Good Morning, Midnight (17 page)

'Would you like some whisky?' I say. 'I've got some.'

(That's original. I bet nobody's ever thought of that way of bridging the gap before.)

I take my coat and hat off, get the bottle of whisky. I rinse the tooth-glass out, mix myself a drink and mix one for him in the Evian glass, which is clean. I do all this as slowly as possible. Time, time, give me time - wait a minute, wait a minute, not yet....

We sit on the small bed. He takes one sip of whisky and puts the glass away.

'Isn't it right? Don't you like it?'

'Yes, it's all right. I don't want to drink.'

'Mine tastes awful. It tastes of mouthwash.'

"Then why do you drink it? Don't drink it.'

All the same, I go on sipping away. Small sips. Not yet, not yet....Wait a minute....You won't be unkind) will you? For God's sake, say something kind to me....

But his eyes are ironical as he watches me. I don't think he is going to say anything kind. On the contrary. But that's natural. I've got to expect that. Technique.

I say: 'It's funny how some men try to get you to swill as much as you can hold, and others try to stop you. Automatically. Some profound instinct seems to get going. Something racial - yes, I'm sure it's racial.'

He says: 'Just now on the landing - you knew it was me?'

'Yes, of course.'

'But how could you have known before I said anything?'

'I did know,' I say obstinately.

'Then you knew that I was coming up after you. You expected me to?'

'Oh no, I didn't. I didn't a bit.'

He laughs and puts his hand on my knee under my dress. I hate that. It reminds me of - Never mind....

'You love playing a comedy, don't you?'

'How do you mean - a comedy?' I shouldn't have taken whisky on top of brandy. It's making me feel quarrelsome. Sparks of anger, of resentment, shooting all over me....A comedy, what comedy?

A comedy, my God! The damned room grinning at me. The clock ticking.

Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici, la vieille?

'I'm going to have another whisky.' 'No, don't drink any more.'

Oh, go to hell....I push his hand away and get up.

'Tell me something. You think that I meant you all the time to come up here, and that everything else I said this evening was what you call a comedy?'

'I knew you really wanted me to come up - yes. That was easy to see,' he says.

I could kill him for the way he said that, and for the way he is looking at me....Easy, easy, free and easy. Easy to fool, easy to torture, easy to laugh at. But not again. Oh no, not again....You've been unkind too soon. Bad technique.

'Hooray,' I say, 'here's to you. It was sweet of you to come up and I was very pleased to see you. Now you've got to go.'

'Of course I'm not going. Why are you like this? Don't be like this.'

'No, it's no use. I'd rather you went.'

'Well, I'm not going,' he says. 'I want to see this comedy. You'll have to call for someone to put me out.

Au secours, au secours,' he shouts in a high falsetto voice. 'Like that....If you want to make yourself ridiculous.'

'I've been so ridiculous all my life that a little bit more or a little bit less hardly matters now.'

'Call out, then. Go on. Or why don't you rap on the wall and ask your friend next door to help you '

As soon as he says this I am very quiet. If there is one thing on earth I want to avoid, it is a scene in this hotel.

'I don't want to have a row here,' I say. 'Only you've got to go.'

'Why?'

'Well, because I tell you to go. And you'll go.'

'Just like that?'

'Yes, just like that.'

'But what do you think I am - a little dog? You think you can first kiss me and then say to me "Get out"?

You haven't looked well at me....I don't like it,' he says, 'that voice that gives orders.'

Well, I haven't always liked it, either - the voice that gives orders.

'Very well, I ask you to go.'

'Oh, you annoy me,' he says. 'You annoy me, you annoy me.' And there we are - struggling on the small bed. My idea is not so much to struggle as to make it a silent struggle. Nobody must hear us. At the end, he is lying on me, holding down my two spread arms. I can't move. My dress is torn open at the neck. But I have my knees firmly clamped together. This is a game - a game played in the snow for a worthless prize....

He is breathing quickly and I can feel his heart beating. I am quite calm. 'This is really a bit comic,' I keep thinking. Also I think: 'He looks mechant, he could be mechant, this man.'

I shut my eyes because I want to stay calm, I want to be able to keep thinking: 'This is really damned comic'

'We're on the wrong bed,' I say. 'And with all our clothes on, too. Just like English people.'

'Oh, we have a lot of time. We have all night. We have till tomorrow.'

A long time till tomorrow. A hundred years, perhaps, till tomorrow....

He comes in. He shuts the door after him.

I lie very still, with my arm over my eyes. As still as if I were dead....

I don't need to look. I know.

I think: 'Is it the blue dressing gown, or the white one? That's very important. I must find that out - it's very important.'

I take my arm away from my eyes. It is the white dressing gown.

He stands there, looking down at me. Not sure of himself, his mean eyes flickering. He doesn't say anything. Thank God, he doesn't say anything. I look straight into his eyes and despise another poor devil of a human being for the last time. For the last time....

Then I put my arms round him and pull him down on to the bed, saying: 'Yes - yes - yes....'