Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel (18 page)

I was tempted to reply that he wasn’t the one to complain; and, as if to some extent reading my thoughts, he went on, ‘I suppose you think mine’s an easy job. But I can tell you it’s abominably tiring, sitting here all day under these infernal lights – you must have noticed how hard they are on the eyes – being badgered by everyone. We do our best to help people. It’s not our fault the accommodation just isn’t available. We’d be only too pleased to bring houses out of our pockets like conjurors if we could. That’s what people seem to expect, always blaming us if they’re disappointed, when they ought to blame our superiors.’

Having braced myself to confront a sadistic tyrant, it was disconcerting, to say the least, to be faced with this ordinary, rather pleasant, harassed-seeming young man, who appeared anxious for my good opinion. But, remembering the old woman who’d been carried out, I said severely, ‘If you’re really doing your best, there’s no need to defend yourself.’ Rather alarmed by my boldness, I hesitated; then, as he said nothing, went on, ‘I can’t say anything, because
all I know about the place is what I’ve been able to observe in the last half-hour – which certainly hasn’t impressed me very favourably.’

‘There! You see, it’s just as I said; we get the blame for everything. Of course, it’s very convenient for the people above us …’ Breaking off, he pulled some forms towards him and asked in a different tone, ‘And now, what can I do for you?’ But he seemed unable to forget his private joke, for, leaning forward so suddenly that the eye-shade slipped on one side, dangling drunkenly over his ear, he planted his elbows on the desk and stared at me with an inquisitive, keen, amused look. ‘You’re one person I did
not
expect to see here, I must say. You surely don’t want to move out of a flat anyone else would give his ears for?’

‘What? Do you know who I am, then?’ I exclaimed, taken aback.

‘Good Lord, yes. We know all your family history here. In fact, you’re quite a celebrity among us.’

Though he was clearly enjoying the surprise he had just sprung on me, his expression wasn’t unfriendly. In fact, his wide mouth stretched into a grin so disarming that it reassured me. Regaining confidence, I told myself that anyone might have used the words ‘family history’ and that they had no sinister personal meaning: my case was bound to be known to the whole Housing Bureau, being unique of its kind.

Looking at the red-haired man, I felt I’d reached the crucial point where I had to decide whether or not I was going to trust him – and really I saw no valid reason not to, dismissing a vague suspicion that he might have been told to extract information from me; for what information could he extract, beyond what was already known? I had no guilty secrets, I’d done nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary,
I was extremely proud of my fiancée, so why shouldn’t I tell him about her? He seemed genuinely well disposed towards me and might be willing to help us. So, having argued myself out of my initial slight distrust, I briefly explained the position, though without reference to Spector’s stipulation. Feeling my usual reluctance to speak about him, I merely stated that there were private reasons why I couldn’t live in the flat as a married man. Would he help me and give me the benefit of his advice?

He seemed to reflect for a moment, tapping his fingers on the top of the desk as if playing the piano; then, perhaps gratified by my request, to which I’d tried to impart a flattering sound, he replied genially, ‘One tip I can give you of a practical nature, and that is to come in the evening. We only see applicants once a day, and nearly all of them come in the early morning, on their way to work. You should see the queues outside the doors then – we literally have to fight our way in some days. Today’s Saturday and an exception; in the ordinary way you’d hardly find a soul here at this time. I advise you to slip round after you finish work; you’ll just do it if you hurry, being so near, though other people haven’t got time – that’s where you’ll score over them. The morning’s accommodation will have been allocated long before, naturally, but you’ll automatically be first on the list for whatever may have come in during the day.’

I thanked him gratefully, for, in spite of my inexperience, I could see that his suggestion was of real value; and when he started taking down my requirements I tried to repay him by supplying the details with a conciseness born of familiarity with office routine. His appreciation was evident when he said at the end, ‘If only the others were more like you, we’d get through in half the time.’

