Midsummer Night in the Workhouse Page 11

  There had been a great quarrel before she started on this holiday alone and she had hoped that now Neville would say that she had gone too far, and mean it. At the beginning she used to think: If only, when I am beastly, he would beat me; but now for several years she had thought further than that, she had thought: Oh why won’t he make up his mind to throw me out? But he would not be unfair or unkind or unfaithful, he would only go on being the nice unhappy man she should never have married, and seeing from the short letter that this time, too, he was crying for her, she had spent an almost sleepless night in Ljubljana having sober thoughts. After all, she had thought, I would miss the house, it would prob- ably be more difficult than I think to have no money, our friends are nice. I can do more, she had thought – take up painting again, perhaps. But chiefly she had thought: It is all my fault and anyway we are getting older, surely as the years go by I will mind less and less. Think of all the little boys and girls who haven’t got any lovely rice pudding . . . lucky little bastards, thought Rose, as always, but there was something in it, she supposed. And so she sat in the train very sadly and when the American daughter asked the father if they were near the frontier yet, Rose, to her horror, nearly began to cry. Oh if only the train were going the other way!

  In the corridor outside this compartment stood one Greek doctor. He felt less important than some of the others and had been too polite to grab a seat but he looked sadly sometimes at the seat beside Rose on which the American suitcases were piled. No wonder, because it was to be a long journey. At first Rose had thought the cases were his and were to keep him a place while he took the air in the corridor by choice. But now, when her thoughts drove her out to stand in the corridor herself for a change and she found how well the Greek doctor spoke French and English, she learnt that it was not his baggage, no, but the right-thinking Americans’.

  When she looked at them then she became almost alarmed and so did the Greek, they were so alike, father, mother and daughter, all three square and clean and conscious of their rightness. They were not people who would do such a thing and yet they had, it was against nature. Angry she said: ‘No, they must not, it is too bad’; then loudly to the Greek: ‘Why I thought that was your seat, have you not got one? Why did you not say before and we would have put these cases in the corridor.’ So the American father had no alternative, and after that it seemed cooler in the compartment.

  So Rose and the Greek doctor sat side by side and his name was Paul. He was short but not too fat and although most of his hair was grey his eyebrows were black. He had a friendly face, thought Rose, and how delightful that he was eager to talk.

  ‘I am not really concerned with health in industry,’ he said, ‘only some of my research touches on it and I have written papers which have been published in London even, and Paris.’ He was proud of these papers, he brought them in soon, and Rose thought that probably this was the first international conference to which he had ever been invited. ‘I envy you your profession,’ said Rose.

  ‘It is an interesting life,’ said Paul, ‘but what I would like to do best is to be a painter.’

  ‘And do you ever paint?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘one year I painted all the summer, the first summer I discovered this wish. I painted and neglected my work until my wife grew anxious. But I have two children, the responsibility is great, so now I must paint only at weekends.’

  ‘I sometimes paint too,’ said Rose, and when he was most interested to hear this and questioned her about it, she hoped that he would never come to London and ask to see the few bad paintings she had once done. But as she talked of them and they sounded good it occurred to her that his, which also sounded good, might be just as bad.

  So they talked, Paul and Rose, about painting; and both if they had been forced to choose only one painter would have chosen Renoir. This was because they had been much in the sun in Yugoslavia, drinking wine and eating fruit. Also both if they had been forced to choose only one composer would have chosen at this moment Schubert, though at many other times they would have chosen Bach. They turned towards each other smiling, each so pleased to find a com- panion for this long journey, and Rose especially pleased because not only was he ready to talk but she liked him and there could be no tiresomeness, the train was carrying her along and besides he spoke so freely and fondly of his wife and children. Until he gets off at Milan, she thought, I will try to keep him by me. Sometimes they spoke in French instead of English to show themselves superior to the Americans who could not, and sometimes they were kind to the Rumanian but he was nervous, going for the first time out of his country to a youth congress, also he had a headache. The three Americans appeared not to listen but sometimes they smiled a little tightly.

  The journey went on through the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon, by the sea or not, until they looked at watches and saw that soon the train would stop at Venice.

  ‘Have you visited Venice?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Only once and then only for three days. It is the tragedy of my life.’

  ‘And that too is like me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Only once and only for three days, and now we shall be in Venice but only for twenty minutes and only in the station.’

  The Americans were getting out at Venice, they were taking the opportunity, and now the father spoke to Rose: ‘That is too bad, from the station you can’t even see any- thing.’

  The train began to make a different noise, it was coming onto the long thin causeway and water began to be on either side.

  ‘This is silly,’ said Rose, ‘to be in Venice and not to be in Venice.’ And she was silent, feeling how silly it was, Venice no more than big letters on a station sign and tomorrow Neville on the platform not caring in the least about her holiday, only anxious to begin again at once on how could she. When she next spoke it was abrupt: ‘I think I shall get out,’ she said.

