Altered States (20 page)

‘
Et là-bas
,’ he said reverently, ‘
vous avez la France.
’

The brochure also told me that the region had been popular with English visitors since Queen Victoria had spent a few days at the Hôtel de France in the company of her eldest daughter. This seemed appropriate. Although I had only been there a couple of hours I detected a certain womanishness in the ecclesiastical calm of Monsieur Pach, the brooding care with which my soup was served by an elderly waiter. I felt amused and exasperated: was this what Aubrey thought I was good for? I went up to bed feeling larger than usual, feeling my muscles tense once more. I would walk, I would run, I would return to remind them that I was not yet to be written off. Naturally I slept well that night; sleep was not the problem. But I slightly dreaded the morning and the day
before me, when I would feel the full weight of my leisure, or of my penance, which ever it was to be.

There were very few people about. That there were any people at all was attested by the thwack of balls from the tennis courts of the Hôtel de France, further down the valley. The sound, which carried easily in the still air, woke me at eight most mornings. Later, when I took a walk to the neighbouring village of Chelles, I saw a small crowd of old men gathered round a gigantic chess set on the pavement outside a café. Such people who played these games seemed mild, harmless, self-absorbed, not of a kind to pay much attention to a casual visitor. There were few distractions; that is to say there were none. I saw few people until the evening, when I went down to dinner in the hotel restaurant. Even there the most distinctive sounds were of soup spoons on plates or the mild gurgle of Apollinaris being poured from a bottle. My fellow guests were two elderly German women, a very stout man seated, as I was, at a table for one, and a husband and wife whose very gestures proclaimed them to be English. They nodded and smiled as they passed me, but otherwise ignored me, for which I was grateful. After dinner, my eyelids already heavy, I was obliged to go up to my room, which was comfortable but austere. I might return to the bar for a nightcap, but the bar, although staffed by a young man in a correct white jacket, was deserted, and I began to feel self-conscious there.

The days were easier. There was the walk to Chelles, slightly uphill, or the walk downhill into Vif. There was lunch at one of the two or three restaurants, the return to the hotel for a coffee on the glassed-in terrace, then the walk back to Vif for the English papers which arrived on the afternoon train from Geneva. These would take care of that awkward interval before dinner, or at least until it was time to take my bath. I bathed twice a day; it seemed foolish not to, with so
much time at my disposal. Then there was dinner, prefaced by nods and smiles, and at the end of these long days there was blessed sleep. I was sometimes already dozing when Brian rang, and could hardly summon up the energy for an intelligent conversation. This worried him, so that he would ring again on the following evening. Hazily I would assure him that I was fine, much better. I said this entirely for his sake. What insight I had told me that I was very sad, more sad than a man of my age had a right to be. But at the same time I felt a renewed strength in my body, my legs stronger from the walking, the skin of my face taut from the keen air. I was forced to the conclusion that Aubrey’s idea had been an enlightened one. My rest would do us all good, even Brian, who was trying so hard not to mention his son, on whom he doted, although Felicity did so without compunction when she came on the line. I was grateful to them both, to Brian for his delicacy, to Felicity for her lack of subterfuge.

I became an out-of-season inhabitant. ‘Out of season’ exactly describes my state of mind which was blessedly vacant. I could spend half an hour leaning on a wicket gate overlooking a meadow, without anyone noticing that I was there. Or I would stroll down to the Hôtel de France and simply contemplate the chandeliers twinkling through the huge plate-glass windows. I spoke to no one, and in this way may have appeared quite rude to the English couple, the Hobsons, also staying at the hotel. They at last approached me, and I was mildly grateful to them, but as I learned that they had met in this place some forty years ago, and that they came back every year on their wedding anniversary, I smiled pleasantly and offered no information in return. Finally, disconcerted by my reticence, the worried-looking Mrs Hobson, who did not appear to be greatly enjoying this annual pilgrimage, asked me if I were married. ‘My wife died,’ I said briefly, offering no explanation. In that moment
it appeared to me that all I had to do was to proffer this simple statement of fact, both to those who enquired and to myself. Angela retreated, became Angela no longer but a girl I used to know and whom I was beginning to lay to rest. After my brief confession the Hobsons left me alone, as if affronted by my introducing a note of mortality into their holiday, which they were obliged to celebrate sentimentally, as if they had just met. This meant that they had to stay together, although Mr Hobson was allowed to read his day-old copy of the
Daily Telegraph
on the terrace, during which time his wife would scan the driveway and wait for him to finish amusing himself. They would go for a walk occasionally: I might run into them in the town. When I did so I wished them good-morning with a jovial smile, which to them might have appeared misplaced. But I had done with playing the widower; I was still young enough to feel the energy in my healthy body and to appreciate, as a thing which would vanish overnight, my tiredness at the end of the day.

