The pavement seemed oddly empty. No Germans. They had gone home, or they had gone into the town for a massive pot of sauerkraut, which is the Strasbourg cure to most ailments, and nearly all frustrations.
She had almost no distance to go. Two minutes’ walk, to the corner of the Boulevard de la Victoire. The University is all around one here, and a week or so before the start of an academic year, there were students everywhere. Looking thoughtful: well they might.
Turn left; less than a minute to the busy crossroad of the Boulevard de la Marne, and the Esplanade. The ‘real’ world, the ‘true’ world of commerce, haste, greed. Cars streamed past glued to each other’s tails, all in a hell of a hurry from where, towards where. When the lights changed she ran across quickly, knowing from experience one had better. People in cars don’t like people afoot. What business has anyone being afoot? Such folk are layabouts, parasites, and whatever they’re doing, they’re up to no good. Another minute, along the peaceful backwater of the Rue Vauban, only leading to the Anvers bridge, and the Port du Rhin quarter; which one would prefer to avoid, on the whole.
There are two or three side-streets. It is an out-of-the-way corner of Strasbourg, and a dingy one. Most of the houses seem to be let in rooms to students, probably because nobody else would want to live there. And here lived, or rather perched, Xavier, whom she had promised to Think About, and she wondered what she was going to say to him. But …
Arlette was having an obscure, but surprisingly strong, feeling of being watched. She’d had it all the way. She was being followed. Not at all far; true. Still, at every corner a compulsion to turn around and look carefully about her. All passers-by seemed to be pottering upon banal and innocent pursuits. Was this alarmingly sharp sensation thus irrational? It would appear so. In Arlette-logic, it should be given weight accordingly: she had learned to distrust reason and pay close heed to instinct.
Certainly reason was no help at all, because who the hell could have any use for following her? No Germans or press people. She reviewed in her mind all the people she’d met recently. The only person she could find that seemed remotely likely was Sergeant Subleyras, and that likelihood, based on the supposition that the police did sometimes follow people, and perhaps skilfully enough sometimes not to be clumsy and obvious, was surely precious remote. She had, though, learned a lot over the past year of how devious people can be. The world, which is as simple as E=mc2, is as complicated as Henry James could make it. A great pest, said Arthur, but this is what gives us a living.
The house was very dark, and the minuting of electricity so nicely adjusted that you were plunged into pitchy blackness as you opened the lift door, whereupon the light in the lift went out too, leaving you liable to be mugged, raped, and left in a huddled heap. Arlette searched crossly in her bag for a lighter. Since her bag as usual was stuffed with treasures which men – ha ha – called rubbish, and since a lighter, like a key, a pen, or anything else one wants in a hurry, is adept at hiding, she stayed in the dark long enough to get frightened. Suppose the follower were creeping soft-soled up the fire stairs … She cursed this idiotic performance, found the lighter; the lighter found her the electricity switch for the passage; the current lasted just long enough for her to find the number of Xavier’s door and went out. It was that kind of building, She found the bell-push with her finger, and pressed it. Xavier opened the door, shed light on everything, and was confused at finding her looking put-out. His profuse apologies put her much further out: she swallowed her malcontent.
The ‘studio’ was fairly large, which meant old: they have shrunk steadily in size as the years have gone by. Light, because the window was large, even though the street was both dingy and narrow. Neat, although there was too much furniture; consequence of having had a much larger flat. Clean, because Xavier had made a special effort. He had learned, and doubtless painfully, the arts of living alone in a studio flat, and how very difficult it is to get fresh vegetables, after once eating cabbage three days running and still having to throw half away. He’d never had a broom in his hand, or known what eau-de-javel is used for. There is nothing more helpless than the bourgeois male deprived of that necessary adjunct, the bourgeois female, who is so much tougher than he is.
It was what Arlette had come to see. She felt heartened; Xavier had had that much resource. He was very stiff and pompous, and pathetically glad to see her.
She wanted to finish with him quickly. This was not only from unworthy motives of feeling unable to charge him anything: self-respect would make him insist on paying her for her time. Collecting lame ducks wasn’t the thing: had she needed the lesson her years doing physiotherapy had taught her. She wasn’t a psychiatrist; nor was she a soup-kitchen. In order to be helped, people must help themselves. He mustn’t depend upon her: he’d be falling in love with her or something, which would be most unsuitable.
