A Garden of Trees (5 page)

“What do you think of Marius?” she said.

“I like him.”

“Do you admire him?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Admire was not a word that had occurred to me before.

“I can't think why everyone admires him,” she said. “I think it's ridiculous. It shows what children people are.”

“Does everyone admire him?”

“Oh yes. All your sort of people. I can't understand it. If you only knew what my friends, my real friends, think of him, how they laugh at him!”

“Why?”

“Really laugh at him!”

“Then they must envy . . . ”

“Oh envy, that is all you can think of, as if anything were so obvious . . . ”

“But . . . ”

“You're so serious, so silly, but I should have thought that even you would have seen through Marius!”

“Then why did you ask me to meet him?”

“I didn't.”

“Oh.”

And then, when we had gone to meet Marius in the inevitable pub round the corner, I was able to leave Alice temporarily and join Marius and his friend as they stood at the bar in conversation. Marius glanced at Alice over his shoulder and then looked at me in a mocking, knowledgeable way, as if again there was in him a tendency to laugh which, owing to exigencies of the battle, he had to suppress; and when I rejoined Alice I felt that I had been drawn a little closer into the struggle although I still did not know what it was about.

Alice was restless. She made no pretence of geniality with me. She kept on glancing at Marius and his friend, and she was tossing her hair back from her face in a gesture that I knew was one of annoyance. “Look at them,” she said. “What on earth are they talking about?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Fancy coming here just to talk. About themselves, too, I expect. Creeping out like moths after dark to talk about themselves.”

“What is Marius's history?” I said.

“History? I don't think he has one. I wouldn't dream of asking him, anyway. It's only people like you, darling, who would ask people their history.”

She had never called me “darling” before. I went on hurriedly: “But what does he do? What did he do in the war, for instance?”

“I don't know. I don't suppose he does anything. I think he only came here after the war. What does it matter anyway? Why do you want to know about him? Do you think you can understand people just by finding out about their lives?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well you can't. And if you want to know about Marius look at that man who's with him now. You can find out more about a person from small things like that than from the story of their lives.”

The man was rather sinister. A thick fair-haired man with an expressionless face and tiny intent eyes: a fair moustache and grey flannel trousers and the musty military look of a staff officer. He was talking to Marius and smoking delicately, like a woman. Marius was watching him.

“What on earth can they be doing?” Alice said; and then, drawn irresistibly to attack them, she called out “Marius, can you get us a drink?”

Marius turned to her, and his companion looked sullen. Alice was smiling serenely like someone expecting to be photographed. Then Marius murmured something to the man and they came over to us. Marius introduced him as Mr. Jackson.

“How do you do,” Alice said. “I hope we didn't interrupt your conversation.”

“Not at all,” the man said formally. He wore a thin striped tie, and his face had the rough scrubbed look of a rubber sponge. He reminded me of the men in raincoats at the political meeting. He did not sit down.

“Do go on talking if you want to,” Alice said. “I am sure you must have terribly important things to say to each other.”

The man stood stiffly, hating her. Marius said to him quietly, “I am sorry that there is nothing more I can do.”

“You will not be there?” the man said.

“No,” Marius said.

“How exciting!” Alice said. “It sounds like a robbery!”

The man went on hating her out of his small scrubbed eyes. “You will be expected,” he said to Marius.

“Yes,” Marius said.

“With the guns and the dynamite?” Alice mocked.

The man turned his back on her. He nodded abruptly to Marius. “I will leave you to this,” he said. Then he walked out of the room. Marius sat down.

Alice began, “God, what a man. I could smell him, literally smell him. I've never met such a sinister man in my life.”

Marius said nothing.

Alice turned to me and went on “Darling, now you see what it's like when men get together, how dreadful they are, how creepy, really, I think that nowadays men would rather go out with each other than with a woman.”

She was speaking to me, but the battle was with Marius. He said nothing, and she went on:—

“Darling, how glamorous you look. I'm sure you wouldn't rather go out with a man like that, would you darling. Look at Marius now, isn't he dreadful, I think he must have caught some terrible disease.”

Marius was sitting thoughtfully, twirling his glass, and I wondered if in these silly moments I was going to lose the chance of knowing him for ever. I wanted Alice to go, I wanted to be alone with him, but Alice seemed to be carrying the battle on to indefensible territory so that Marius would have to retreat and I should lose him in the chaos. All these ‘darlings', these sneers at Marius, were part of her tactics; and I remembered how Marius had said that she might want us to hate each other. I was powerless, and it seemed that Marius was powerless too: but then Alice, incensed by his silence, blundered. She spoke to him.

“Marius,” she said, “what on earth were you doing with a man like that?”

“What?” Marius said.

“That's a man who would stick a knife into you quicker than a piece of meat.”

“A piece of meat?” Marius said.

“Oh don't be so dull.”

“He's a vegetarian,” Marius said.

Alice turned away. She shook her pale dangling hair from her forehead, and I wanted to cheer.

“He's head of the greengrocer's guild,” Marius said. “He's called Munroe.”

“Oh dear,” Alice said.

“The last time he ate meat,” Marius said, “he was fined forty shillings by his union.”

“Marius,” Alice said, “if you go on like this I shall leave.”

“He was very upset about it,” Marius said. “He told me that it felt as if there was someone always behind him with a carrot.”

“I warn you,” Alice said. “I can't stand it when you are so dull.”

“He said it was worse than being a donkey,” Marius said.

“I'm going,” Alice said.

“I'm sorry,” Marius said. “Thank you very much for asking me round.”

Alice waited a moment and then stood up. “Goodbye,” she said. Marius looked very sad. I was staring at the table not wanting to see her, for I could feel her expecting me to make some move. “Goodbye,” Marius said. Then she walked away from us, and I was sorry. We both stood up and she went to the door and was gone.

