Authors: Anita Brookner
The woman at the next table had brought her dog with her, a tiny animal that nestled timidly in her lap. This was not altogether pleasing to the waiters, who were nevertheless disarmed by the obvious wealth and glamour of its owner. She was dressed in black, with a glittering motif on her left breast; her hair was drawn severely back from her face and she smoked a long thin cigarillo, waving its smoke impatiently away, as if the cigarillo were being smoked by somebody else, an importunate companion perhaps. She appeared scornful, uninterested in the process of eating and drinking, only reluctantly present, conscious of the favour bestowed, and famously bored, or at least giving the impression of being so. Across the table a bulky man, in an expensive suit, seemed wary of her, although he appeared to be pouring out a rational yet pleading explanation of something Lewis could not catch. He was making no impression, Lewis reflected: the woman was not interested. He wondered what it would be like to be married to such a woman, to have to beg for her attention, to be relegated somewhere beyond the dog, whose quivering frame was being caressed by a firm red-nailed hand. It occurred to him that he might not marry again, an idea which he had been doing his best to avoid. The process seemed too arduous, and anyway he appeared to have been disqualified by his one, or one and a half, experiences. Even with Emmy, he thought, he would have failed, although he
knew that the failure would have been Emmy’s as much as his own. Women seemed more restless these days, less attracted by the prospect of settling down. In many ways his view of marriage still went hand in hand with the image of the silent sunny room he had just left, with a figure gliding out of the door to attend to something peaceable, domestic. He knew that he was fatally old-fashioned, and that this ideal did not appear to coincide with anybody else’s. Besides, with his real wife living once more in his house, and himself in America, the image would remain unrealized in any future that would be left to him. Where would he live in the vacations? He supposed that he might take Pen’s advice and look for a small flat somewhere. His wants were simple; he spent virtually nothing. He still had his mother’s money, and a little that had been left him by his father; together they would cover the purchase of a flat and also Tissy’s needs for the coming year if she chose to go on seeing him as a regular source of income. What he would do between now and his projected departure – still unreal in his mind – he had no idea. He supposed he would have to get down to the work he had neglected for so long and try to make it palatable to the young. He would have a lot to prepare.
His reluctance was occasioned not so much by the enormous prospect of leaving home and every kind of routine as by the incongruous thought that he could not face so vast an upheaval, was almost comically averse to making further efforts, without some sort of interval in which he might repossess himself, shed his disappointments, and begin again to be a person capable of directing his own life. That life had so far been so overshadowed with concerns that normal expectations had been banished as if by edict or decree. He felt elderly and at the same time unused. What he needed, quite urgently, was the faint stirring of pleasure, and, in addition, the increase of pleasurable occasions. The spring had been long and cold, perfectly matching his mood of disappointment, resignation. Only in the last two days had the sun shone and the temperature approached something that
was normal for early June. And this evening was beautiful, voluptuous, bringing with it thoughts of happiness. How the change was to be achieved, if indeed it were ever to take place, was quite unclear to him, as was the whole idea of a future that would have no connection with the past. He was only thirty-eight, he thought. He was only half-way there, with the prospect of years ahead of him. However unfledged he still felt himself to be he had accumulated a certain amount of experience, although none of it had been particularly rewarding. His education would seem to have been faulty. At the same time he was no longer the idealistic creature whom he vaguely remembered as a boy, when he had truly believed that everybody meant what they said. The old Lewis Percy, the Lewis Percy who had wanted to be a character in a book and who had not managed to be one, had bowed out long ago. Something new would have to be fashioned from the ruins, something that would be just as authentic. He began, dimly, to perceive the need for new ideas, and for a rediscovery of some sense of self-esteem, without which, he knew, no one could survive. This last, he was sure, he would forgo at his peril.
