Authors: Doris Lessing
‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ she agreed with relief.
Here they both became alert to the fact that the young man who had sat down at their table was watching them, at the same time as he heartily chewed a large mouthful of food, and looked for an inlet into their conversation. He was an unpleasant person. Tall, with an uncoordinated, bony look, his blue eyes met the possibilities of their reaction to him with a steady glare of watchful suspicion out of an ugly face whose skin had a peculiar harsh red texture. The eyes of our couple had been, unknown to them, returning again and again to this remarkable scarlet face, and at the back of their minds they had been thinking professionally: A fool to overheat himself in this strong reflected light up here.
Now, at the same moment, the two doctors realized that the surface of his face was a skin-graft; that the whole highly-coloured, shiny, patchy surface, while an extraordinarily skilful reconstruction of a face, was nothing but a mask, and what the face had been before must be guessed at. They saw, too, that he was not a young man, but, like themselves, in early middle age. Instantly pity fought with their instinctive dislike of him; and they reminded
themselves that the aggressive glare of the blue eyes was the expression of the pitiful necessity of a wounded creature to defend itself.
He said in stiff but good English, or rather, American: ‘I must beg your pardon for interrupting your conversation, and beg leave to introduce myself – Dr Schröder. I wish to place myself at your service. I know this valley well, and can recommend hotels in the other villages.’
He was looking at Hamish, as he had from the time he began speaking; though he gave a small, minimal bow when Mary Parrish introduced herself and instantly returned his attention to the man.
Both the British couple felt discomfort; but it was hard to say whether this was because of the man’s claim on their pity; because of their professional interest in him, which they must disguise; or because of the impolite insistence of his manner.
‘That is very kind of you,’ said Hamish; and Mary murmured that it was very kind. They wondered whether he had heard Hamish’s ‘blond beasts’. They wondered what other indiscretions they might have committed.
‘As it happens,’ said Dr Schröder, ‘I have a very good buddy who runs a guest house at the top of the valley. I was up there this morning, and she has a dandy room to let.’
Once again they indicated that it was very kind of him.
‘If it is not too early for you, I shall be taking the 9.30 autobus up the valley tomorrow for a day’s skiing, and I shall be happy to assist you.’
And now it was necessary to take a stand one way or the other. Mary and Hamish glanced at each other inquiringly; and immediately Dr Schröder said, with a perceptible increase of tension in his manner, ‘As you know, at this time in the season, it is hard to find accommodation.’ He paused, seemed to assure himself of their status by a swift inspection of their clothes and general style, and added: ‘Unless you can afford one of the big hotels – but they are not of the cheapest.’
‘Actually,’ said Mary, trying to make of what he must have heard
her say before a simple question of caprice: ‘Actually we were wondering whether we might not go back to France? We are both very fond of France.’
But Dr Schröder was not prepared to take this from them. ‘If it is a queston of skiing, then the weather report announced today that the snow is not as good in the French Alps as it is with us. And, of course, France is much more expensive.’
They agreed that this was so; and he continued to say that if they took the empty room at his buddy’s guest house it would cost them much less than it would at a German pension, let alone a French pension. He examined their clothes again and remarked, ‘Of course, it must be hard for you to have such unfortunate restrictions with your travel allowance. Yes, it must be annoying. For people of a good salary and position it must be annoying.’
For both these two the restrictions of the travel allowance merely confirmed a fact; they could not have afforded more than the allowance in any case. They realized that Dr Schröder was quite unable to decide whether they were rich and eccentric English people who notoriously prefer old clothes to new clothes, or whether they were rich people deliberately trying to appear poor, or whether they were poor. In the first two cases they would perhaps be eager to do some trade in currency with him? Was that what he wanted?
