Making Things Better (16 page)

Not so in Sophie's case. Herz saw with some amusement, but also with some sadness, that this man, now looking closely at what he saw around him, had affected Sophie, had indeed altered her, reduced her to a supplicant. How else could she explain the almost pointed looks she exchanged with Herz, as if admitting him to her intentions? Whatever difficulty she had ever had in expressing her feelings—and Herz saw that this must always have been the case—her eyes on this occasion spoke for her. Her obdurate little face was as closed as ever, but he detected tension in her posture. He regretted, as much for himself as for her, this loss of autonomy, hoping that she was woman enough to denounce it. This he doubted. Men were better fitted for this exercise than women. And Sophie, whose own emotions seemed so unavailable, would experience any undue tenderness on her part as a fall from grace. As indeed it was. Mr Henderson's attention was claimed entirely by the flat, his eyes expertly ranging into corners, his mien agreeable. When he passed her he touched her arm with kind camaraderie. Herz mentally sighed. This was the way to conquer a woman, not by appeals, not even by attack, but by sheer indifference. Herz found himself unable to address the young man by his Christian name, some acknowledgement surely that respect on his part was due to both beauty and self-possession. There was no doubt that if he so wished he would move in straight away.

‘I think I will make tea, if you don't mind. Do look round, Mr Henderson. As I said, my plans are still rather shapeless. I had intended to leave in the near future, but in fact there may be one or two impediments, quite a considerable delay, in fact. That might not suit you.'

‘Tea would be great,' said Mr Henderson. ‘I'll be in New York for the best part of a month, anyway. And I wouldn't want to rush you. I think Sophie told you that I'm looking for a permanent address? If I found the right thing—and I think this may be it—I'd be prepared to wait.'

‘I see. So you think this might be suitable?'

‘Sure. Good location, good communications, and so on. Is there a garage?'

‘No,' said Herz, hoping that this would deter him. ‘But we are quite near the Underground. Baker Street and Marble Arch are within walking distance.'

‘I could give you a lift in the mornings,' intercepted Sophie, a slight flush now apparent on her normally colourless cheeks.

‘Do you work together?' enquired Herz.

‘We met through work. We're both in the City. Sophie works in my firm, but only from time to time.'

‘Ah. Short-term contracts.'

‘Exactly. She knew I was looking for a place, and she mentioned that there might be something going in her building . . .'

‘Yes,' said Herz, tired. ‘How do you like your tea?'

He was almost won over, not by the young man's amiable lack of persistence but by his conviction that his needs would be met. So must he have proceeded throughout his life. The large sum of money he mentioned brought Herz out of his trance. ‘The flat is not for sale,' he said severely. ‘Although it may become for sale eventually. I had in mind an absence of a month or two. But as I said I may be gone for longer, even for good. That rather depends on another person. No doubt this makes the proposition less attractive for you.'

‘No, that's fine. I like the place. I'd be prepared to fit in with your plans.'

‘I'll need references, of course.'

‘Sure.'

‘Sophie will tell me when you return from New York. We can talk again then.' But Sophie, whose eyes were fixed on the large hand lifting the teacup, murmured only abstractedly, ‘Of course.' Herz felt for her an unwelcome pity. So she too was destined to be a victim. The thought gave him no pleasure.

They parted on mutually complimentary terms. Herz shut his front door with a sense of relief, though the flat felt strangely quiet. It was not the quiet of his solitary days, but a quiet that signified the departure of youth. To his surprise he had enjoyed their visit, though it had disastrous implications for himself. He saw that they were entitled to make demands, to be fully conscious of their own advantages, to pay only halfhearted attention to those who stood in their way. What impressed him was their physical ease, a faculty of which he had long lost sight. How could their assurance let them down? Though the decision was theoretically his, Herz found himself in danger of being disregarded. What were his plans in comparison with theirs?

Later that evening the telephone rang. ‘I've got Matt here,' said Sophie. ‘Would you like to join us for a drink?' A kind of mutual sympathy seemed to have sprung up between them, for which Herz was grateful. The fact that he seemed to be aware of her feelings had predisposed Sophie in his favour. The fact that no acknowledgement had been made was acceptable to her mute way of conducting her affairs. He felt protective, as he always should have done, and he suspected that she sensed this as well. He sighed. It was a role the old were forced to play, sometimes against their will. Nevertheless he accepted the invitation with something like alacrity. He was, in spite of himself, genuinely interested. Who would win, vanquish the other? He was entitled to take some pleasure in the spectacle. He brushed his hair, armed himself with a clean handkerchief, as if he were leaving for the theatre. His own role would be as a member of the audience. Their youth had seen to that.