I was feeling very pleased with the luck of my haphazard
choice, which had led me to this friendly, communicative person, from whom I was finding out things, instead of the other way around. Perhaps I’d be able to elicit some more information by judicious questioning: in this hope I now held out the elegant silver cigarette case Spector had given me. He admired it, saying, ‘I can guess where that came from’, and gave me a confidential glance I didn’t quite like, though I realized how unfair it was to associate a foxy slyness with his red hair. Returning the case to my pocket, I was about to produce a light when he stopped me by making a low negative sound and shaking his head.

I looked up to see a girl in a white blouse and black skirt approaching us. The big room was now almost empty of applicants, and a number of these girls – secretaries, I presumed – had appeared while I wasn’t looking and were everywhere darting towards the desks already vacated, rapidly putting in order the jumble of papers left behind there and carrying off the outgoing letters. Those of them who had to wait to get at a desk where work was still going on did so with undisguised impatience, like the one hovering around us, who was coming closer and closer, making a good deal of noise with her feet. Her restless fidgeting obviously irritated my red-haired acquaintance, and I expected him to reprimand her; instead, he suddenly jumped up and, sign ing to me to follow, strode across the room, the eye-shade detaching itself, floating behind him with a glider’s motion, till the girl pounced on it indignantly.

I assumed that smoking must be forbidden. But his only object apparently was to escape her, for, as soon as we were out of earshot, he stopped and lit both our cigarettes. ‘It’s an anachronism, employing those wretched girls,’ he remarked. ‘But I suppose they’re cheaper than tape recorders and fulfil the same function.’

Not quite understanding him, I merely asked why he hadn’t sent her away. But he answered evasively, as if distracted, and, as there seemed to be nothing more to be got out of him then, I said goodbye, reflecting on my way out that his powers couldn’t be very great if he wasn’t able to control an impertinent secretary.

On the whole, though, I was very satisfied with the result of the interview and hurried back to tell Carla about it.

Even if Ginger (as I called him, since he hadn’t told me his name) wasn’t in a position to order the secretaries about, he must have considerable influence with his superiors, as he and his colleagues formed their only link with the public. Putting out of my mind the disturbing memory of the old woman, I’d convinced myself that there was nothing sinister about the Bureau. And, just as the officials had turned out to be quite human, so, I was sure, the whole business of finding a home would prove far less formidable than I’d been led to believe. I was young and optimistic, and I thought I had made an excellent start and would soon win through to the success so many better-qualified people had failed to achieve.

Throughout our brisk invigorating autumn my confidence inspired me to continuous effort. I was all the time encouraged by Ginger, whose advice I valued even more highly when I discovered how many applicants had been attending the Bureau for long periods without ever getting a chance to look at a house, whereas I nearly always received the addresses of a few properties, which I invariably set out to inspect with high hopes, notwithstanding the fact that somebody else always snapped them up before me, if they weren’t hopelessly dilapidated or far too expensive. My hopes seemed to flourish on disappointment in those days, renewed again and again each time I assured myself that if
not this house then certainly the next would be the very place I was looking for.

The only thing that worried me was that I saw so little of Carla, who, though she waited patiently at the flat for my return, had to leave at eleven to catch the last bus back to her home. More and more often as autumn merged into winter and bad weather increased the difficulties of getting about, I came back so late that we could spend only a few minutes together. Though she assured me she didn’t mind, it distressed me to think of her wasting her evenings like this. I vaguely supposed I ought to urge her to stay at home instead of coming so far, in such miserable circumstances, for the sake of so short a meeting. Yet I never tried seriously to prevent her from coming. The fact was, I felt I couldn’t have carried on at all without these brief encounters, which enabled me to keep under control the anxiety that now always tormented me while we were apart.

This anxiety was all the time growing stronger, in the longer and longer periods of separation from her, when she seemed incredible to me, as if I had dreamed her, and I struggled vainly to recall her real face. Her mysterious aspect appeared more and more frequently in my thoughts. I saw her as some lovely, tall princess, with her white skin made whiter by contrast with her lustrous dark hair and darkly shining eyes; and this was all I could see. It was as if I’d never seen how she looked in real life but only overlaid by the strangeness, the unattainable otherness, of her dream counterpart. Whenever we were together I would keep gazing at her, trying to learn her real face like a lesson, in which I many times thought I’d become perfect. But afterwards she again wouldn’t seem true; mystery would once more obscure her. Only the strangeness seemed real, the reality as elusive as ever. Every time we parted I was
afraid it was the end, that she was lost to me and would never come back.