It seemed it was; for he immediately said that he would be very happy to lend them a modest sum of dough, in return for which he would be glad if they would do the same for him when he visited London, which he intended to do very soon. He fastened the steady glare of his eyes on their faces, or rather, on Hamish’s face, and said: ‘Of course, I am prepared to offer every guarantee.’ And he proceeded to do so. He was a doctor attached to a certain hospital in the town of S—, and his salary was regular. If they wished to make independent inquiries they were welcome to do so.
And now Hamish intervened to make it clear that they could not afford to spend on this vacation one penny more than the travel allowance. For a long moment Dr Schröder did not believe him. Then he examined their clothes again and openly nodded.
Now, perhaps, the man would go away?
Not at all. He proceeded to deliver a harangue on the subject of his admiration for Britain. His love for the entire British nation, their customs, their good taste, their sportsmanship, their love of fair play, their history, and their art were the ruling passions of his life. He went on like this for some minutes, while the British couple wondered if they ought to confess that their trade was the same as his. But, if they did, presumably it would let them in for even closer intimacy. And by a hundred of the minute signs which suffice for communication between people who know each other well, they had said that they disliked this man intensely and wished only that he would go away.
But now Dr Schröder inquired outright what profession his new friend Mr Anderson pursued; and when he heard that they were both doctors, and attached to hospitals whose names he knew, his expression changed. But subtly. It was not surprise, but rather the look of a prosecutor who has been cross-examining witnesses and at last got what he wants.
And the British couple were beginning to understand what it was Dr Schröder wanted of them. He was talking with a stiff, brooding passion of resentment about his position and prospects as a doctor in Germany. For professional people, he said, Germany was an unkind country. For the business people – yes. For the artisans – yes. The workers were all millionaires these days, yes sir! Better far to be a plumber or an electrician than a doctor. The ruling dream of his life was to make his way to Britain, and there become an honoured – and, be it understood – a well-paid member of his profession.
Here Doctors Anderson and Parrish pointed out that foreign doctors were not permitted to practise in Britain. They might lecture; they might study; but they might not practise. Not unless, added Dr Parrish, possibly reacting to the fact that not once had this man done more than offer her the barest minimum of politeness until he had recognized that she, as well as Hamish, was a doctor and therefore possibly of use to him – not unless they were refugees, and even then they must take the British examinations.
Dr Schröder did not react to the word ‘refugee’.
He returned to a close cross-examination about their salaries and prospects, dealing first with Mary’s, and then, in more detail, with Hamish. At last, in response to their warning that for him to become a doctor in Britain would be much more difficult than he seemed to think, he replied that in this world everything was a question of pulling strings. In short, he intended they should pull strings for him. It was the most fortunate occurrence of his life that he had happened to meet them that evening, the happiest and the best-timed …
At this, the eyes of the British couple met on a certain suspicion. Ten minutes later in the talk it emerged that he knew the lady who ran the house where they had taken a room, and therefore he probably had heard from her that she had a British doctor as a lodger. Very likely he had arranged with the waiter to be put at their table. For he must know the people of the village well: he had been coming for his winter holidays to O— since he was a small child – Dr Schröder held out his hand below table level to show how small. Yes, all those years of winters O— had known Dr Schröder, save for the years of war, when he was away serving his country.
There was a small stir in the restaurant. The family were rising, gathering their wraps, and departing. The lady first, her shaggy brown coat slung over her handsome shoulders, her rosy lower lip caught by her white teeth as she searched for belongings she might have forgotten. Then she extended her smile, so white against the clear brown skin, and waited for her son to take her by the shoulder and propel her, while she laughed protesting, to the door. There, when it opened, she shivered playfully, although it was only the door to the vestibule. Behind her came the pretty, rather languid girl; then the stout authoritative father, shepherding his family away and out to the snow-cold air. The family vanished, leaving their table a mess of empty glasses, plates, broken bread, cheeses, fruit, wine. The waiter cleared the table with a look as if he found it a privilege.
