Foreign Affairs (31 page)

It isn’t in Vinnie’s nature to be wildly euphoric, but today she is at the peak of her own emotional curve, even off the graph. She is happier than she has been in months—maybe even in years. Everyone and everything looks good to her: the animals, the other visitors, the graceful new-leafed trees and the damp, shining lawns of Regent’s Park. Even her cousins, whom she usually thinks of as boring, today seem only forgivably naive. She hasn’t had a visit from Fido—or even thought of him—for days. For all she knows, he has followed Chuck to Wiltshire.

As she sits alone on her bench, Vinnie not only feels happy but curiously free. She is far from Corinth University, and from the duties and constraints of the role of Spinster Professor. The demanding and defining voices of her colleagues and students and friends are stilled. Moreover, English literature, to which in early childhood she had given her deepest trust, and which for half a century has suggested what she might do, think, feel, desire, and become, has suddenly fallen silent. Now, at last, all those books have no instructions for her, no demands—because she is just too old.

In the world of classic British fiction, the one Vinnie knows best, almost the entire population is under fifty, or even under forty—as was true of the real world when the novel was invented. The few older people—especially women—who are allowed into a story are usually cast as relatives; and Vinnie is no one’s mother, daughter, or sister. People over fifty who aren’t relatives are pushed into minor parts, character parts, and are usually portrayed as comic, pathetic, or disagreeable. Occasionally one will appear in the role of tutor or guide to some young protagonist, but more often than not their advice and example are bad; their histories a warning rather than a model.

In most novels it is taken for granted that people over fifty are as set in their ways as elderly apple trees, and as permanently shaped and scarred by the years they have weathered. The literary convention is that nothing major can happen to them except through subtraction. They may be struck by lightning or pruned by the hand of man; they may grow weak or hollow; their sparse fruit may become misshapen, spotted, or sourly crabbed. They may endure these changes nobly or meanly. But they cannot, even under the best of conditions, put out new growth or burst into lush and unexpected bloom.

Even today there are disproportionately few older characters in fiction. The conventions hold, and the contemporary novelist, like an up-to-date fruit-grower, reconstructs the natural landscape, removing most of the aging trees to leave room for young saplings that haven’t yet been grafted or put down deep roots. Vinnie has accepted the convention; she has tried for years to accustom herself to the idea that the rest of her life will be a mere epilogue to what was never, it has to be admitted, a very exciting novel.

But the self, whatever its age, is subject to the usual laws of optics. However peripheral we may be in the lives of others, each of us is always a central point round which the entire world whirls in radiating perspective. And this world, Vinnie thinks now, is not English literature. It is full of people over fifty who will be around and in fairly good shape for the next quarter-century: plenty of time for adventure and change, even for heroism and transformation.

Why, after all, should Vinnie become a minor character in her own life? Why shouldn’t she imagine herself as an explorer standing on the edge of some landscape as yet unmapped by literature: interested, even excited—ready to be surprised?

Today the Zoo, her immediate landscape, is at its best. An early-afternoon shower has sluiced the dust from the still-shiny leaves and the mica-flecked paths, and has lent the air a scented freshness. It has also given Vinnie a chance to wear her new raincoat: dramatic, full-cut, of shimmery silvery-blue waterproofed silk—the sort of coat she could never have afforded to buy, and in fact hasn’t bought. In it she feels taller and better-looking, almost proud of herself.

She is proud of London too today. She rejoices in its natural and architectural beauty, the safety and cleanliness of its streets, the charm and variety of its shops; in its cultural sophistication—the educated, ironic tone of its press, its appreciation of historical tradition, its deference toward maturity, its tolerance of, even delight in, eccentricity.

Today, events that at another time would have infuriated or depressed her seem mere annoyances. The arrival in this morning’s post of the current issue of the
Atlantic
, containing a letter in praise of L. D. Zimmern’s article, hardly rippled her mood. Poor stupid Zimmern, imprisoned in ugly, dirty New York and in his own sulky spitefulness. Vinnie imagines this spitefulness as a deep cold muddy rock-pool like the one in the polar bears’ enclosure. She visualizes L. D. Zimmern as sunk in it up to his (in her imagination) pudgy chin, unable to climb out. Whenever he attempts to clamber up its slippery sides, the largest polar bear—who has now hauled himself out of the water and is lying dripping on the rocks beside the pool—places a heavy paw like a sopping-wet floor mop on his head and shoves him back down again.

