The Man Who Was Left Behind (13 page)

“Let’s go soon, okay?” he said to her.

She blew a lot of smoke in his direction and looked straight through him.

“What for?” she said. Just like that. Then she covered up. “I’m having fun,” she said. “Aren’t you having fun? I want to see the millionaire dance again. He was terrific.”

“Sure,” he said. “Anything you like.”

He lifted his glass and as his head turned I could see the tight little smile on his face. Graham and Betty burst into laughter at some private joke. It occurred to me that of the
six of us, they were having the best time, although they were so obviously not married. And they seemed to be lovers of long standing. There must have been some story to it. One of them was probably married. Perhaps they were both married to different people.

“What do you say, old girl,” he said.

She downed her champagne and said, “Righty-ho. Mm, that’s good.”

He signalled to the waiter and made motions of writing on paper. “Well,” he announced, “we’ll be pushing off. The little woman needs her beauty rest, you know.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay and see the Greek navy arrive,” she said.

The waiter brought the check and Graham looked at it carefully. Then he put his finger on it. The waiter bent over, took out his ballpoint and changed a few numbers. Graham took out his money.

“They fiddle the bills here,” he said. “Word to the wise.”

“I know,” I said, “I could see it coming. You wouldn’t think they’d have to with the cover charge and everything.”

Graham’s change came, and he counted that, too. When he was satisfied, he stood up and hauled Betty to her feet.

“Night all,” he said. Butterworth and I stood up, and we all said goodnight.

As they left, the dark girl came out on to the dancefloor and did a solo routine between snatches of a song. She had a portable microphone around her neck and made the attached wire form part of the dance.

“I want to see the millionaire again,” Linda said.

I said, “I want to see the cop get out of here under his own steam.”

Two waiters had converged on his table, and he was laying out lots of banknotes. When they had gone, the female gargoyle snatched up her bag and stood up. The pollceman rose as though breaking to the surface from a
great depth. He seemed to see the door, faced it, and moved towards us. On our side of the room all attention was focused on him. It was like watching a dying man. His face looked as paralysed as the face of a man who had had a stroke. And his body was rigid. Very slowly, with the dignity of a man in pain, he went forward. The woman let him pass, and followed along behind him. There was nothing wrong with her walk, in fact she was full of zest in spite of that fixed, gargoyle look. The two waiters walked behind her and she talked and laughed with them as the policeman manoeuvred his stiff and poisoned body all the way to the door.

“Well,” Butterworth said. “I guess this is one of those places where you could just sit at a table and see the whole of life.”

“It’s quite a joint,” I agreed.

We waited until the dark girl had finished her number and left the dancefloor, and the other girl had begun another song standing up by the band.

“What do you think?” my wife said.

“Had enough?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.” I waved the waiter over.

“Let’s go,” Linda said.

“Okay,” he answered, and signed to the waiter that they wanted to go, too.

“Where are you staying?” I asked him. They were staying at the hotel we were at.

“Well, we can walk back together,” I suggested. “Unless you want to wander up and see the fortifications by moonlight. There’s enough of a moon tonight.”

“I’m too tired,” Linda said.

I checked the count and took a look at Butterworth’s tally. They had charged me the wrong price and added an extra bottle to his. The waiter didn’t seem upset at having
to change the numbers. I supposed that later in the evening, or the morning, nobody noticed much of anything.

We walked out along the quayside, and I felt better than I had for a long while. It was a beautiful balmy night and I was just the right amount drunk. Just enough to feel relaxed and lighthearted. The lights on the two tourist ships reminded me more than ever of something, but I still couldn’t remember what. As we walked, my wife and Linda fell into step together ahead of us.

“Can I ask you about something?” Butterworth said.

“Sure.”

“Something important.”

“Money?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Okay.” I called to my wife, “You two go on ahead. We’ll meet you at the hotel.”

“All right,” she said, and they kept walking.

“Do you smoke?” I asked.

“No.”

