9

‘WHY did you tell Paul Dier about me?’ Mrs Carter asked, her face drawn and pale. ‘I have been kind to you, Robert, very kind. I thought we were friends. I loved you – as a friend loves a friend.’

Outside, the sky was darkening, filling his room with the strange green shadows that had come to Corbodéra. And in the eerie light that was so watered and sea-like, his face was thin and haggard, gleaming with sweat. On the floor was a half-filled bottle of obala, another on a chair. There were two crates under the window. The rest of the room was a shambles.

‘What did I tell him?’ he asked faintly, seizing the back of a chair.

‘–That I am an ambassador’s daughter,’ Marion replied; ‘that my father was a suicide.’ It was painful and embarrassing to look at him. ‘­–That I have never travelled, never married, but lived the whole of my life in Spain – coming only as far as Corbodéra each summer to be near my father’s grave.’

Robert turned away from her; then, hurtfully, so insultingly: ‘A psychiatrist inspires confidences. He can’t be much of a psychiatrist if he told you what I said.’

‘He did not tell me,’ Mrs Carter replied, the pain alive and pressing in her chest. ‘He told his wife – and by accident I overheard. I am not a patient of his; if he repeated it to Suzette it’s quite natural, and I understand. I don’t reproach him. But you’

‘I said nothing that was not true,’ Robert murmured, his voice now hoarse. He turned to look at her, narrowing his eyes until they were direct and deliberate, almost evil in their desire to hurt.

‘You are an ambassador’s daughter. Your father was a suicide. You have lived all of your life in Spain.’

Mrs Carter’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she mouthed a few silent words.

‘Truth,’ she said finally, her voice shaken and low, ‘is not a physical event. Not to me. Is memory more true than imagination? – the sight in your eyes more real than the dream in your heart? Robert’

She had to stop because the astonishing man was suddenly on his knees before her, begging forgiveness, his crying the kind children know, so passionate and wild that she could do nothing but stand helplessly by until the sounds from his throat had diminished to a series of broken groans and coughs, audible swallows of mucus and tears.

He was finally still, and as if nothing had happened stretched himself back on the floor, his hands beneath his head, his wet red eyes focused on the ceiling.

Mrs Carter seated herself in a chair by the window, staring at him, and was silent for a long while.

‘You have worked,’ she said presently. ‘You have worked well this summer. I have heard your machines tapping away at all hours of the night.’

‘Shall I tell you what I have written?’ Robert asked dully.

‘I would like to hear; I would very much like to hear.’

He rolled to one side, pointing to a thick yellow manuscript lying on his table.

‘How shall I describe it?’ He thought for a moment, adding with a sly, strange laugh: ‘What you see is a tome that consists mainly of the most minutely detailed descriptions of the sexual anatomy and physiology of the human male and female bodies in every conceivable state of rest and arousal, of the imagined psycho-physical pleasures of a fantastically conceptualised sexual intercourse. In short, it is a religion of sexuality, a ream of pornography so clinical and detailed that it would curl your hair where you sit should you read the very first page.’

This was indeed surprising and bewildering news.

‘If it is comic. . . ’ she ventured, not quite understanding. ‘After all, there are publishers who . . .’

She paused, ashamed of her own stupidity.

‘I see,’ she said quietly.

She was silent, looking at him stretched out on the floor, so shockingly thin, his clothes wrinkled and soiled; he had been living and sleeping in them for weeks.

‘I know of many men, many fine men who have been’ she shrugged slightly, ‘–rejected as suitors and thought the world had come to an end. Why I once had a friend – years ago – who actually . . .’

It was clear she had missed her mark. Apparently, it was the other way around, and being so, was so very much more serious. He had failed where, to him, failure was fatal.

‘I see,’ she said again, and breathed deeply. ‘­–So what is to be done? If you are going to kill yourself, there are quicker, more interesting ways to die. I am surprised and disappointed that you should have chosen obala.’ She smiled at him sadly. ‘Tonight there will be a full moon; I suggest you swim out to sea: straight out, stroke after stroke, until you are completely exhausted, and cannot lift your arms at all. . . . ’

Was it senseless to try to pique him?

‘–Shall I sit here for a while – quietly? Do you want to be with me like you were with your mother? – lying on the floor with your bottle?’

His answer was a long noisy sucking. He gulped at the obala greedily, delighting that it spilled over his chin, soaking his chest.

‘What is the difference,’ he asked wetly, ‘between a bottle and a grave?’