My rational self wouldn’t acknowledge these childish fears or tried not to. But as time went on they grew more powerful and, refusing to stay in the background, forced themselves into my consciousness. Then I could only exist for the moment when I’d catch sight of her and prove them false. Day by day, tension was increasing, anxiety gradually infiltrating everywhere but so insidiously I hardly noticed the process till it was complete, and I woke one morning to a different world, as if, while I slept, a giant’s hand had jolted everything into a new and hateful perspective.

It now seemed to me that there was a worldwide conspiracy among people and things to keep me from Carla. Every day, all day, I was contending with people, stupid or obstructive or malicious or inefficient, impeding and delaying me. And with frustrating things: trains and buses that slid away as I pursued them; streets leading me astray or becoming impassable dead ends; fogs blinding me; gales snatching vital papers out of my hands; the frequent sluicing punishment of sleet and rain. And always, worse than any of these, the conspiracy of the seconds and minutes to group themselves into hours – hours I should have been spending with Carla – until the agonizing climax of uncertainty when I began to doubt whether I’d get back in time to see her at all.

Gradually, I was losing heart, discouraged by my repeated failures. And now anxiety began to invade even the precious hours when we
were
together. I couldn’t entirely suppress the thought of her waiting for me so long alone; and perhaps an unconscious hope of expiation increased the despondency her presence could no longer charm away as in the past. Though I was ashamed of myself, I started being sulky and
difficult with her. She was always the same, calm and sweet-tempered, apparently unaware of my bad behaviour, which she took with a smile of detached good nature that only made me want to break out in fresh excesses, to say rude, hurtful, unforgivable things. Yet I absolutely adored her; she was hardly ever out of my thoughts; night and day I longed for her with a passionate tenderness. I can’t explain now, any more than at the time I could understand, why as soon as we came face to face there seemed only her dark romantic beauty, as if her real self eluded me.

Finding myself, as it were, in love with a lovely dream, I was slowly becoming resentful and discontented. I felt cheated, angry, aggrieved. The familiar bitter grievance I’d felt for so long because people and things were opposed to me gradually added itself to these other resentments, extending finally to include Carla herself, leading up to the shocking revelation that she had become a part of the universal hostility I was fighting. I was, I remember, giving my usual account of the houses I’d just seen, when, looking at her serene, composed face, I suddenly felt her strength, on which I had always depended, turned into an alien driving force, compelling me to continue this unprofitable search.

Instead of going on with my objective report, I began to complain resentfully of all the frustrations, discomforts and difficulties I’d suffered during the day; and after this fell more and more frequently into the habit of querulousness, voicing my complaints as bitterly as though she were directly to blame for all I had endured. My resentment seemed to rise from somewhere deep down in me, from some spring of which I knew nothing; and I thus made the disturbing discovery of some obscure process going on in me that I could neither understand nor control.

I’d always regarded as pure superstition the notion that
the Bureau exerted an evil influence over those who had dealings with it. But that
something
was causing me to deteriorate I was forced to admit, feeling my will, integrity, independence gradually undermined, till it seemed as if the very structure of my being was threatened with ultimate collapse. The strange and frightening thing was that I made no attempt to arrest this destructive process, which, though alarming, actually had a kind of morbid fascination for me.

Nothing could keep me away from the Housing Bureau these days. Though Carla and I had originally decided always to keep the weekends free for one another, I’d lately taken to visiting the place on Saturdays and Sundays as well as during the week, drawn there by this inexplicable attraction that had nothing to do with my longing to find a home. When Christmas approached, I was actually depressed by the prospect of the Bureau being closed for several days, a circumstance my normal self would have welcomed.