Since she feels so good, and it is such a nice warm day, Vinnie refrains from actually drowning Professor Zimmern in her fantasy. It would be bad publicity for the London Zoo, such a death. Besides, it might be upsetting for the bear—and perhaps even dangerous, if the keeper discovered that his prize
Thalarctos maritimus
was a man-killer. She rather likes this particular bear. It is true that his movements are slow and rather clumsy and his coarse yellow-white fur coat none too clean; and he doesn’t look awfully intellectual. But he is satisfyingly large, and he has a humorous, sly, agreeable expression. To tell the truth, he is a little like Chuck Mumpson. She saw exactly that look on Chuck’s face when they were shopping in Harrods last week, just before he left for Wiltshire.

This expedition was the final move in Vinnie’s campaign to improve Chuck’s appearance, both for his sake and for her own. If she was to go about London with him—and evidently she was—she was determined that he shouldn’t look like a cartoon American Packaged Tourist, Western Division, especially since he really wasn’t one any longer. She didn’t try to alter his cowboy costume. That, she realized, would be almost impossible; and besides it was if anything a social advantage here. But she did gradually manage to persuade Chuck not to carry around so many maps and guide-books, and to leave his cameras and light meters at the hotel—suggesting that she could guide him, and that his constant picture-taking interfered with conversation.

Getting rid of his deplorable plastic raincoat was harder. There was no point in telling Chuck how ugly it was, she finally realized. His aesthetic sense was poorly developed; he judged even art almost wholly by its meaning rather than its looks. (Probably this was just as well for her, Vinnie thought, since it meant that her appearance had little importance for him; his appreciation of her was tactile rather than visual.)

Vinnie therefore tried a moral and connotative approach: she spoke disparagingly of the raincoat, associating it with ignorant tourists, with traveling salesmen, and with the shower curtains of cheap motels. But even when—in a fit of exasperation—she compared the garment to a male prophylactic, Chuck remained unmoved.

“Aw, come on, Vinnie,” he said, grinning. “Nothing wrong with it that I can see. Sure, maybe it’s not beautiful; but it keeps the water out real fine. Besides, it’s just about brand-new.”

“Really,” she remarked, implying doubt.

“Yeh; I bought it specially for the trip. It comes in this little plastic case, made outa the same stuff as the coat, see? You can fold the whole thing up and put it in your pocket. Great for traveling. You oughta get yourself one.”

Observing his expression of satisfaction, Vinnie had despaired. Her only hope—a faint one, considering the English climate—was that when she and Chuck went anywhere together it wouldn’t rain.

Two days later, however, Chuck came to lunch at her flat; and when he departed considerably later, with an even more satisfied expression, he left his raincoat behind. Vinnie found it lying on the carpet in a corner of the sitting room, looking like a large very dead fish. She picked it up with distaste, observing how the greenish-gray plastic managed to feel stiff and slimy at the same time. How could Chuck, who is really quite an attractive man, wear such a thing? And where could she put it until she saw him again? Certainly not in her hall closet—a mere doorless alcove—where it would be visible to anyone who came to the flat.

She lugged the dead fish into the bedroom, opened her too-small wardrobe, and shoved her clothes aside. The pretty pale dresses and skirts and blouses, all of soft, natural fibers, seemed to flinch away from the vulgar plastic companion she offered them. She put out her hand to pull them back. Then, on a sudden impulse, she dragged the coat off its hanger. She carried it back down the hall by the scruff of its neck, opened the door of her flat and then the front door, and descended the steps to the yard. There she lifted the metal lid of a trashcan and wadded the raincoat down inside beneath a green plastic bag of garbage and a stack of wet newspapers.

That’s where you belong, she told the dead fish. And if Chuck asks, I’ll say I never saw you, and he’ll assume he left you somewhere else.

As it turned out, however, Chuck did not assume this. Nor was he convinced by Vinnie’s protestations of ignorance.

“Naw. I know I left my raincoat at your place Thursday. I bet you hid it.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she said easily, smiling. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“On account of you can’t stand the thing.” Chuck grinned.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. It’s probably somewhere back at your hotel.”

