4

Artie Wexler peered from the bedroom window into the street at the parked cars shining under lamps. He knew all the cars in this prosperous cul-de-sac, Sinclair’s red Land Rover, Tutterman’s antique Jaguar, fifty years old and still as showroom-glossy as a wax apple, Mackinlay’s silver Lexus, all of them. I’m looking for something else, he thought. But what? A car I’ve never seen before? Too much imagination. Something goes wrong in your schedule, an old friend fails to keep an appointment, and you feel little breakdowns inside. He closed the slit in the curtain. The palms of his hands were damp.

Ruthie was out cold in bed. Artie glanced at her. Artie and Ruthie, man and wife, thirty years of matrimony. She was ten years younger than him, and a handsome woman. He loved her as much as the day he’d married her. A different kind of love, admittedly, a matter of comfort and mutual support, it had long ago ceased to be the hot seething passion of youth. You couldn’t keep that up, the sexual energy, always grabbing each other any chance you got. Love changed. A settlement took place in the foundations of marriage. You didn’t have the old appetites.

Ruthie’s sleep was Dalmane-induced. She raised her face suddenly and peered at him, eyes slits.

‘How was dinner?’

‘He didn’t show up,’ Wexler said.

‘Strange. Did he call?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe …’ Ruthie didn’t finish her sentence. She turned on her side, slipped immediately back into sleep. Artie Wexler walked out of the room and went downstairs. He turned on the lights in the kitchen. He heard the dog, Reuben, a quiveringly fat Dalmatian, growl in the back yard. The kitchen was over-bright. Artie blinked, lit a cigar.

He thought about the broken engagement again. There had to be some good reason. Something came up, last-minute business, whatever. He’d waited in the restaurant for a while, sipped a G&T slowly, fidgeted with cutlery, then he’d left. He’d stopped for a drink in the Horseshoe, thinking perhaps somebody had seen Joe there. Nobody had. It was odd, and hard to dismiss. A monthly dinner, same night every month, same place and time, La Lanterna at nine, Artie and Joe. What am I, obsessive? Let it go.

He turned his thoughts to another matter troubling him.

Miriam.

Too late to telephone. Maybe. He blew smoke and it hung in the eyes of the spotlights overhead. Ruthie loved the spotlight effect. She’d installed twenty spots on a series of tracks in the ceiling. She also liked stainless-steel appliances, the fridge, the oven, the big extractor hood over the stove.

He picked up the telephone and punched in Miriam’s number. It rang for a long time. He thought, hang up, leave it until morning. He tightened the cord of his robe and listened to the central-heating system come to life, the whisper of hot air flowing through vents. Ruthie liked the house hot.

He heard Miriam. ‘Yes …’

‘It’s Artie,’ he said.

‘Artie, do you know the time?’

‘Just tell me how he is.’

Miriam was quiet. Artie pictured her exquisite face, the dark Mediterranean eyes. She’d been a beautiful young woman and you could still see the ghost of that loveliness about her; time had refined the overt sexuality of her youth. She was graceful now, and elegant. Women admired and envied Miriam. She’s so thin, how does she keep her figure, and that smooth skin, what’s her secret?

And if that isn’t enough she’s talented as well.

‘He’s just the way he was when you called before, Artie. Were you expecting divine intervention?’

‘I don’t know what I was expecting,’ Artie said. ‘You’ll keep me informed?’

‘Yes yes.’

‘This was all so bloody sudden.’

‘One minute I have a healthy husband. The next.’

‘When can I see him?’

‘A few years go past and you don’t see him, and suddenly you can’t stop asking after him?’

Artie Wexler knew this was true. But so was the reverse. ‘He didn’t contact me either, Miriam. It’s not my fault completely.’

‘The trouble is, Artie, time slips away. Then one day it’s too late for renewing old friendships.’

He said, ‘Maybe,’ and knew it sounded feeble. Time. Once, you had it in abundance. You thought you had a surplus. ‘What hospital is he in?’

She told him.

‘That’s Rifkind’s hospital. I know him quite well. He’s a good doctor. Maybe we can pay a visit together tomorrow.’

‘Fine. I’ll be in touch.’

Artie Wexler hung up. He saw his cigar had died but he didn’t light it again. He wandered up and down the kitchen, restless. Outside the dog barked and the sensor lights tripped in the yard and Artie stared out and saw wind shake the trees and ripple the grass, which had long ago shed its rich summer lustre. The swimming pool glimmered like a sea of spilled oil.

He watched the dog prowl back and forth, sniffing air, disturbed no doubt by the way Ruthie’s wind chimes – souvenirs of a trip to the Grand Canyon: or had it been that time in Jerusalem? – bonged ever so quietly on the patio. The sensor lights went out and the wind receded and Artie Wexler, pausing to check on the security system, climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Ruthie said something in her sleep, a sound dredged up from the unfathomable sludge of the mind.

Wexler lay down beside his wife and stared at the ceiling and listened to acid rumbling in his gut. He thought of circles interlinking, old acquaintances renewed, a history, and he felt sweat form on his skin. He fell asleep and dreamed of the empty chair at his table in the Lanterna, and when he woke at 4 a.m. he was soaked.