Howard Millinship, in another immaculate suit, stood before him with an extravagantly beautiful woman by his side. Both smiling, they revealed identical sets of perfect teeth, which, in the woman’s case, were emphasized by the oval of her face and a fall of long brown hair. She looked devastatingly self-possessed, with an assurance beyond her years. She wore a dark blue silk blouse, a white silk skirt, and white stockings and shoes. She was very impressive, thought Lewis, rising to his feet, fantastic by academic standards. Everything about her seemed devised in a spirit of luxury, from the gold chains round her neck to the small brown hand now extended towards him. Still smiling, she seemed perfectly at ease while Howard Millinship performed the introductions. Surely she could not be smiling at the prospect of a dull evening with a complete stranger? Surely her life was so arranged as to provide her with more adequate pastimes?
But perhaps her whole day was so filled with diversions that she could tolerate such an encounter with equanimity. It was only dinner, after all, and the restaurant was up to the standard she was entitled to expect.
‘My wife, Jeannine,’ said Howard Millinship, who did not seem to think it unlikely that he had won such a prize.
‘How do you do?’ said Lewis. ‘It’s very good of you to come at such short notice.’ They appeared so exotic, so protected from the exigencies of real life as he knew it, so divorced from ideas of wear and change, that he felt their company to be something of an honour, as if they were minor deities from a world outside his own, just passing through on a tour of inspection. His hand, as he held it out, seemed to be made of a cruder material, more subject to the process of ageing, than the slim cool hands he clasped in greeting, releasing them reluctantly, as if they might have conferred on him the gift of everlasting youth, if only he had been able to retain them in his own.
‘It had to be,’ she said. ‘We leave tomorrow.’ And having performed her social duty, a duty condensed into merely meeting him and greeting him, she let her attention wander, and was soon distracted by the other diners, her amazing, perfectly regular face composed to receive appreciation. Even the woman with the dog was interested, a further shade of disdain added, in tribute, to features which Lewis had thought impressive enough before this impeccable creature had entered his sights.
Perhaps, but she was not as pleasant as she was beautiful. She made demands, she
had
demands, already in place: her attention was not to be wasted on him. She was too used to admiration to relinquish her autonomy. He saw that she would not notice him more than was absolutely necessary. He saw there an indifference which she regarded as her right: only the spectacular need apply. So it was to be him and Howard Millinship, he thought; and the decision still to be taken. The thought that he might have to rely on these people made him feel slightly faint, evidence that the former,
unreconstructed Lewis Percy was still, however uncertainly, in place.
‘You leave tomorrow?’ he said. ‘Then I’m very lucky that you were free this evening. Back to America?’
‘No,’ said Howard Millinship, neatly eating olives. ‘We go to Paris. Jeannine’s parents have a flat there. They’ve retired to the country now, so we take advantage. We usually spend the summers there, when everyone’s away. Jeannine shops and I work. We go to the country at the weekends, of course, and we manage to have a month in the sun before flying home. Our semester begins in September,’ he added. ‘Earlier than yours. We break off in May. You’ll get used to it. And it has the advantage of leaving you free to come to Europe before the tourists get there. Are you still terribly busy?’ he asked. ‘Grading papers, I suppose?’
‘Well, I don’t actually teach,’ said Lewis. ‘I just work in the library.’
‘I admire you for that,’ said Howard Millinship. ‘It takes some courage to refuse a teaching post and devote yourself to research. I only hope you won’t miss it too much when you come over to us.’
Lewis abandoned any attempt to confess the lowliness of his position, which had never struck him as abnormal, and which in many ways had suited him perfectly. In any event he was too fascinated by the neatness and dexterity with which Jeannine Millinship was wielding her fork and the thoughtful manner in which the smoked salmon was being inserted into her faultless mouth. This was a woman of high accomplishment, with exacting standards. He entirely understood her lack of interest in him. Women who looked so untouched by need or greed bore about them an invisible golden shower, like the one enjoyed by Danaë. Except that this woman would never be required to barter favours. The beauty had grown out of money, rather than the money out of the beauty. How did she fare, Lewis wondered, on a small campus in Massachusetts? Probably she was indolent enough to absorb whatever came her way, and supremely indifferent
to Howard’s colleagues, who might, for all he knew, be excellent men, handsome and hearty in the American fashion, pleasing to women. They would all be in love with her in any case, though their wives might not be so keen. But American women were better at fighting their corners, and she would wave away their dislike with a languid hand, attributing it to mere jealousy, and not feeling chilled by the absence of affection. In time she might become like the woman at the next table, he thought, starved out by the lack of her own desire, but still beautiful enough to attract overwhelming attention. And if she were a woman of conventional morality – he had no reason to think otherwise – she would see the admiration of other men as a just tribute, not only to herself but to her husband as well. Though she appeared quite cold, and beautiful, much as an idol or an icon is beautiful, Lewis hoped that there might be humanity hidden somewhere inside, as he hoped this of everyone, despite receiving information to the contrary. The friendship of these people might be problematic, he thought; he would prove too simple for them. And yet they appeared to find him acceptable. Howard Millinship, in particular, treated him as if he were older and more eminent than he could ever possibly be. Above all, they were gloriously diverting to look at, a fact on which he felt impelled to remark.