Marius sat down. He remained very still and then he sighed and said “It was a pity, that, but I'm afraid I couldn't think of anything else.” He scratched his head with a gesture of dismissal and pushed his half empty glass of beer away from him. “I was rather put out by that man,” he said. Then he looked at me and said “Come and see Annabelle, she would love to see you,” and at once I forgot about Alice and the queerness of the battle and any sorrow at our victory, for I was thinking—Annabelle, I must remember Annabelle—and I followed him into the street.

I walked a little behind him, feeling like a puppet, a puppet worked by strings. Marius was the player and the lamp-lit street our stage, and as I walked I noticed the things around me as the setting for a play, objects slung together for the purpose of illusion, and beyond us, outside the perimeter of the arc-lights, an unseen audience whose presence was felt like rain. In the gutter a man selling matches raised his head and muttered across the pavement; and a woman, dragged by dogs, swept past him like a ship. Marius stood on the curb and held his hand up for a taxi, and one swung to his bidding as if he had pulled it with a rope. We climbed in and Marius murmured instructions, and we drove away. It would not be very far, I thought—Kensington or Sloane Street, the homes of Annabelles and Mariuses—but in Knightsbridge the taxi turned right and took us up into the park. We emerged opposite the big ship-like shapes of the hotels in Park Lane, and the taxi drove between them and stopped in Grosvenor Square. Marius paid it, and we walked through the hall of a large block of flats. The floor was thickly carpeted and there were flowers on the walls: real flowers, in carved vases, and the smell of scent. We got into the lift and went up to the fourth floor. The flat where Annabelle lived was large and hot and very expensive.

The door was unlocked and Marius pushed it and went in. In the drawing-room Annabelle and a man with golden hair were sitting at the piano playing chopsticks. The man was humming and not getting the playing right. As we came in he stopped and said “Ha!” at Marius, and Annabelle went on playing the bass. Marius said, “That's Peter.” He nodded to me.

“Can you play chopsticks?” Annabelle said. “No one else can.” I remembered how the corners of her eyes were wrinkled.

“Yes,” I said. I sat down on the stool with her, and we played. She played very quickly to try me out, and I kept up with her. I could see her laughing to herself as she went faster and faster, and she put out her tongue between her teeth. The golden-haired man watched us and tried to join in at the top of the piano, but he couldn't get it right, so he thumped on the keys with his fists. It was a huge piano, and it made a lot of noise. Marius was standing by the window holding a corner of the curtain back and looking out like a detective. Then Annabelle stopped playing suddenly and sat back with her hands in the lap of her bright red dress. “You play very well,” she said.

“It's not very difficult,” I said.

“No.” She lifted her hand and pushed a curl from her cheek behind her ear. We were close to each other on the stool, and I was leaning away from her rather twisted. “Can you play properly?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Play something,” she said, still sitting, with her hands back in her lap.

I played an old waltz, which was the only thing I knew. I played it badly, thumping it. I had learned it at school. I got some of the notes wrong.

“How impressive,” she said. “Can you play anything else?”

“No,” I said. “Can you?”

She played the same thing as I had done, but beautifully, as it should be played.

“How rude,” said the golden-haired man. “Don't you think my sister is rude?”

“Is she your sister?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “My beautiful sister.”

“I hope you are pleased,” Annabelle said, finishing off with a flourish.

Peter turned away from us, and Annabelle sat sideways so that I could see her throat. “Marius,” Peter said, “come away from that window. There is nothing to see.”

Marius smiled and came into the middle of the room and watched us.

“The great thing about Marius,” Peter said, “is that he never speaks. That's a great thing to learn. It's always so inspiring. The only time that I have ever inspired anyone was when I had an infected larynx and couldn't speak. It was at a dinner party and I never said a word. They all thought I was marvelous.”

“We haven't seen you for a long time,” Annabelle said to me.

“I've been away,” I said.

“I'm sure Napoleon never spoke,” Peter said. “I'm sure he never said a word. Do you think he did, Marius?”

“I'm sure he did,” Marius said.

“I don't think so. Of course it's foolish to speak. You can never say anything so wise as what people think you might say if you don't.”

“It depends what you look like,” Marius said.

“I look like a lobster,” Peter said, staring at a mirror.

Annabelle said to me “I am so glad you've found us. I was wondering if we would ever see you again.”

“I was wondering if you would remember me.”

“Oh yes,” she said.

Peter was walking round the room. He was saying “Of course it's all right for you. You've got the face for it. People think you are like a God when you don't say anything. And Gods have got to be silent, or else they would make fools of themselves. What on earth could a God say that would make any sense?”

“I don't know,” Marius said.

“Nothing. They can't make sense so they don't say anything. Very sensible. How terrible it would be to be a God!”

“Why?” Annabelle said.

“Because of their conscience. Think of God's conscience! Man's is bad enough, but think of God's!”

“You can't,” Annabelle said.

“I can. And it makes me sick.”

“That's silly,” Annabelle said, and again I saw something frightening in her alarming eyes.

Marius sat down. “I have seen Mr. Jackson,” he said.

“And finished it?”

“Yes. Mr. Jackson was a communist,” Marius said to me.

“Oh,” I said.

“I was rude to him and then we were rude to someone who perhaps is his opposite. Mr. Jackson is quite right, it is difficult to find any other alternative.”

“It is easy to look,” Peter said.

“One is, sooner or later, rude to everyone. One is rude until there is no one left to be rude to. Then one is rude to oneself.”

“Why don't you stop?” Annabelle said.

“But we are only just starting!” Peter said. “It is impossible to start anything until one has been rude to everything. Now you have been rude to this communist you are rid of him. When we are rid of everyone we will begin!”