But I slept voraciously, although more dreams intruded into my sleep than heretofore. They seemed to replicate each other, so that night after night I walked down an endless street, looking for an address, which I knew I must find, since my life depended on it. This walk, attended by great anxiety, led me through various London boroughs which I knew were not contiguous, and encompassed Clapham, Putney and Highgate. On the way I invaded several buildings where orchestras were in rehearsal. I asked directions of the young musicians, explained that I did not know the number of the house for which I was searching. They indicated a street that ran past factories and youth hostels, until at last I stumbled across a small cul-de-sac of pretty houses, on the door of one of which was emblazoned, in full letters, the number: Seventeen. I woke with a feeling of immense
relief, not knowing what the dream meant, but with some sort of vague assurance that an answer to my predicament could be found, in the same mysterious and quasi-magical fashion.

On Sunday the hotel filled up. Families ate lunch in the dining-room, as some sort of treat or ritual. They were polite, spoke in lowered tones, the children silent and well behaved. I found that I could view these children with indulgence. I silently gave thanks, either to fate or to the deity in whom I did not believe, that I could still appreciate children, that I was not about to become squeamish or misogynistic. I began to plan treats for Brian’s son, Adam, promised myself that I would look for toys for him, buy him the finest bear that the Swiss shops had to offer. I was dimly aware that solitude was making me sentimental. I thought, but cautiously, of friends and family at home, and of the moment when I should have to return to them. The families in the dining-room got up to leave, the wives slightly flushed, the husbands graceless but benign, the process of digestion comfortably under way. I imagined them going home to their spotless houses, to watch television, or to sleep. They would have been to church in the morning, have walked up to the hotel for an aperitif. I imagined this ritual being played out Sunday after Sunday. I half rose from my seat and nodded goodbye as they passed my table. They smiled back. Home, I thought; they are going home. I was already impatient for the ending of the day.

The second week passed more slowly than the first, though that had passed slowly enough. I still appreciated the gift of anonymity, though at times I began to long for company. I did not wish for the sort of company I had always enjoyed; in fact I shied away from it. Since I was in no way a fantasist it did not occur to me to envisage an ideal companion. Rather, I was aware of my unaccompanied state as
anomalous, although I had endured it well enough, had even found it amusing, in a role-playing sort of way. I saw myself from the outside, a very English figure, suitably dressed in a raincoat and walking shoes, a meaningless and all-purpose smile on my face. The natives, mild-mannered and reflective people, seemed to find this acceptable, since they recognised me as a tourist of the docile variety, one who was not likely to disturb the profound peace in which they lived. I found a bookshop and bought some paperbacks, but I did not yet have the patience for reading, and sitting in the hotel, either in my room or on the terrace, made me nervous and too conscious of the weight of the quiet day. I preferred to keep on my feet, until I knew much of the surrounding countryside by heart. There was always that lowering of the spirits when the light faded, when I thought of the busier streets of London, even of my empty flat, with something like longing. But I was determined to sit out the two weeks, if only to make my re-entry into normal life acceptable to others. Those others—Mother, Aubrey, Brian, Felicity, even Jenny—had begun to retreat from me. They represented an enormous debt which I should eventually have to repay. I would sigh at this point, as I registered the paucity of my resources, and get up to walk yet again into town for the English papers.