‘Forgive me for staring,’ he said. ‘But you really are an amazing looking couple.’
At this they both smiled. Even Jeannine looked at him with something approaching warmth. Presumably they were so used to this kind of observation that they regarded it as an essential preliminary, and could not proceed until the formalities had taken place. But there was a perceptible relaxation in the atmosphere, and he no longer feared for the success of his evening.
He began to enjoy them simply as phenomena, who had raised the temperature of this unsettling day to something he recognized as detached aesthetic enjoyment. Modestly he hoped not to waste their time, and if that meant consenting
to go to America then that was what he would have to do, if only to keep the agreeable expressions on their faces. In the meantime he would do his best to emulate their high standards. Even this he felt to be an innovation; in his mind certain constrictions were eased, leaving behind something precariously like appetite. He saw no reason why he should not dine out more often, even though he had few friends of the order of the Millinships. The benefit they bestowed was of a more metaphysical variety, something like the consciousness of a birthright. Life was not confined to what the rich and beautiful could command. The particular strength of such people – their function, in a sense – was an awareness of entitlements. That was their most valuable lesson. Not that I could stand this every night, he thought. And anyway I am not rich. But I am not all that poor either. I live below my means. That too is a metaphysical condition, and one that I must endeavour to correct. He ordered a bottle of wine and cautiously prepared to share a little pleasure. He reflected that it was a pity they were leaving so soon. He would have liked to have seen them again, just for the opportunity of being able to study them. Many intriguing lessons were there to be learnt. He felt like a man let out of prison, on probation. The world had moved on, was no longer as he remembered it.
Jeannine, after almost motionlessly conveying a considerable quantity of food to her mouth, accepted coffee and brandy and lit a cigarette. Lewis became aware that it would not do to discuss work or indeed anything of an abstract nature in this woman’s presence: to do so would be to lose her always intermittent attention. To engage in a discourse of any profundity would be to court her displeasure, for although she was both intelligent and sophisticated she did not care to be ignored or overlooked. When her husband returned to the subject of Lewis’s possible arrival in America, Jeannine took a lump of sugar and tried to tempt the little dog from the next table. It was a seduction, Lewis thought, and a rather cruel one; now she and the dog’s owner were going to compete for
the dog’s favours. She was acting, he saw, out of the same sense of infallibility that was the consequence of her perfect appearance and which dictated all her actions, and it would not seem to her that she might be treading on others’ toes; beauty had made her impermeable. As a stratagem for distracting her husband from his tedious preoccupations it worked perfectly. Soon all eyes were on this little contest, which had an underlying note of seriousness. Lewis’s sympathies were with the dog, a poor nervous creature who started wildly after the sugar lump, only to be restrained by his mistress’s iron hand. ‘I don’t think he likes to be teased,’ said the luckless companion, leaning forward as if ready to separate the two women. ‘He’s very highly strung.’ ‘Oh, I understand dogs,’ said Jeannine. ‘I have had dogs all my life.’ Nevertheless she dropped the sugar disdainfully and lit another cigarette. Her quest for her husband’s attention was now so palpable that Lewis was forced to abandon any attempt to explain his present situation in the interest of changing the subject. ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he heard himself say rather hastily to Howard Millinship. ‘If you’ll leave me your address I’ll write to you within the week. I just need a little more time to think.’ At the back of his mind was the thought that he might somehow get out of it, but that it would not do to say so at this particular moment.