He seemed to have arrived just before the interval, for during his very real absence something extraordinary had taken place. Though the expressions of mutual accord were offered, and indeed received, these lacked commitment on the young man's part. The look he gave Herz was abstracted, almost haggard, the gaze he returned to Sophie markedly less so. Herz watched, fascinated, as this wordless exchange took place. Mr Henderson, it seemed, had been woken from his neutralizing affability. From the look of dawning astonishment in his eyes, from the momentary abandon in Sophie's answering smile, Herz knew that this was a sacred moment, the descent of the gods, perhaps. He had been present at this strange conjunction, which rarely affects two people simultaneously. When it does the future is irrelevant. His future as well, Herz reflected. Whatever discussions would now take place would be dazed, abstracted. He was moved, as he could not fail to be. Earthy practical considerations were swept aside. Tactfully he signalled his departure to Sophie, who acknowledged it with an almost languorous smile, such as he had never seen before on her face. It was an act of the purest discretion to leave them alone together. What happened next needed no witnesses, for the outcome, as their almost ritualized expressions denoted, was not for his eyes, not for anyone's. Love, once again, asserted its exclusivity, its so triumphant right to possession. Herz was relieved that he had left so discreetly, glad that he had not shown undue interest. His own thoughts would be entertained in the appropriately sylvan setting of the public garden, thus promoted to classical glade or grove. He was also relieved that his own plans had been halted by an unexpected delay, that no further mention had been made of references. The beauty made manifest in their recognition of each other, and of the significance of the moment, was its own recommendation. No further acknowledgement would be required.

Their obvious enchantment—quite literally, as if they had been put under a spell—threw his own proposed merger, his marriage of convenience, into unwelcome relief. What he had witnessed had been the mystic moment before desire had taken hold and released their movements, and yet it was desire, or a knowledge of desire, that was imprinted in their wide-open eyes, in the colour that had crept into their cheeks and lips. This was the stuff of myth, of legend; it seemed almost possible to think not of Cupid, but of Pan, of Apollo, who favoured ravishment and turned reluctant partners into trees. Yet there had been no cruelty in their gaze; they were too humbled by this apparent compulsion either to question it or to take it further. Their dramatic conjunction was, if anything, a cause for wonder, an understanding that it could take place in ordinary circumstances, between quite ordinary people, all calculations of the outcome, or even the next move, quite absent. The world would reclaim them at some point, but for one extraordinary interval each had known the other as if some ideal were being enacted. It was even possible for onlookers to be drawn into the drama of the moment, and in the following moment to feel bereft, deprived of that glimpse of another dimension, and all too sadly understanding their own unregenerate because earthbound condition.

On returning to his own flat he had the impression that a film of dust overlay his belongings. This too was metaphorical, since Ted Bishop had cleaned everything only two days previously. As a place of safety it had served its purpose and now appeared illusory. It would be taken over by somebody else, while his own absurd merger would go ahead. It seemed appropriate to think in terms of merger, of appropriation, business terms which had nothing to do with his own modest preoccupations. The moment of felicity which he had witnessed made even his fantasies seem tedious, for without some benevolent supernatural agency how could his own life be rewarded? It was impossible not to be moved by what had taken place, that charged look . . . It had been brought about involuntarily; that was the beauty of it. Even the knowledge that it would eventually descend to the level of the banal, the everyday, made no appreciable difference. By comparison his proposed flight to Nyon and to Fanny, though it had once made eminent sense, seemed ludicrous. It had made sense because he had not put it to the test, had not translated it into the process of lived life, had seen it continuing into a not yet problematic eternity. He thought of Fanny's letter, of her complaints. He had no doubt that these would be renewed. And how would he fare as a witness to her dissatisfaction? For he did not doubt that he would be cast in a supporting role. His next task would be to convince her of the necessity of returning to Bonn to settle her affairs. And yet, still, there might be a longed-for dignity in the proposed arrangement. He thought with pity and contempt of the excitement he had experienced in watching and waiting for Sophie Clay. It had been possible to be in love even at that remove, and now he knew that life without love would be a desert, and moreover a desert that would reclaim him for its own, bringing the past back into the present, even into the future, and with it the dead whose absence he almost envied.