I took out a cigarette and lit it. We stood still for a while, until the women were far enough away. Then we saw them turn the corner past the café. I could hear the waves hitting up against the quay and thought I could hear them against the boats in the harbour.

“Let’s find someplace where we can sit down,” I said.

“All right,” Butterworth mumbled.

We walked past the café. All the chairs were fitted into each other and the stacks turned upside down on the tabletops so that the top chairs had their legs pointing up to the ceiling. It looked like a shop for large Chinese puzzles. Now that the tablecloths had been taken away, the tables and chairs looked worn, and centuries old.

“It’s about Linda?” I said.

“Sort of.”

“And marriage in general?”

“That’s right.”

“The honeymoon’s got you both a little on edge.”

“That’s it in a nutshell.”

“Well,” I said.

“You see, I’m not sure exactly—I mean … now she’s … um.”

I didn’t look at him because I’d only just become aware of the extent of his embarrassment.

“Let’s go up here,” I said. We turned off into a side street. There was another empty place which looked as though it might be a construction site, but later I thought it might have been one of the real excavations. There was a wall next to the minute sidewalk, and a creeper growing over it. I sat on the wall and Butterworth sank heavily down next to me. There were some flowers on the vine, but no scent of flowers, just a fresh smell of leaves.

“Did you have any other girls before you got married?”

“No, that’s just it. See, I was brought up kind of strict.”

“And Linda, too?”

“Not so much, but there wasn’t anybody serious before. I mean, she never—you know.”

“She never slept with anybody either.”

“No.”

“And it isn’t working out so well?”

“No, that’s just it.”

“Have you read any books about it?”

“Not exactly. Um. You see, I was brought up kind of strict and back home—well. It was considered not right to read those kind of books, if you see what I mean.”

“I don’t mean pornography. Just a medical book, or Reproduction and Society or something like that.”

“No. Well, we had biology class in highschool, but you know. I mean, it was all about frogs and starfish and things. And that isn’t the same.”

I laughed. “No, that isn’t quite the same.”

I heard him draw a deep breath. He was shaking, but not with laughter. I thought that he probably wanted to back out of the conversation, but couldn’t. It was more than embarrassment. It was all over him and around him like an emotional blanket. My own son was old enough so that I had given him the “Momma fish and Poppa fish” talk and it hadn’t worried me. I had handed out the euphemisms, knowing that all they need at that stage is to know you’re not nervous about it yourself, and to know you aren’t using foreign, secret words, and to hear that your voice is steady and see that your face is normal. I thought that if my son had been this age, it would be all right. Not that I’d have let him reach Butterworth’s age in such a state, but at least I’d know his reactions.

I realised that I was sweating, and was glad that the light was so bad where we were sitting.

“But surely you have friends who’ve talked about it,” I said.

“Oh, yes. But I tried not to listen. I mean, it starts off and then it’s all dirty jokes, and I just don’t think that’s funny.”

“Well,” I said. I was exasperated. And I was beginning to catch his inhibitions. For one appalling moment I considered plunging in at the deep end and asking him point blank whether he couldn’t get it up or couldn’t get it in.

“Can I just ask you one thing?” he gasped.

“Yes, sure.”

“Are all girls … Do they all have …”

“Have what?”

“I mean, is it usual for …”

“Come on, spit it out.”

“Are they all so hairy?” he blurted out.

“Hell, yes,” I said quickly, and gritted my teeth so that I wouldn’t laugh. “Rather nice, when you get used to it. You’ve never seen a girl without her clothes on.”

“No. Just paintings and stuff.”

“And that’s different. That’s the trouble. All these things are different.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Okay,” I told him. “I’ll give you a short description of what the average girl should look like in the natural state.”

I gave him the description, and he listened, but he was still wound up like a spring. Then I let him have a short list of steps that could be taken to get a girl into a good mood. It was fairly explicit but there was no Latin in it.

“Another thing you can try is to make her laugh.”