  ‘We are only here for twenty minutes,’ said Paul.

  ‘Right out. With my luggage. And take another train tomorrow. I can send a telegram saying unavoidably delayed.’ Saying this Rose began to tremble with excitement, she wanted so much to do it; and looking at Paul as she spoke she surprised in her mind the words (quickly brushed away) ‘Now will he do it too?’ Perhaps it was only the way the American mother refrained from catching her daughter’s eye that signalled the presence of those words in the compartment.

  And Paul was excited too. ‘You are right,’ he said, ‘you are quite right, that is what should be done, we do not do these things in life often enough. But I have people meeting me in Milan, it is official.’

  ‘Poor you,’ she said warmly, ‘what a shame.’ And she realised that she might feel a little forlorn, all alone in Venice, no one to have dinner with, even.

  ‘I could send a telegram?’ he said.

  ‘Oh but should you, if it is official?’ she said carefully, not looking at the American mother.

  ‘And it is Sunday,’ he said in despair. ‘Their office will be shut.’

  ‘It would never do,’ said Rose. ‘If they did not get your telegram and came to meet you, how rude they would think you.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ he asked, turning right round to her.

  ‘You must think what you would feel about it if you were them.’

  ‘I should think I was most rude.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ she said; and was surprised that her heart sank.

  ‘But I could telephone the director’s house?’ he questioned.

  ‘No no,’ she laughed, ‘you must not make me responsible for this wildness.’

  ‘I shall telephone,’ he said to them all. The Americans were busy with luggage and did not smile.

  How sunny was the platform at Venice and how solid after the train, and also how strange the two of them together, walking not sitting. Many of the doctors were getting off the train, they were ta
king the opportunity, and although they were anxious about porters Paul called to them: ‘Look, I have changed my mind, it is an impulse.’ They smiled and looked at Rose and an old doctor with a beard smiled even more, but kindly. The Americans had disappeared.

  ‘To telephone,’ said Paul, clapping his hands, ‘that must be first. If you will excuse me I will do it now and meet you on the steps outside the station.’

  ‘And I,’ she said, ‘will change a traveller’s cheque because I have no money left, not a cent,’ and this was true. So she went alone through marble halls to where it said Exchange and when she got there the lady in glasses behind the counter said: ‘What is this? I cannot change this cheque.’

  ‘Why, what is wrong?’ cried Rose. ‘These are ordinary cheques from my bank, I have used them in Yugoslavia for three weeks.’

  ‘In Yugoslavia I do not know, but here you cannot. They are good cheques but there is nothing stamped here on the back, the bank has forgotten. You cannot change them here.’

  ‘Then where can I change them?’

  ‘You cannot,’ said the lady.

  ‘But this is absurd, I must, I have no money.’

  ‘Perhaps at Thomas Cook’s,’ said the bored lady.

  So Rose went out on the steps and hardly noticed the Grand Canal. A pretty pickle, she thought, what will he suppose? Perhaps I am to be punished – but the sun beat down and rippled off water onto faded brick, so she quickly thought: At Thomas Cook’s it will be all right, it must be. And she began to look about her, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright although she did not know it.

  At once a man came to her, wearing a smart uniform and a cap with Danieli written on it.

  ‘Thank you no,’ said Rose, smiling. ‘I am looking for a cheap hotel, two single bedrooms in a cheap hotel.’ Yes, she thought, there can be no question about that: two single bed- rooms. At that moment here came Paul breathless, the telephone booths were all engaged, would she mind if he were a few minutes more? No, she would not mind, she would try to find a room for him as well as for herself.

  ‘You are with the gentleman?’ asked the man from the Danieli.

  ‘We have been in the same train.’

  ‘There are no single rooms in Venice,’ he replied, ‘no single rooms at all,’ and he turned to three friends all in hotel uniforms and they answered no, no single rooms at all.

  ‘Then two double rooms,’ she said, ‘but it must be in a cheap hotel.’

  ‘That is a waste of money,’ said one man. ‘Why two double rooms, why not one double room?’

  All the men were grinning, it was a small persecution, but the sun beat down and rippled off water and Rose felt far away and safe. To say, she thought, that we are not married will make them grin worse, so she said in Italian, slowly and carefully: ‘Because the gentleman and I are not in love.’

  At this the men laughed aloud but became friendly, and Danieli shouted to another man, a thin man with no uniform but the cap: ‘Nazionale,’ shouted Danieli, ‘you have two single rooms?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nazionale, ‘yes, the last two in Venice.’

  ‘How much?’ she asked, and the price was not too high.

  Then Rose sat on her suitcase in the sun and talked to the men, now serious, about the tourist season and the Biennale. Only for one night, she thought vaguely, and I shall pay for it when I get home. But her dreamy feeling of elation was not, perhaps, quite in keeping with the sober thought.

