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Authors: Emyr Humphreys

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BOOK: The Woman at the Window
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Gisella could sense it was a mild political joke. She did not venture to ask for more explanation.

‘Fantastic view. You can see all the way from Tŷ Ddewi to Ynys Enlli. What more can a man ask for in this world?'

He made a generous gesture.

‘A complete free hand. What more could an architect wish for? Something new. Something to get your teeth into. Something important.'

Gisella held her breath, poised to rejoice and even clap her hands. She had detected a note of appeal. This was a peace offering as well as a challenge. Surely something to be welcomed with open arms? There was a tense silence while they waited for Hefin's response. He was in no hurry. His position strengthened the longer they had to wait.

‘It's a great idea.'

The tone was quiet and neutral and no more, but it allowed Gisella to relax a little and smile.

‘The trouble is I've got a pile of commitments. I'm working on an extension to Gustavo and Ernst's restaurant and a plan for a studio. And there's Gertrude Tibbot's studio unfinished. If I don't turn up on site virtually every day the craftsmen just wander off on another job. They never finish anything if they can help it. Mañana. Never in any hurry.'

‘Yes, well, when you've got your brains back, think it over. I'm not in any hurry either.'

***

Within a day or two Bryn Tanat had made himself very much at home. He managed to hire a four by four and took an interest in the history of the island. Most of the time he was in high good humour. He even apologised for being a cuckoo in the nest and added that it was just as well there were no chicks around that he would have to kick out. He was not too concerned about his son's lack of response or Gisella's slowness to catch on to his more colloquial efforts. He found Alison Loomis delightfully quick on the uptake. He paid a visit to her garden and demonstrated that in spite of his age he was just as willing as his son to lend a hand and was far more appreciative of the range of flowering shrubs and variety of fruit trees and the general beauty of the landscape.

Most mornings Bryn Tanat arose early. Gisella would find him sitting on the narrow terrace under the wisteria admiring the sunlight creeping along the water offshore changing its colour and the light and shade on the rocks. She brought him coffee and French bread and honey and he burbled something about a ‘lordly dish' and declared it was all some- thing he could very easily get used to.

His father's conspicuous content drove Hefin to an unaccustomed fury of activity. There seemed to be a hundred-and-one things demanding his instant attention. Gisella had to be pleased to see so many projects edging closer to completion. Her own work was able to proceed because Bryn Tanat insisted she should not allow his presence to distract her. He went shopping as if it were a great adventure and bought ready-made meals and bottles of wine. He continued to take the dogs for their runs into the pine forest and down to the cove where they could scramble happily over the rocks. The thing he liked about dogs he said was they treated each day as though it had never happened before. And he was feeling a bit like that himself.

‘You can see what he's up to, can't you?'

Hefin seized a chance to demand Gisella's close attention. He leaned over her as she concentrated on her translating. He spoke in a harsh whisper although there was no-one else within earshot. Gisella was unnerved by the intensity in his voice. It was something she had hoped not to hear. There had been a measured distance between father and son but a level of politeness. Within the limits of his boisterous nature, the parliamentarian was doing his best to please. Given time she had hoped for the possibility of a growing closer, a reconciliation even. It had been comforting for her to work on that assumption; at the very least to make the visit bearable; a stepping stone to better things.

‘It's second nature to him. He always uses people. Especially women. Get the female vote, he used to say, and then you're halfway there. He's trying to get at me through you. Don't you see it?'

She sighed deeply.

‘Don't you think he's changed, Hefin? A changed man, I mean.'

‘Politicians don't change. That's why we live out here, for God's sake. Self-willing egotistical bullies with elephant skins pretending they know how to run the world. Remember that bunch of them at the Tait-Willis party in South Ken? Bryn Tanat strutting about full of his own importance. In or out of office, all busy feathering their own nests. Don't you remember?'

She remembered very well. It was the turning point in their lives. Hers particularly. A moment like a religious conversion. It was from that very party they made their escape together. She abandoned her natural Swiss caution, her meticulous research work, her metropolitan opportunities and threw in her lot with this handsome young artist of simmering rebellion and infinite promise. Escaping they believed from his father's clutches and treadmill in search of a higher destiny. He was making an appeal to history, their history. He needed her. Her support. Her loyalty.

‘He has really changed.' She ventured to speak with a little more authority. ‘Politics don't appeal to him any more. He told me they tried to shunt him off to the House of Lords. He said he wasn't having any of it. The House of Lords is obsolete he said. Most of the system was out of date and useless. That's what he said.'

‘Did he?'

‘Oh yes. That's what he said.'

‘And did he tell you how many companies he has joined as a non-executive director? The great socialist accumulating capital. Did he tell you that? He's playing you like a little fish at the end of a line.'

‘I'm not quite so stupid, Hefin. Designing a house in a landscape, this is something you've always wanted. You've said so. In every detail. From start to finish.'

‘You can't see any further than your nose. All the strings attached and you can't see them.'

‘At least it's worth thinking about. Less financial pressure. Less worrying about money.'

‘Ah! So that's it!'

‘A little more freedom, Hefin. A breathing space.' 

‘What a temptation… let me spell it out for you. I build

the house and he lives in it and you live there as his housekeeper and nurse. He's making an insurance policy for his old age. Manipulating every inch of the way. And you can't see it.'

‘Suppose that is true. The need for protection and comfort in old age is a human frailty not a fault.'

She turned abruptly back to her work. That left him crosser than ever. He stamped out of the house fuming.