When the telephone rang he assumed that it was Fanny, even felt a sense of relief that she was responding to his letter with plans of her own, but it was Bernard Simmonds, his voice tired and a little tetchy.

‘Julius? I got your letter, but I think we should meet to discuss matters further. It seems to me that you have been a touch precipitate.'

‘It seems to me that way too. I appear to have let the flat.'

‘You haven't signed anything?'

‘No.'

‘I'm not quite sure . . .'

‘Bernard. Can we meet? I think I need some advice with this.'

‘Of course. I take it that you don't want to come to the office?'

‘No. Have dinner with me at the usual place.' He waited while a diary was being consulted, then agreed to the Tuesday of the following week. Fanny receded into the distance. If he were fortunate she would take an age to make up her mind, giving him one last chance to make up his own.

16

Bernard's advice had been terse but cogent: insist on a monthly agreement, to be terminated, if necessary, at short notice. Having delivered himself of this verdict he attacked his ravioli in a zestful manner which Herz found disquieting. His mind was not really attuned to this interview. The morning had brought a postcard from Bad Homburg. The message, in Fanny's butterfly hand, had read, ‘Enjoying a brief respite from my troubles. Letter follows.' From this he gathered that she was in funds, was looking forward to a successful outcome to her lawsuit, and had forgotten him altogether.

This left him with the obligation—it was no less—to repair to the Beau Rivage for at least a month, probably on his own, in order to satisfy Mr Henderson's ever polite but pressing enquiries about the future of the flat, which, Herz reflected, had somehow passed out of his ownership. If he vacated it, even for the shortest period of time, it was less in his own interest, rather more in that of Mr Henderson, for whom he felt an absurd sympathy. The young man, whom he met frequently on the stairs or on Sophie's landing, appeared flushed with love and determination, but still clear-headed enough to pursue his own plans.

Herz felt as tenderly for him as he would have done for a child proceeding unsupervised into a busy road, not because he was in love, but because he so obviously thought that he had all aspects of the situation under control. He would have liked to take him on one side to explain to him the difficulties that lay ahead. Look at my case, he would have said: a mistaken early love for a woman I find I no longer care for has led me into a sequence of muddled intentions for which there seems to be no resolution. A memory of early euphoria, or even very real euphoria, seems to have condemned me to a form of exile. And in your case that same euphoria, of which I had proof, may fade; your initial conjunction may break down into a conflict of interests. Sophie is no innocent maiden waiting in her bower, whereas you, I think, are rather more unprotected.

As for myself I seem to be on your side, even prepared to go away, to give up my home, simply because your own wishes are so much stronger than my own. I too had elected a companion of sorts, though I now see that I had misjudged her. No doubt at this very moment she is conducting her own affairs without reference to mine. That is my point: how could she know what spurred my actions? How could she appreciate my situation when her own mind is so completely filled with her own preoccupations that she could hardly be expected to give her full attention to what I have become: a virtual stranger, whose life is almost at an end and who relies on further fantasies—of escape—to prolong that life and to bring it into some sort of focus, if only to restore a dignity which is so impaired that it may no longer be within his own control? You see the problem, he would have said. You too may find that you have entered into something which prudence should have warned you against. The dangers implicit in a love affair, whether real or imaginary, are incalculable.

‘I was against the letting of the flat,' Bernard Simmonds was saying, ‘although of course you have every right to take a holiday. But you could simply have gone away for a month or two without coming to this sort of arrangement.'

‘I had in mind a longer absence,' murmured Herz. ‘At one point I thought it might be a solution to my problems.'