The British couple also rose and said to Dr Schröder that they would think over his suggestion and perhaps let him know in the
morning. His thin-skinned shiny face tilted up at them, and levelled into an affronted mask as he stood up and said, ‘But I understood all arrangements were made.’
And how had they got themselves into this position, where they could not exercise simple freedom of choice without upsetting this extremely dislikeable person? But they knew how. It was because he was a wounded man, a cripple; because they knew that his fixed aggression was part of his laudable determination not to let that shockingly raw face drive him into self-pity and isolation. They were doctors, and they were reacting above all to the personality of a cripple. When they said that they were tired and intended to go to bed early, and he replied instantly, insulted, that he would be happy to accompany them to a certain very pleasant place of entertainment, they knew that they could bring themselves to do no more than say they could not afford it.
They knew he would immediately offer to be their host. He did, and they politely refused as they would refuse an ordinary acquaintance, and were answered by the man who could tolerate no refusal, because if he once accepted a refusal, he would be admitting to himself that his face put him outside simple human intercourse.
Dr Schröder, who had spent all the winter holidays of his life in this valley, naturally knew the proprietor of the hotel where he proposed to take them; and he guaranteed them a pleasant and relaxing evening while he fixed on them a glare of suspicious hate.
They walked together under the snow-weighted eaves of the houses, over snow rutted by the hundred enormous American cars which had rocked over it that day, to the end of the street where there was a hotel whose exterior they had already inspected earlier that day and rejected on the grounds that anything inside it must necessarily be too expensive for them. Immediately outside, on the seared snow, sat the man without legs they had seen earlier. Or rather he stood, his head level with their hips, looking as if he were buried to hip-level in the snow, holding out a cloth cap to them. His eyes had the same bold, watchful glare as those of Dr Schröder.
Dr Schröder said, ‘It’s a disgrace that these people should be allowed to behave like this. It makes a bad impression on our
visitors.’ And he led the British couple past the cripple with a look of angry irritation.
Inside was a long room sheltered by glass on two sides from the snow which could be seen spinning down through the areas of yellow light conquered from the black mass of the darkness by the room and its warmth and its noise and its people. It was extraordinarily pleasant to enter this big room, so busy with pleasure, and to see the snow made visible only during its passage through the beams from the big windows, as if the wildness of the mountain valley had been admitted just so far as would give the delight of contrast to the guests who could see savagery as a backdrop of pretty, spinning white flakes.
There was a small band, consisting of piano, clarinet and drum playing the kind of jazz that makes a pleasant throb, like a blood-beat, behind conversation.
The family had moved themselves from the table in the restaurant to a table here and sat as before in a close group. The British couple found an empty table near them, which Dr Schröder approved; and when the waiter came knew they had been right – the drinks were very expensive and this was not a place where one might lightly sip one drink for a whole evening while richer people drank seriously. One was expected to drink; people were drinking, although a small beer cost nearly ten shillings. They saw, too, that Dr Schröder’s boast that he had special privileges here because he was a friend of the proprietor was untrue. His passport here, as everywhere else, was his raw, shiny face. When the proprietor glanced towards him during his hospitable passage among the tables, he did so with a nod and a smile, but it was a smile that had the over-kindness of controlled hostility. And his eyes lingered briefly on the British couple who, after this inspection, were forced to feel that everyone else in this place was German. The Americans were in their own rich hotels; the impoverished British in the cheap guest houses; this place was for wealthy Germans. And the British couple wondered at the insistence of Dr Schröder in bringing them here. Was it possible that he really believed he had a special place in the heart of the proprietor? Yes, it was; he kept smiling and nodding after the
turned back of the fat host, as if to say: You see, he knows me; then smiling at them, proud of his achievement. For which he was prepared to pay heavily in actual money. He counted out the price of the drinks with the waiter with a painful care for the small change of currency that they understood very well. What recompense could they possibly give this man; what was he wanting so badly? Was it really only that he wanted to live and work in Britain?