Making Things Better (20 page)

The faintness persisted. He remained seated, until warned that the gallery was about to close. He made his way to the exit, a warder walking slowly and watchfully behind him. His extreme physical discomfort was compounded by the suspicion that Fanny might expect him to make love to her, and he made a note to telephone the Beau Rivage as soon as he arrived home—if ever he arrived home—and book a single room for himself. Love was no longer a possibility: the blatantly blue image of Bacchus and Ariadne had finally completed its work, had convinced him that such imaginings were no longer appropriate, or rather were no longer available. Even at his late age he had failed to encompass reality, when the reality of the flesh was there to remind him of the truth. Out of reluctance, of fastidiousness, even out of modesty he averted his eyes daily from his changed appearance, and if he thought of himself as he had once been it was as if he thought of some distant figure in a distant landscape, able to undertake any physical act, meet any physical challenge. This almost mystical memory of himself had something in common with the beginning of the world, the belief in inviolability, in immortality, which must return to haunt one as the days began to shorten. Even then the prospect of death would be unreal, its details hidden. There would, he knew, come a time when he would be given over into other hands, and would thus abandon any thought of himself as a distinct being. He would become part of a species, and even in that extremity would evoke little interest.

What was available to him now was more banal: a simulacrum of domesticity. Even this would be unconvincing, yet he remained determined to make it work. The almost abstract setting, the almost familiar woman, the discreet attentions of those appointed to tidy away the grosser aspects of daily life, would, he hoped, be sufficient for a routine to be established, one in which the physical life should not be too obtrusively in evidence. They would meet for walks, for meals, their changed appearance suitably disguised. In time this newly constructed life might persuade them of its reality. What he desired now was kindness, leniency, comprehension, the sort of reciprocity that two old acquaintances might recognize, and who, out of tact, would refrain from unwelcome allusions to past intimacy, for they had in fact never been intimate. Although his vision of Fanny was that of a lost lover, that lost lover was himself. His former hopes and expectations had, in the long run, amounted to nothing. Fanny had been to him the embodiment of those expectations, which had survived for a remarkable length of time. He did not think himself excessively romantic, but it was true that he had long had a less than successful relationship with unalterable circumstance. The surge of memory and feeling was liable to overtake him at every turn: why else had he been willing to set up this experiment? It would be prudent to view the real Fanny, the Fanny he was due to meet at Geneva on the following day, as a stranger, one to whom he would behave with respect, with courtesy, but no longer with ardour.

He no longer desired the sort of animated discussions he had earlier envisaged. What he desired was a smile to meet his own: that was still possible. He would allow her all her own fantasies, would humour her vanity as best he could, would permit her to see herself as sought after, but only on condition that in exchange she would sometimes let the poor worldly mask slip and favour him with unforced fondness, not for what he had once been, the humble suitor, but for what he was now, a fellow being easily frightened by the world as it was. For such a fond smile he would be willing to cross any distance. He was anxious now to get to a telephone, to talk to her, and if possible to detect in her voice some of the vulnerability that was now overtaking him, as he stood on the pavement, confused by the crowds, the traffic, the noise, and signalled for a taxi, his raised arm as heavy as lead. The great mass of the city, which he had always embraced, oppressed him. Once again he had a vision of Nyon, but of a place which thirty years earlier had appeared so caressing, so nurturing. It would have changed, as he himself had changed, but the vista across the lake would be unchanged, and the soft light, and the distant mountains. He would undoubtedly recover in such surroundings from the tiresome weaknesses which had plagued him in the last few months, would, if necessary, put himself in the care of a patriarchal Swiss doctor. And perhaps Fanny would act completely out of character and look after him. This, he saw, was not a prospect which would appeal to her. But he in his turn might act out of character and become testy, would insist on his regime being observed, would fashion her into the vigilant guardian he wished her to be. This prospect did not greatly please him either. But if they could both perfect their behaviour, or their performance, to the extent that each gave pleasure to the other he would count that as a great achievement.

He had taken note of her strain of melancholy, and her confession of past unhappiness. His worldly goods, with which he was prepared to endow her, would not efface her view of herself as a woman who had never known love. He could perhaps repair her pride, which, he knew, would once more come to the fore given a little encouragement. He would have to rely on what self-knowledge she might retain. It was possible, though unlikely, that she had gained a measure of wisdom in the intervening years, enough perhaps to enable her to treat him gently. That gentleness, as yet unproven, he now craved, as he had once craved love. In the jolting taxi he slipped a pill under his tongue and waited for his vision to clear. He had yet to pack, to telephone Bernard Simmonds, to call on Sophie and Matthew and to wish them well. All this, however, took second place to his urgent need to reach Fanny, to know of her state of mind, to discover if she too were undecided.