So drinking coffee, and not about to jump-up-to-help with cups and stuff, she did her best to be pithy.
“What did you say?” asked Arthur at suppertime that evening.
“If I’d been talking to you – English bourgeois man of literary leanings – I’d have said go read Little Dorrit – all about society.”
“Shaw said that after reading it, one could be nothing but a socialist; which is perfectly true.”
“He’s in the same position as Arthur Clennam.”
“And if he doesn’t meet a little Dorrit, who are after all sadly rare.”
“But he’s likelier to meet the man who is so skilful with his hands, but know nothing of business or formfilling or administration – they’re not so rare.”
“Daniel Doyce – well, you give him good advice. Will he be able to follow it? Flexible enough, enough sap in him? Will he bend, or break?”
“He’s a classic, isn’t he, and they’re often a wet mess, and one can’t tell. I suppose he’s likely to remain a wet mess whatever happens and whatever I say. One has known so many like that. Monasteries are always full of them; they incline to religion. Or Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“There should be a Businessmen Anonymous. I think in Paris at least there is, existing to help bewildered ex-executives exist. To coin a phrase.”
“I’ve a nasty feeling I haven’t heard the end of him. One should get them to go and read Carlos Castaneda – Don Juan has such very good advice for them. Too dangerous though; they’re far too fatally inclined as it is to topple over into Transcendental Meditation.” She had cooked a large and successful supper, to make up for the soft-boiled egg at lunch, to make up for the cup of coffee Xavier had given her, and the rather small sympathy she’d given him. She felt a good deal better.
She had come home, in fact, much depressed. Luckily Arthur had felt that a half day’s work was not better than none at all; was in fact rather worse; had come home early too; had done some shopping; was in a cookery mood. Why don’t we both do it? – something nice and long and complex? Now while we’re at it, why don’t you tell about all these mysterious errands you’ve been upon?
“Such a boring story,” wailed Mrs Davidson. “Or rather, about ten boring stories. All those failures.”
“Now come on. You’re supposed to be building up. Motivating yourself. Winding your spring. Whatever they call it.”
“I’m getting more and more frustrated. All these people and nothing whatever I can do about it. There was the little man who disappeared in the Rhine. That man over on the coast who did away with Rebecca – you were drunkenly facetious and I was very greatly vexed. Since we’ve been home, barely two days: that poor wretch I was too late to stop killing herself. The woman whose son was killed. These silly Germans and that poor limp boy telling himself stories about his heroic father. This drink of water, Xavier.”
“Come on; you’re not doing yourself justice. The girl who, the woman who, the drink-of-water who, you’re talking as though they were all dead. Like actors one hears complaining about those awful fish faces in the front row: without them, they wouldn’t be functioning at all; they wouldn’t even be alive. Same with you. Without all these people, you wouldn’t be getting anywhere with Xavier. You told him to act like a man for once in his life and that’s excellent advice. Been plenty of times in my own life when I stood gravely in need of it. This is a lot of grit, no doubt, but you’re like a hen’s digestion, you don’t work properly without grit. If you’re going to be any use to Madame Bartholdi or Xavier, or Subleyras, you’ve got to accept a high percentage of failure.”
“Subleyras – marvellous man I thought then – beset by doubts, now.”
“If you weren’t beset by doubt, you’d be another self-satisfied prick like our President.”
“I do realize,” still in a tearful tone, “but, it’s all one thing after another.”
“Odtaa,” said Arthur comfortably, “good old English expression that. Title likewise of delightful book to which I am much attached – I wonder whether that would find a reader, now. Have a drink – those wretched Germans tired you.”
“I had much too much, already this morning.”
“Then have some more,” said Arthur sensibly, and went down to the cellar for a bottle of bulls’ blood. One was in need of a transfusion, he said.
Arlette was looking desolately at the television. There was some governmental propaganda going on about Industrial Accidents. We must have Fewer: illustrated by white-faced woman being told that her man has just had an unhappy meeting with an overhead crane in the factory. She turned this off.
“Sociologically speaking, they should be asking for more, not less. Help get their unemployment figures down. There’ll be the President, shortly. Ask him about – oh, take Vietnamese drowning by the boatload. Again sociologically, you’d point out that it’s perhaps less painful and certainly quicker than dying in heaps by starvation, which is the fate of a great many more. But what he’ll say is Waw, we must sawtainly have a committee about this next month. He’ll deliver a peroration abawt this pawblem. And with any luck at all, they’ll all be dead by then.”