  When Paul came they went to their hotel nearby, up to their rooms (not at all bad), washed, changed and met politely in the hall.

  ‘One thing,’ said Rose, ‘it is a bore, I must go to Thomas Cook’s,’ and she told her tale. ‘Shall I meet you somewhere later?’ she asked to make her independence clear, but he said no, he would come with her. So together they went in a vaporetto down the Grand Canal and began to laugh, but Rose was not quite easy about those cheques. And at Thomas Cook’s it was worse because that lady in the glasses had been right, it was impossible to change the cheques. Such argument, such rage and pleading, but all they said was: ‘The British Consul, maybe he will lend you money but it is Sunday, he will not be there.’

  ‘Oh what shall I do?’ said Rose. ‘I am so sorry, it is a scandal, my bank is mad.’

  ‘Yes, it is a very bad scandal,’ said Paul. ‘You must be very angry with your bank when you are at home, even take away your account, but for now do not worry for I have some dollars and I will lend them to you.’ He said it in a way at once reassuring, he believed her and that she would pay him back, he would not think of it as a claim on her, but still she went on to make him certain, managing to blush and even almost to cry, although she found it hard to blush when she was guiltless and all was turning out so well.

  In the Piazza San Marco they sat, and then in the Piazzetta, ate ices, drank coffee and Cinzano, threw grain to birds, strolled here, strolled there, too happy to be there to look further. Rose had quite stopped thinking. Like skaters the screaming swifts sliced and sliced at the air growing lavender- coloured, the pale moon floated up, quite round: ‘Look, even a full moon for us, it is too much.’

  Painting they talked of again, and Greece (he forgave her Cyprus and she gave it him), and something of the people round them and much of Paul’s life. Rose did not wish to talk of hers and need not have worried, she did not get the chance. Paul’s wife, he said, was born Italian, in the war he had suffered for this, he had suffered more than any other Greek, he said, in so many words.

  ‘And your wife too?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said, surprised. ‘It was not her fault, she is a good woman, but for me it was terrible.’

  More than any other Greek? wondered Rose, and found by questioning that in the war nothing much had happened to him but this suffering, which was a relief but how strange that it should be so bad. Bad it was, no doubt, and even dangerous; but more than any other Greek? No, it was strange. And Rose gazed at Paul in admiration, she began to see that he was not just a friendly well-informed man with plenty to talk about; he was a different kind of man, unlike those she knew. He loved himself without trouble and had never thought, it seemed, that he should not.

  Then Paul went on to tell of his other suffering, his great great love which, when his wife discovered it he had to sacrifice, it nearly killed him. After that he knew that if he were not a good husband he was still, he always would be, a good chef de famille, it was for that he had given up his love. But because of it he now had a bad heart, yes, a really bad heart physically, and grief, he knew, had done it. Placing his hand on his ribs he said his colleagues told him (and he knew it himself) that if he were not careful all the time he would fall down dead. Goodness, thought Rose. Her eyes grew brighter as she gazed at him, she was so enchanted by this heart. Now that is doing it in style, she thought, and the more she nearly giggled the more she was enchanted.

  Where to dine? they wondered, neither of them knew, but here came the old doctor with a beard, most genial after early dinner. ‘Aha,’ he said, ‘you must go to my little place across the Rialto Bridge,’ and he described. ‘You will like it there,’ he said, and he was right. A street, an alley, a small bridge, steps, another alley becoming a passage – and can this be it, this door? It has no sign. ‘Come, let us be brave and push.’ Paul went ahead, the door opened into kitchen steam and garlic; this way, through here, and there was a little garden with high walls round it, vine trellis above, a window in one wall with the arches of the fish market beyond. It was a most delicious dinner and Paul ate, but Rose had begun to feel sick, she could not eat.

  At dinner, when in arguing she made a wide gesture, Paul caught her hand and held it on the table, it was the first touch; but, thought Rose, how terrible if this sickness is not just tiredness and excitement but something I ate in Ljubljana. For fear it might be, and it was growing strong, she quickly agreed whe
n he urged: ‘Shall we go?’ She wished to do many things in Venice that night, to wander in many places, hardly to sleep, but so strong was the sickness growing that when he said: ‘You are tired, such a long journey, it is best we go back to the hotel,’ when he said that: Yes, she thought, and the sooner the better, how mortifying.

  ‘I love to go down these dark alleys,’ said Paul, ‘let us go down this one,’ and his arm was across her shoulders. In the darkness he kissed her neck for she turned away her face thinking: It would be less terrible here in a very dark alley than in a light one, but better in the hotel. ‘I really am tired,’ said Rose, not moving her lips much, ‘I would like to go back.’ On the vaporetto she stood close to the rail to be safe, Paul against her (the crowd pressure an excuse). Now this would be shame and horror, thought Rose, but nothing happened quite.