“Oh my God,” he said. I couldn’t see his face, but it sounded desperate. The whole shape of him in the dark looked defeated and thrown away.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s get technical.”

For about ten minutes I got technical. That seemed to cheer him up. He started to ask one or two questions. Then I got less technical, and he was asking “is that usual?” and “is that normal?”. I kept saying, “Hell, yes.” Once I made him laugh, just once. And then he sighed, and said, “Well,” and stopped, as though really nothing had been resolved. So I asked him to tell me what kind of person this girl of his was. Was she very bossy, did she have a sense of humour, was she easily frightened?

He began to tell me about her. Not much, but just enough to let me know how he felt. He was obviously very proud of her, and a bit sentimental, too. He would start to tell me about things she had said, or ways she had shown how wonderful she was, and then he would trail off. He didn’t really want to talk about her to another man. But then, he wanted other people to know that there never was such a girl. During this part of the talk he sounded much more relaxed.

“Have you two talked about it at all?” I asked him.

“All the time, that’s all we do. I mean, not exactly talk about it. But, you know, arguing.”

“What I meant was, just sit down and ask each other if you’re willing to work it out.”

There was a long pause while he took this in.

“If you’ve decided you want to live together and be with each other all the time, for the rest of your lives—well, you’re grown up now, and you’ve made it legal, and you can do anything you like. You can go to a doctor or a marriage councellor or Swedish sex movies, or you can skip the physical side of it altogether for a while and just see how you get along living in one room for a month and trying to be nice to each other. As long as you’re willing to have it work, you’ll be okay. As long as you really want it to turn out right.”

“Yes, I know.” It didn’t sound completely confident.

“Okay. I’ll tell you a couple of stories.”

I’d never had such an audience. Once he said “wow” and one or two times he said, “That’s terrible”, and when I paused, “What happened then?” The stories were more or less true, although I was making them all end well, and that hadn’t always been true.

“Of course other people’s stories are never the same, but you see what I mean.”

“Listen, I want to thank you.”

“No need.”

“You don’t know what a difference it’s made. I feel a lot clearer about everything.”

“Good,” I said. I slapped him lightly on the shoulder and got to my feet.

“You’ll be okay.”

“I believe I will,” he said.

We turned the corner and came in sight of the hotel.

“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” I said.

“It’s huge. It must have hundreds of rooms.”

“I expect they cover their losses with the summer months. This is really the best time to be here.”

We passed by the round garden plot with the statue in the middle, and I saw that my wife was waiting down below in the lobby. She was sitting in one of the chairs and just preparing to stub out a cigarette. The girl must have gone straight up.

She looked in our direction when we came in, and stood up. The difference there is in a face when someone is glad to see you—not even the posture of the body is the same.

“Well, goodnight,” Butterworth said. “Goodnight,” he said to my wife, and started for the stairs.

“Do you have the key?” I asked.

“They’re in your pocket. You always do that.”

We walked slowly towards the stairs.

“Did you have a good long talk?” she said under her breath.

“Did you?”

“Did we ever.”

I looked up and saw that he had turned to the left. Our rooms were up the second flight, to the right, and then down a corridor. It was a fine hotel, one that I should have liked to stay in for a long time. And under different circumstances.

The stairs were marble, and the long carpet fixed on with stair rods had a Persian design. On every third step stood some kind of palm in a large tub. The palms went all through the corridors and must have meant a lot of work. I hadn’t seen anyone sponging the leaves, but I thought that was what you were supposed to do with potted plants. There must have been hundreds of them if the other floors were like the first two. It should have been called the
Hôtel
des Palmes.

“Well,” she said as we started up, “I hope you gave him the benefit of your vast fund of technical tips.”

I ran my hand through the fronds of one of the plants. They had a pleasant feeling, not cold or sticky like many leaves, but dry and clean. When I brushed my hand across them they spread out like feathers.

We came to the top and turned right, down the passage to the next flight of stairs. I touched a few of the palm trees as we passed. I was still a bit high. I looked at her, but her mouth had gone sour.