Arlette was brightening, whether at the Davidson patter or the bulls’ blood didn’t matter much.
He had bought, most extravagantly, a saddle of lamb. As he remarked, very forsytean. They didn’t know how to cook it nor how to cut it, but doubtless it was a pretext for a lot of excellent claret. He did know how to cook it and how to cut it, but was no claret-lover. What did this prove?
He continued in this vein until she was herself again.
The washing-up was done. Peace reigned. Or a sort of comfortable content, which served the same purpose. Arthur installed himself with pomp in his chair, and started to clean a pipe, with a nice book – The History of Anti-Semitism by Monsieur Poliakoff, a majestic affair – to hand. Arlette read her Spanish newspaper, being a believer in Mr Maugham’s dictum that this is the way to learn foreign languages. There was a sotto voce mutter when she did this. The French mouth does not adapt easily to other pronunciations. It wasn’t that bothersome jota since many, many years ago she had had to learn Dutch, and the notorious Dutch g is just the same, but saying Baja de Vizcaya rapidly to oneself creates, thought Arthur, a comfortable small noise something between a cat and an open fire. The doorbell rang. Truedog barked in a purple indignation. Arlette did not look up, but consoled him with her free hand until the noise subsided into someone saying Baja de Vizcaya in a loud angry manner.
“Who on earth can that be this time of night?” said Arthur experimentally. Arlette still didn’t look up. He shuffled off like a burdened donkey. He explained, afterwards, his shameful weakness by the double handicap of an empty pipe found in his hand, which he’d stuck in his mouth to get rid of it; and having one sock on and one slipper: the other slipper having got stuck somehow under the chair. The reality was that Miss Buckenburg, disclosed being charming on the doorstep, was under his guard in a flash.
“A Peace offering,” she said in her nicest voice. “Because I pestered you.” She was carrying a large expensive bunch of flowers and a bottle of expensive malt whisky in a box with coats of arms and repoussé silver lettering in cute Celtic script. What was I supposed to do? asked Arthur plaintively. Tear it out of her tenacious little paws and slam the door in her face? This was indeed odtaa …
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” said Arlette, kicking truedog in the ribs. Dog hated Miss Buckenburg, if possible even more than she did.
“Well, I thought, you see, that to make up for all this stupidity we could do you a really nice little interview.” From her bananabag she produced a little pocket recorder, all ready. Arlette looked at the flowers, which were really very pretty. At the whisky, which Arthur was eyeing appreciatively with a face exactly like Captain Haddock. No beard, admitted, but tiny shiny eyes. She sighed deeply.
“Go ahead, then.” The press, being utterly brazen, always did get its way in the end.
The American Beauty Rose went blahblahblah professionally into her mike, checked the thing swiftly for voice level, assumed the interviewer’s tone and asked, “How actually do you see the job you’re doing? Can you define it?”
Arlette thought; the little wheels turned; Arthur uncorked the bottle with a soft plop; what did it amount to, really? A tape.
“Things happen. To us all; today’s no exception. Unexpected, disconcerting, perhaps tragic. Who is there, that might help, at the best do something, at the worst listen?
“One doesn’t help them much. People have to help themselves.” There was a glass under her nose.
“I got a lesson today from my husband. You can’t use that. But by being unafraid of humiliation or embarrassment he got rid of a thing that had been a thorn in their eye for years: it’s worth the effort.
“People go to the police who say they can’t intervene, to lawyers who do nothing, to doctors who give them a pill, or priests with consolations, another pill. They run to these Encounter places and end with a partner for the night; likewise a pill.
“Offices in general have the same handicap: rigidity. They run on fixed tramway lines. They may be interested and they may be experienced and they do good, but they see one facet, and most things are a heap of facets. A woman needs the Social Worker, the Housing Inspector, the Cruelty to Children man, the Battered Wives shelter, the Family Allowance office, the Employment bureau, the Rents Tribunal, and what about an abortion to be going on with. They’re swamped. They’re up to here with confusion, discouragement, frustration. And most people, as you know, aren’t very articulate,” pausing for breath and a solid pull at the glass: what a day this had been.
“Often it’s a matter of knowing which string to pull. Nobody tells them; I often can. Mr Thing, office two-o-three, phone extension four-o-seven; he’s your man. All that’s needed, often, is someone to give them the confidence to begin.”