***

A gap had opened between them that had never existed before. Gisella had always been aware of an irrational element in Hefin's nature. She had believed it was necessary to the creative process. Now, all it seemed to be doing was fuelling his hatred for his father and she found this deeply troubling. He couldn't even bear to see Bryn Tanat enjoying himself. At the party the newcomer was a centre of attention. When there were people to listen to him, he could always find something striking to say.

‘What I like about their way of life is, it's down to essentials. I like that.'

He was talking to Frank Wilmot, an asthmatic London publisher who made his home on the island and gardened in friendly competition with their hostess. Dr Ortega, the local physician, was also listening and his wife Magda, a physiotherapist who treated Alison's arthritis.

‘Modern life has too many frills attached to it. Especially in capital cities.They set the tone. It's all instant gratification. It can't go on. The planet can't sustain this degree of exploitation and people have to learn to live on less. But will they? There's the rub.'

As if to console himself Hefin had been drinking more than usual. Gisella trembled when she heard his voice in her ear. There was no knowing what he would say.

‘Pontificating remind you of something? South Ken redivivus. He'll form a government one way or another. And we'll be attendant lords and servants. You can't see it, because you don't want to.'

His father was threatening to steal the close attention and constant care his delicate talent needed. He was turning against her because he had no other target. And yet her heart bled for him. Their way of life depended on her love. She could not dare to be disillusioned. She made her way through the library to the short flight of steps that led to the roof garden. She knew she would find Ernst there, sitting alone on the parapet edge and gazing at the constellations. The stars all seemed so close, glittering powerfully through the unpolluted air. The comet was due to arrive above the horizon. Gisella sat close to Ernst and took his hand.

‘They seem so close,' he said. ‘They could be looking down with interest. But they're not. Why should they?'

From indoors they heard singing. Gustavo was accompanying himself on the guitar. People stopped talking to listen. His warm baritone was a melting sound in the quiet evening air.

‘He's written a song for Alison's birthday,' Ernst said. ‘He's such a child really. He's never grown up.'

Gisella murmured ‘Ernst' and squeezed his hand. They were fellow sufferers from the same strange complaint. How long was an infatuation supposed to last? They wanted to go on deceiving themselves because it would be intolerable not to. Gustavo stopped singing. There was clapping and laughter and animated conversation was resumed. The volume of sound increased as the wine flowed freely. Ernst and Gisella were alone on the roof, bringing some comfort to each other.

‘I don't know why he should be like this. I can feel how distressed he is. What can I do?'

Gisella murmured her question. Ernst's answer was abrupt.

‘He's jealous.'

‘But there's no reason at all…'

‘You hold your ground,' Ernst said. ‘I tell you. He's nothing without you.'

In twos and threes the guests began to arrive on the roof and look up at the stars with a sudden solemnity as though they were arriving in a roofless church. Gustavo arrived still strumming his guitar. He was the first to catch sight of the comet as it travelled majestically across the starry sky from the east. As they watched the comet everyone fell silent and subdued, only a dog barking on a distant hillside broke the silence. The comet travelled with such effortless, awesome power, as far away from the earth as the sun, and reducing the size and significance of everything living on the planet, including themselves. Frank Wilmot murmured: ‘It's humbling'.

The silence couldn't go on for ever. As soon as people began talking Hefin seized the opportunity to capture their attention. He stood on the parapet. He was swaying dangerously.

‘I've written a poem,' he said. ‘There's no reason why you shouldn't hear it. You listen to all sorts of rubbish.'

Gisella raised her arm to restrain him. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Whatever she said would only agitate him further.

‘Visitor from Heaven's Gate! You bear a message and I can hear it. When you return in four thousand years there will be no-one here to see you. Not one soul. We will have snuffed ourselves out. The human race will drag down all the beasts and the forests and the flowers with them and all will be dispersed in the solar wind…'

He made one gesture too many, lost his balance and tumbled into the garden below, leaving behind first a stunned silence, and then screams and cries of concern and a stampede from the roof by the shortest way to the garden. They found him there, stretched out and moaning. Dr Ortega took charge. He prevented Gisella from taking the prone figure in her arms.

‘Don't move him,' he said. ‘Magda is phoning for an ambulance.'

Bryn Tanat took off his jacket and made a pillow for his son's head. He was murmuring. ‘Don't worry, lad. We'll take care of you.'

He looked at Gisella who was kneeling on the other side. 

‘We'll take care of him, won't we?'

She nodded, her face stiff with the effort of stifling a long wail. There was no telling how bad the fall had been. He just lay, between them, unable to move. He was the only one still looking at the sky. He watched the comet sail on its predestined course, incandescent, and unconcerned.

Luigi

HE counted for nothing. Less than a stray cat. It was cold among the ruined tombs where black cypresses stood stencilled against the violet sky. The Moroccan troops had used the shelled church as a latrine after ransacking the place and pressing on. They didn't bother with the heap of obsolete weapons left in the church. Luigi fingered the hand grenade under his torn cloak and stretched his mouth to try to stop his lower lip from quivering. He was eighteen. Could any of it mean anything? A starving cat crept along the edge of darkness. Yellow eyes. Malevolent reflections of the moon. The war was lost. Would he be better off dead? Dead as his noisy cousin Rodolfo, shot through the mouth while he was singing at the top of his voice standing on a truck in the middle of that Piazzale that was supposed to be deserted. Death and desertion. Death and betrayal. Was that all it amounted to? Was there nobody left to shoot?

‘Be your own man, Luigi Perone!'

BOOK: The Woman at the Window
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