“Come on, Vinnie. I left it right here, day before yesterday.” His grin widened. “You hid my raincoat; I can see it in your eyes. You can’t fool an old con like me.”

“Really, I didn’t.” Confronted with Chuck’s steady, smiling gaze, Vinnie’s voice faltered. “Not that I wouldn’t have liked to.”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced into the hall closet, then walked on into Vinnie’s bedroom and yanked open the door of the wardrobe.

“Really, Chuck,” she exclaimed, following him. “You can see it isn’t here.”

“Maybe.” He looked behind her bedroom door; then he pulled out the drawers of her chest, glanced in, and banged them shut again. “Okay, honey. A joke is a joke. Hand it over now, and I promise I won’t wear it to the theater tonight.”

“It’s not here any more. I mean, it never was.”

A loud guffaw burst from Chuck. “You swiped my raincoat,” he said. “That really beats all. A nice sweet lady professor like you. And where is it now?”

“Honestly, I didn’t—” But Vinnie was unable to sustain the pretense. “The dustmen took it away yesterday,” she said weakly. “And good riddance.”

“Great. And what am I supposed to do next time it rains?”

“Well-uh.” Vinnie realized she was flushing. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“Okay; sure.” Chuck began laughing again. “You can just do that.”

“But not the same kind,” she insisted.

“Any kind you like.” Chuck gave a final whoop of laughter, then folded Vinnie in a generous hug.

As she accepted and then, relaxing, returned Chuck’s embrace, Vinnie said to herself that of course he wasn’t serious. He would, she hoped, take her advice on the purchase of a new raincoat. But he would hardly expect her to pay for it—or at least, to be fair, he wouldn’t expect her to pay more than the cost of the dead fish.

These were still her assumptions the following day in Harrods, when Chuck removed the very expensive trenchcoat she’d said she liked best and told the sales clerk that it would do fine.

“Shall I wrap it for you, sir?”

“No thanks, sir,” Chuck returned. “I’ll wear it. And the lady will pay,” he added. Then he stood there calmly, grinning, while Vinnie helplessly allowed nearly a hundred pounds to be charged to her Barclaycard, wondering meanwhile what on earth the man must think. That Chuck’s some sort of kept man, perhaps, she decided, signing the receipt as if under a bad spell. Or perhaps that I’m his bossy, money-managing wife. She hardly knew which would be worse.

But she couldn’t get up her nerve to protest; after all, she’d brought this on herself. Besides, if you added up all the lunches and dinners and theater tickets Chuck had bought her, she was probably still ahead. Nevertheless she felt tricked, cheated; she remembered that Chuck Mumpson was a former juvenile delinquent—an old con, as he put it.

“Wal, thanks a lot,” he said—to her or to the sales clerk? It was ambiguous—offering Vinnie his arm, which she pretended not to see. She was struggling to frame a graceful request for at least partial repayment, a tactful way of saying that it was all a good joke, of course, wasn’t it, but now . . . But no words came to her.

“I’m real glad we came here,” said Chuck as they waited for the elevator. “This is a damn good-looking coat, huh?”

“Yes,” Vinnie agreed helplessly.

“And you’re a real good sport, too.” Chuck grinned; it was at this moment that, clad in his new pale-tan Burberry, that he most resembled the polar bear. “The way you signed that receipt! Not a squeak out of you!”

“No,” Vinnie squeaked, smiling uncomfortably.

“Okay, we’re quits. Now I’ll buy you one.’”

“Me? But I don’t need a raincoat.”

“Sure you do.”

She protested, but Chuck was determined. “You want to make me feel like a creep, a moocher, a traveling salesman, is that it?”

“No, of course not,” Vinnie said; and the result was the coat she’s wearing now, with its romantic gathered hood and designer label—the most beautiful garment she’s owned in years.

Vinnie’s raincoat isn’t the only surprising thing Chuck has given her. He has turned out to be wonderful in bed; so wonderful that Vinnie had broken her promise to herself and allowed—no, rather welcomed—him back once, twice, three times—almost every day until he left for Wiltshire again. And to think that if it hadn’t been for Posy Billings’ watercress-and-avocado soup, she might never have known . . .