. I said I believed they did and that I was surprised when you said you would not go-'

He had a dry white face and a stiff lion-tamer's mustache. When he put his knife and fork down, and clasped his hands, his wife stopped eating and filled his plate. Madame Rameau's obedience made Delia fear this man. And Ann Marie, the friend whom she did not yet know, remained silent; her face said that she had no opinion about her father - perhaps she chose not to notice the way he held his knife in his fist. Both mother and daughter were mysteries; Delia had that morning heard them scream, but the screams did not match these silent faces. And Tony: a brat, encouraged because he was a boy, pawing his father's arm to ask a question.

AFTER THE WAR

Now something jarred Delia. The faces searched hers. What was it? She had been asked a question. She listened carefully to remember it.

'Yes, my parents go to church,' she said. 'But I don't.'

'My children do as I do.'

'It is my choice.'

'Fifteen is rather young for choices.' He said choices solemnly, as if speaking of a mature vice.

'Ann Marie is fifteen,' said Tony, tugging the man's sleeve. 'But she is bigger.'

The breasts, thought Delia: Ann Marie had the beginnings of a bust - that was what the boy had meant. Delia had known she was plain, and though her eyes were green and cat-like behind her glasses - she knew this - she had not realized how plain until she had seen Ann Marie. Delia had grown eight inches in one year and her clothes, depending on when they had been bought, were either too tight or too loose. Her mother had sent her here with shorts and sandals and cotton blouses. These she was wearing now, but they seemed inappropriate to the strange meal of soup and cutlets and oily salad. The Rameaus were in the clothes they had worn to church, and Mr Rameau, drinking wine, seemed to use the gesture of raising his glass as a way of scrutinizing her. Delia tried hard to avoid showing her shock at the food, or staring at them, but she knew what they were thinking: a dull girl, a plain girl, an English girl. She had no religion to interest them, and no small talk - she did not even like to chat in English. In French, she found it impossible to do anything but reply.

'We want you to enjoy yourself,' said Mr Rameau. 'This is a primitive house, or should I say "simple"? Paradise is simple -there is sunshine, swimming, and the food is excellent.'

'Yes,' said Delia, 'the food is excellent.' She wanted to say more - to add something to this. But she was baffled by a pleasantry she knew in advance to be insincere.

'The lettuce is fresh, from our own garden.'

Why didn't Ann Marie say anything?

'Yes. It is very fresh.'

Delia had ceased to be frightened by the memory of those accusatory morning noises. Now she was bored, but thoroughly bored, and it was not a neutral feeling but something like despair.

'Enough.' Mr Rameau emptied his glass of wine and waved away

WORLD S END

his wife's efforts to pour more. He said that he was going to sleep.

'I have no vacation/ he said to Delia - he had been speaking to her, she realized, for the entire meal: this was her initiation. 'Tomorrow I will be in town and while you are playing I will be working. This is your holiday, not mine.'

In the days that followed, Delia saw that when Ann Marie was away from her father she was happier - she practiced her English and played her Rolling Stones records and they took turns giving each other new hair styles. Every morning a boy called Maurice came to the cottage and delivered to the Rameaus a loaf from his basket. Delia and Ann Marie followed him along the paths through the village and giggled when he glanced back. This was a different Ann Marie from the one at meal times and as with the mother it was Ann Marie's submissiveness that made Delia afraid of Mr Rameau. But her pity for the girl was mingled with disbelief for the reverence the girl showed her father. Ann Marie never spoke of him.