“There’s a living, in this?”
“I can spend a day, frigging about. Frustration all round. Nothing useful I can do and no payment I can ask. But a quarter of an hour can make a difference. A phonecall, a little good will, a small scrap of effort. A quarter of an hour first, just listening. A specialist consultation like any other. What would you give fifty francs for – say twenty-five marks? – and think it well spent?”
“Since we agree not to use today’s episode, can you find a concrete example?”
“A simple one, and very difficult. From just before the holidays. And a German one.
“A house with four or five apartments. One of the tenants is a drunk, a psychopath. Unemployable. Pays no rent; never has. He’s noisy, he pesters everyone, flashes a knife. Skilful mix of blackmail and bullying. He has a girl too, Jugoslav, a poor wretch, only seventeen. Illiterate, eight months pregnant, no job, no parents.
“Tenant came to me. Gentle, quiet person, young schoolteacher. What can we do? My wife’s in terror; it’s very bad for our small child. The owner does nothing, the police will do nothing, the prosecutor, the mayor, nobody. The fellow’s antisocial, but there’s no legal hold on him. Nobody will touch the problem, they sheer off it. A mixture of violence and cunning, and he has everybody by the balls.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Miss Buckenburg, grinning.
“Quite,” said Arlette tartly. “These people, like most young Germans, are pacifist and believe in non-violence. So do I. Nothing is ever gained by violence. But after looking at this problem, I could see cowardice everywhere. What do you do when you’ve exhausted non-violent means, or there just aren’t any? Reason is useless. Sociopathic people, the line between reason and nonreason is indistinct. You have to find something they will understand. Which can only be violence. And there you are, on the horns of the dilemma. I found a way of putting him in fear and putting him to flight. I’m not saying how, because I’m not proud of it. I’m not proud of the result, either.”
“You put him to flight, and he turns up some place else.”
“Intact. More violent than ever. And the problem of the girl not touched. So I didn’t do it. I did nothing. And I’m not proud of that either.”
“So what happens?”
“Nothing. They learn to live with the problem. Maybe it’ll quieten down, maybe the girl and the child will lend him some stability. Not a chance in a hundred, to my mind. Sooner or later a drunk who plays with knives meets someone quicker with a knife than he is. The local police, conspicuous for apathy as well as cowardice, will then have bread on their plate. Somebody will go to jail for a week or so. And then the social-care services will say oh yes, there’s a minor in peril, and a child in jeopardy. Until then, nothing.” She drank the glass of whisky off, and pushed it across the table for more.
“Short and sweet,” said Miss Buckenburg.
“Twenty-five marks please.”
“That’ll make a very nice piece,” with profound insincerity as she switched the recorder off.
“You don’t have to bother about them using a single word of that,” remarked Doctor Davidson after Miss Buckenburg had finally removed herself. “That one was strictly of no interest to the readership.”
“It was whisky talking, too,” said Arlette sadly.
“Mr Chamberlain acquired much odium for his behaviour at Munich. Conveniently forgotten is the praise he received at the time. Do you know that there was a member of the Commons who suggested there should be a statue to the preserver of world peace? It strikes you as fulsome? We have here a number of German men, including those in uniform, who when faced with this loud personage yelling that he’ll see the colour of their tripes, hasten to offer sympathy and cups of tea. This I find poignant.”
“I just found it typical. Everyone pushed the odium on to someone else.”
“What, by the way, was the solution you discreetly censored?”
“Oh, that they should get together, take hold of the fellow and tip him in the canal. They weren’t up to that, naturally. Then I found a Pole, in the village. Ex-foreign-legion type. You can imagine the kind of barbarian that is.”
“Yes, indeed,” laughing heartily.
“He saw no problem at all. ‘I wait outside pub. I say, you, nazi pig, take yourself bloody quick out everybody’s sight. Otherwise I break quart beerbottle over ugly skull, shove splinters in your nasty face.’ I had great difficulty stopping him.”
“It would have worked too.”
“That’s right: you wouldn’t have seen his heels for dust. These irrational people, they’re ever so rational and ever so sensitive, when they smell smoke. But I – well, would you?”
“No,” said Arthur. “Cups of tea, rational and sympathetic consideration is my strength. Who am I, to go kicking Neville Chamberlain?”
“And it was such a lovely war. I’m utterly drained, let’s go to bed.”