At last it was Sunday, and my bag was packed soon after breakfast. The monk-like Monsieur Pach, for whose discretion I was extremely grateful, ordered my cab and wished me a pleasant journey. I said goodbye to the Hobsons, shook the hand of the stout man, whose name I had never learned, and waited in the foyer with the German ladies who were also leaving. Through the windows of the car the landscape, so familiar, already seemed strange, distant. The train travelled silently through stations whose names I could barely remember, and the airport, when I arrived, seemed like a glittering
outpost of civilisation, transplanted to a region of strange customs and manners, remote, closed, impenetrable from the outside, inhabited by pacifists. The noise, which was muted, struck me as exorbitant. I reflected that I was now allowed to eat and drink anywhere I liked, sat down and had a
pain au chocolat
for my lunch, as if I were on leave from school, and eventually boarded the plane with something like alacrity. Everyone on the flight seemed in good health; no one claimed my attention. Without noticing, I relaxed into my former role, no longer a solitary walker, a man in every sense out of season, but a London solicitor, with attachments, with a history, but a history which no longer threatened to do me harm.

Aubrey was there to meet me at Heathrow. I thought that was decent of him, though I knew that Mother was behind it. He told me that they were expecting me for supper. In the car we were silent.

‘How was it?’ he said finally.

‘Not bad,’ I replied. ‘Pleasant place. Rather a good idea of yours.’ Depression was finally making its expected inroads as we drove into London. There was a further silence.

‘And how are you?’

I thought about this, obstinately unwilling to give him a reassuring answer.

‘Loveless,’ I said.

‘ “
Personne ne m’aime, et je ne m’en plains pas. Je suis trop juste pour cela.
” ’

‘What?’ I asked him, startled.

‘One of those marvellous eighteenth-century women, I forget which one. Madame du Deffand, no doubt. She blamed no one for not loving her, said she was too—what is it?—Just? Fair? for that.’

I was deeply shocked. My guilt was to be re-established, it seemed. Yet I too was too just to deny it.

‘Of course people love you,’ he added, a little too late. ‘Alice loves you. I love you.’

But I knew that he had been thinking up his quotation, and waiting for the moment when he could get me alone in order to deliver it. I said nothing, hoping that my silence would rebuke him. Maybe it did. There was no further exchange until we reached Cadogan Gate.

As we sat in the dining-room, eating ham and salad, Wensleydale and apple tart, it seemed as if the past few years had never taken place, or it would have done had it not been for Aubrey’s reservations. This person was now my mother’s husband, towards whom I was bound to be deferential, if only for my mother’s sake. She looked tired, older. Aubrey, no doubt communing in spirit with various marvellous eighteenth-century women, made civilised conversation, mostly about his travels, and his memories of Vif. Had it not been for this the atmosphere might have been rather strained. He had his uses, I reflected, and Mother, even if tired, was cared for. They had discussed me in my absence, I realised, may even have disagreed, perhaps painfully. This would have grieved my mother, but she was too loyal to show it. Her loyalties were now divided, and she clearly found this difficult. I therefore played my part, and in the end I think she was even surprised by my levity, although she would guess the reasons that prompted it.

After dinner conversation became desultory, until, pleading tiredness, I asked them to excuse me. I did this as much for their sake as for mine. In the hall Mother disappeared, then reappeared with a shopping bag containing a loaf, a grapefruit, a pint of milk, a packet of butter, and a tin of coffee. ‘Aubrey went out specially this morning,’ she said, but without her usual loving smile. So he was kind, I reflected, even if his kindness was eternally subjected to his critical judgement. I thanked him profusely and left, promising to
telephone. In the street, as silent as ever, I felt as if I had left home for good. But perhaps leaving home was what it was all about, this new feeling of vulnerability, as if the former protection had been removed. Perhaps all I had ever done, all anyone does, is to leave home, to experiment with life on one’s own, without markers. My past experiences now appeared to me as one vast divagation, a series of inevitable mistakes. Too little is known at the outset, when others do one’s thinking for one. I had simply failed, as others no doubt fail, when the fledgling judgement proves inadequate to the trials one encounters. Maybe death, when it comes, is simply another longing for home. As, despite my bag, I walked across the park, Cadogan Gate receded, not only in distance, but in memory, like the home I should perhaps never have left, in order to protect others as well as myself.