In Chiltern Street he seemed engulfed in a rising tide of luggage, mostly Matthew's, his own modest suitcase a meek adjunct to the possessions of the new and rightful owner. It was clear that this was no longer his undoubted place. Nor did he want it to be. It had once represented emancipation from the dreariness of Edgware Road, from family commitments, from his marriage and divorce, yet that emancipation had not led to any kind of fulfilment. It was a refuge, nothing more, and as such had served him well. Now it seemed strange, already filled with another life. He welcomed his own impatience as he stumbled over Matthew's sports bag. Here was a sign of the testiness he hoped to evoke in other, more favourable circumstances. Here was a new persona in the making.

He dialled the Bonn number, let the telephone ring a number of times, able now to test his resolve. ‘Fanny?' he said. ‘How are you?'

There was a laugh at the other end of the line. ‘I don't quite know, Julius. Quite nervous, to tell you the truth.'

‘I am too. It's only to be expected. It's a long time since we last left home.'

‘I hate to think how changed you will find me.'

‘But, dear, we are changed; that is inevitable. In any event I have the strongest feeling that I shall know you straight away. What are you doing about your flat?'

‘A friend will be staying here. Not indefinitely, of course, although she has once or twice mentioned that we pool our resources. But I have never liked the idea of living with another woman. I think I should rather be alone, though I have been very lonely.' Her voice trailed away, as if she had turned aside for a moment. When she came back to him he had the impression that she had had to make a conscious effort to retrieve her composure.

‘I too have been lonely,' he said gently. ‘I realize that now that there is a prospect of company. This is a great upheaval for us both, Fanny, but we will still both be free agents. There is no need to panic.'

‘I do feel rather frightened,' she said. ‘But, as you say, we are both free. It's just that I thought it such a lovely gesture on your part. And it will be good to have someone to talk to after this long isolation.'

‘You will soon forget about that. There will be people around you.' Around us, he silently corrected himself. ‘And plenty to do,' he added lamely. He wondered what had become of her recently rediscovered authority. He would have preferred her brisker, more authoritative, more her old self. ‘Is someone there to get you to the airport on time? You were always a terrible timekeeper.'

She laughed. ‘I'm afraid you remember me too well. Yes, the friend I mentioned will see me off. And you?'

‘Oh, don't worry about me.'

There was silence. Neither of them knew how to finish this conversation, in which so much had been left unsaid. Don't worry about me? he thought. But that is exactly what I want you to do. I want, for once, to be greeted with a loving smile, in response to which my own smile will broaden without restraint. Instead he said, ‘Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then.' And Fanny, let us try to be happy. This last remark he managed to suppress. ‘Goodnight, dear. Until tomorrow.'

For the pleasure of knowing that there would be a tomorrow he was willing to pay a great price. Briskly now he set about his own arrangements, wrote a note to Bernard, and one to Sophie. He did not particularly want to speak to either of them, was anxious to keep any exchange of news for Fanny alone. He passed, as he knew he would, a disturbed night, but told himself that this was inevitable. From time to time he felt the familiar discomfort of restricted breathing, but this was now so familiar that he accepted it as a mild disability, which must be disregarded. All efforts must be directed towards getting himself to Geneva. After that there would be time to take care, to take advice, to take precautions.

He looked round the flat for the last time, felt a little sadness, but not the sadness he had expected to feel. In the taxi he congratulated himself on making so discreet a departure. His breath was shorter now, but there was only one further effort to make, and then all would be taken care of. At the airport smiles of appreciation were directed at other passengers too distracted to return them. He succeeded in picking up his suitcase, negotiated all the hazards. He drank a cup of coffee at a small glass-topped table, newly indifferent to the effort he would soon have to make.

The pain began quite suddenly, unlike anything he had experienced before. When his flight was called he got up, fumbled for his pills. His shaking hand sent them flying, rolling across the dirty floor. Making an effort not to gasp he lurched forward, crushing the pills beneath his feet. Then, with the empty box still clutched in his hand, the ghost of a smile still on his face, he struggled mightily, exerting his last strength to join the other travellers on their journey.

Anita Brookner

MAKING THINGS BETTER

Anita Brookner is the author of twenty-one beautifully crafted novels, including
Fraud
,
Undue Influence
, and
Hotel
du Lac
, which won the Booker Prize. An international authority on eighteenth-century painting, she became the first female Slade Professor at Cambridge University. She lives in London.

ALSO BY ANITA BROOKNER

A Start in Life
Providence
Look at Me
Hotel du Lac
Family and Friends
A Misalliance
A Friend from England
Latecomers
Lewis Percy
Brief Lives
A Closed Eye
Fraud
Dolly
A Private View
Incidents at the Rue Laugier
Altered States
Visitors
Falling Slowly
Undue Influence
The Bay of Angels

FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, APRIL 2004

Copyright
©
2002 by Anita Brookner

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks and Vintage Contemporaries is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Random House edition as follows:
Brookner, Anita.
Making things better: a novel / Anita Brookner.
p. cm.
1. Middle-aged men—Fiction. 2. Midlife crisis—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.R5816 M35 2003
823'.914—dc21
2002069860

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eISBN: 978-0-307-42676-5

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