Again he had a brief glimpse of the original image of himself as a sort of boulevardier, taking his walks along the lake shore, smiling appreciatively at women, becoming a favoured companion, or if not a companion some sort of ideal escort. All this was so far from the truth that all that remained of it was amazement that he could have departed so radically from the facts. But there had been that other impulse, the strength of which was not to be denied: the need for a rash act. That act alone was out of character. He knew himself to be cautious, even knew the need for caution, as he proceeded carefully along familiar streets, his hand pressed protectively to the rattle of his pills in their little enamel box. And there were few pills left, which meant another visit to the doctor. This was not to be avoided; he had been converted to his pills. One placed under his tongue at night ensured a painless transition into sleep. He hardly knew or cared what made them effective. His mother had taken one pill for all her ailments, while his brother Freddy's array of remedies had merely resulted in the suppression of every appetite he had originally possessed. Herz was content to surrender to this need for as long as the need remained. He was in no sense dependent on the pills, he told himself; he regarded them less as a necessity than as some sort of treat. They enabled him to look forward to an untroubled night, and that advantage alone was immeasurable.

‘You've insisted on references, of course,' Simmonds was saying. ‘Are they satisfactory?'

‘Oh, yes.' They were in fact more than satisfactory; they were ideal. If anything they inclined Herz to further indulgence. They presented the candidate (for so Herz thought of him) as an honourable employee, successful in his profession, and amply rewarded in the course of his duties. These references, if anything, added to Mr Henderson's peculiar lustre, which in fact did contain some element of the ideal. In addition to his splendid appearance he seemed, if the references were anything to go by, to possess a noble character. This merely confirmed Herz's wish to protect him, even though this militated against his own interests. At the same time his own interests seemed to take second place to Mr Henderson's prospects and indeed his entire future. Herz had no difficulty in acceding to the laws of nature: the young must be preferred to the old, whom they would eventually replace. The onerous duties that lay ahead for them must be palliated by the pleasures accorded to them—again by nature—throughout their early years. And Mr Henderson was so splendidly in love that Herz felt he should be denied nothing, that no obstacle should be put in his path. The only obstacle at the moment was his own inconvenient self. It was therefore somehow ordained that he must tactfully disappear. In this mysterious way his own nebulous imaginings had been implemented by necessity. That was what he should have liked to point out in one of those imaginary conversations that would never take place. Yet inferences could be drawn from it, and Herz had no doubt that they were valuable. One simple idea, one wish, could be overtaken by events, so that in the end compromise was inevitable. In his own case sympathy for this stranger would ensure his absence from the scene, when he would have enjoyed and appreciated his presence, if only as spectacle. He must therefore deprive himself of a legitimate interest, even a benevolent interest, simply in order to let the other exist in his place.

As for Fanny and his invitation to her, he no longer knew what to think, or indeed how to proceed. He could hardly withdraw it now, yet the need for her presence had diminished. The postcard from Bad Homburg seemed to confirm to him what he had always suspected, that she was frivolous, and moreover that she was in receipt of such invitations all the time. Bad Homburg was expensive, yet she had given the impression in her letter that she was in financial difficulties. His plans had taken no account of her situation, though to judge from her letter that situation was by no means clear. The fantasy of their proceeding comfortably into some kind of golden apotheosis thus received a further check. His own funds depended on the eventual sale of his flat, yet if he sold it he would be homeless. He had managed to persuade himself that Fanny would make similar arrangements, and that the two of them would settle down together in the comfortable knowledge that their well-being was assured.

Now he saw the folly of this assumption. There was no reason for Fanny to give up her present life, any more than he need give up his own. For that brief moment of reckless optimism he was now being made to pay heavily. This too he would point out, by means of the most delicate analogies, to Mr Henderson, in one of those conversations that would never take place. It was the conversation that he now craved, the confidences of the young, the company of the uncompromised. This too was a fantasy, but like his original fantasy rooted in some very real instinct, in this case the desire for a son whose own desire to replace him he would see as entirely legitimate. Instead of which he had condemned himself to further childlessness, since the residents of the Beau Rivage would not be young, would indeed be drawn together by the camaraderie of the impaired. In his so brief visit to Nyon he had had a glimpse of tinctures, of decoctions, of remedies on other tables, had even congratulated himself on being vulnerable only by nature of his own quest.

He had frequently wondered whether the outcome of that journey had not coloured his subsequent life, and was responsible for his latter-day resolution to return, to replace his failure by a revision of the original test, to recapture a modified version of Fanny, and by so doing to bring to a satisfactory conclusion a series of events that had always struck him as inconclusive, as if the director of this particular comedy or tragedy had made an error of taste in ordaining if not a happy ending then at least an ending which would somehow preclude that lasting regret that Herz had felt from that day to this, and which even now struck him as undeserved.

One's fantasies were out of character, he reflected: that was the reason for their being fantasies. One furnished oneself with an imaginary companion, with imaginary offspring, when all the time the unforgiving nature of real circumstances contrived to submerge one. And all the time that disjunction between fantasy and reality brought unwilling recognition of one's sad limitations. In fantasy he was free to be that dashing figure by the lake who was even now taking on the lineaments of someone entirely different, furnished with a moustache and a silver-topped cane, like an actor seen in some forgotten film. Only in such a disguise could he prove himself to be successful. To demand of his unemphatic self such a transformation was to demand the impossible, just as it was impossible to imagine Matthew Henderson as a respectful audience for his maunderings. The reality consisted of Mr Henderson's footsteps on the stairs which always ended outside Sophie's front door. There was matter here for sadness, yet on the rare occasions when they had, all three of them, come face-to-face, he had felt a warmth of approval for their condition, had smiled unreservedly, and made no attempt to delay them. There were elements here too of an ideal situation, and he would do nothing to disturb it.

‘You'd better send those references to me,' Simmonds was saying. ‘That way I can see if there's any kind of loop-hole. Otherwise I'd say that you've left yourself rather vulnerable.'

‘I agree.'

‘Mind you, a break would be pleasant. You might even enjoy it. Lovely part of Europe, lovely time of the year . . .'

‘It just seems rather difficult to envisage it from here. I have a picture in my mind, but I have a suspicion that it is entirely misleading.'

That picture, though complete in every detail, was based simply on a memory, of a blurred and peaceful blue dusk, of splendid appointments, of a discreet background to a conversation that had proved tame and unsatisfactory. It was true that on the morning of his departure he had been soothed by the strengthening sun, which had enabled him to postpone reflections on the disappointing days that lay ahead. Even now, in Chiltern Street, the sun was gaining strength, as if it had been brought into being by Mr Henderson's requests and desires, lighting up the whole flat and transforming it into something wider, larger than it was wont to appear. This again was a metaphor, but for once a metaphor that entirely fitted the occasion. The appearance on stage of the major actor, no longer himself, served to rearrange the cast, so that lesser characters fell into position in spite of themselves. The sun was democratic, could be enjoyed by everyone, even by exiles in distant parts. Herz knew that if given a choice he would have lingered by his window, looking out into the street, watching for the return of the young people, and smiling as he turned away, fearful of offending them by his presence.

He was conscious of the fact that this evening was proving something of a disappointment to both Simmonds and himself, that he must appear absentminded, forgetful, inattentive to his duties as a host. In fact his own interior drama took precedence. At least his absurd position might stimulate further reflections which might at some point prove useful. For some of those reflections he was indebted to Fanny's letter, and even more so to her postcard, prompting a reading of her character that was probably more accurate than any he had formed in the past. In the past the knowledge that their natures were different, even antithetical, had not deterred him. Now he was inclined to that loss of patience, that shrugging of the shoulders that should have been available to him as a young man, even as a middle-aged man. Her notional presence by his side was no longer of interest to him: rather the opposite. Together they would have presented a touching but fallacious picture of two former sweethearts reunited by that same passage of time that had robbed them of all their attractions. He had had too recent a sighting of the entitlements of those favoured by nature to think otherwise, and if this was unfair to Fanny that could not be helped. Unfairness was an argument advanced by children. The process by which one was disqualified despite one's best intentions was rather more arcane. Nor would it be revealed to him for as long as there were more immediate examples of felicity to hand. The secret smiles of lovers put all thoughts of dignified maturity to flight. There was little evidence that Fanny had advanced beyond the conviction that she was owed more than she had received and that this too was unfair. And he had volunteered to listen patiently, to sort out a labyrinthine muddle that was somehow shady, to restore her self-esteem, to express admiration for her resilience! Such was the part that he seemed to have written for himself. It was small wonder that he had envisaged a brutal recklessness that would have overturned all expectations, not least his own. Where this took place was no longer relevant. The important thing was that it should somehow be enacted, made manifest, if only to himself. Above all to himself. Such recklessness would have the beauty of an
acte gratuit,
without consequences. It is usually the consequences of one's actions, he would have told any young person who could be persuaded to listen, that spoil the fun.