The Bay of Angels (23 page)

No, I told him, I was not married.

‘Neither am I,’ he said. Then he hesitated. ‘We could have made a go of it, I suppose. Only you were a bit difficult, as I recall.’

‘Oh, I was always difficult. Much too difficult for most people. You were no exception.’

He looked at me uncertainly and decided to assume that I was joking. His expression cleared as he greeted a girl on the other side of the room. Did I know Sophie? He would introduce me. As he veered off in her direction I escaped into the blessed anonymity of the street. It was already late afternoon and the light was beginning to thin, to lose its vigour. I deplored my recent performance, my attempts to respond to those friends whom I still treasured. They had not appeared to mind the fervent smiles and fragmented sentences to which I was reduced. It had been essential to conceal the seriousness of my concerns, and this at least I had managed to do. This was the full extent of my social success.

Later, in the flat, I thought not of the wedding but of my strange dream. Once between the clean sheets, in my own bed, I pondered its significance, for I did not doubt that it held some meaning for me. My initial gratitude for that derelict room had been overtaken by bewilderment, as I contemplated that gap in the wall, which was nevertheless too small to be of any use. No one could enter through it, nor could I use it to get out. Yet it was unmistakeably a feature of the room, as was the urgency of the business that had brought me to this place. Half open, under the fluttering strips of wallpaper that revealed rather than concealed it, it was the room’s most salient feature. As I had woken from this dream I had been impressed by the feeling of dread that must accompany any return to that room. No good could come of my presence there, even less of my absence. The room was my destiny, and the gratitude with which I had initially warmed to it was the most dreadful feature of all.

I returned to Nice a day earlier than anticipated, for I had nothing to do in London. Again the journey was a relief, and I wondered whether I should seek refuge in aeroplanes in the unguessable future. This return would be problematic. I had no work, no reason to stay in my room—my real room—and no real reason, save one, to be out of it either. I took M. Cottin the packets of biscuits he liked, and I thought his thanks less fervent than usual. His expression was grave, as if I had somehow displeased him. Then he told me there had been a telephone call from the Résidence Sainte Thérèse that very morning. There was no message, but perhaps I should call back? The telephone was at my disposal. No need to leave any money.

‘Mademoiselle,’
said Sœur Elisabeth.
‘Votre maman est au plus mal. On vous attend.’

This, then, was the dread, not the room with the gap in the wall, the significance of which was now clear to me, as was the nature of the business which had brought me to this place. My business was, and always had been, my mother; however much I repudiated the idea it refused to go away. That was why my own hopes and plans had been so tentative, so nebulous. My life had become a stasis I was unable to alter in any direction; that was why every other enterprise seemed beyond me, beyond even my eventual possibilities. My timid affections remained timid for that very reason; they were prevented from moving forward, for I was a prisoner in that room, and until the gap widened I could not proceed. And my fear was that the gap would yawn so wide that the whole wall would collapse, and the room with it. My life was that poor room, with its enigmatic opening, the purpose of which was not to let me out but to have me contemplate it for so long that I could no longer relate to the rest of life, even though that life was my own.

I found my mother in bed, under the black wooden crucifix, and I was struck by the beauty of her expression. Her eyes were open, but her head was turned slightly to one side, as if she were listening to inner voices. One of the sisters had dressed her in a clean nightgown, prior to her being taken to the clinic, for the rule was that no one died at the Résidence Sainte Thérèse, at least not on the premises. The incongruous pink nightgown sat lightly on her slight frame, and I saw how thin she had become. She looked neither sad nor frightened, merely preoccupied, and I did not immediately see the reason for Sœur Elisabeth’s telephone call, her note of unmistakeable urgency. For my mother was surely resting: her eyes were not even closed. Her arms lay quietly on the sheet, and from time to time one of the sisters would take her pulse. Dr Lagarde, I was told, was in the office, on the telephone, making arrangements for the transfer.

‘Mama,’ I said. ‘Mama,’ for these brief childish syllables were now the only ones I had to offer.

I tried not to watch as the attendants lifted her from the bed. I had no sensation of the ride in the ambulance, though it evidently took place, for within half an hour of my arrival I was installed in my mother’s room, by her side, her hand in mine. Her eyes were now closed, as if the effort of leaving the Résidence Sainte Thérèse had exhausted her. From time to time a nurse, not one of the ones I remembered, would come in and palpate her wrist and throat. Then her hand was returned to mine. I longed for her to speak to me, if only to murmur my name; I longed for a sign of recognition that she knew me, knew that I was there, that I would never leave her again. Once she stirred, and I bent over her, but then she was still again. Someone placed a cup of coffee in front of me. When I looked up I saw that the sky beyond the window was quite dark.

The vigil lasted all night, as I had known it would. It seemed fitting that it should do so. At no time did my mother appear conscious of where she was, yet I had the impression that she knew that I was with her. The eyes opened from time to time, but closed thankfully once more. It was clear that she would not speak: her concentration on what was taking place was too great. Yet she was not, or did not seem to be, in any sort of anguish, which I should have expected to be part of the process. She seemed to rest her head so lightly on the pillow, turned slightly towards me, as if she could see me, or would see me, once she summoned the strength to do so. Then her eyes closed for ever, and I knew that of the two of us I was the more alone.

I must have slept briefly, for when the door opened and the nurse came in, the room was once more filled with light. Dr Lagarde was summoned to certify that death had taken place. He had the sense, or the tact, to say nothing, merely laid a hand briefly on my arm, and gave instructions in a muted voice. The nurse shocked me by opening the window, by moving noisily about the room. Beyond the door I could hear the ordinary sounds of early morning. Once more a cup of coffee was put before me. These people were never less than kind.

Dr Balbi, I was told, was absent, but if I cared to wait in his office Dr Lagarde would come and talk to me. I sat down quite calmly in the accustomed chair, as if waiting for further news. My mother’s illness, though technically attributable to heart failure, seemed to me more than ever an affair of the spirit, of a spirit too easily broken. Dr Lagarde seemed to be of the same opinion. He was crestfallen, until I warmly expressed my gratitude, at which he was plainly relieved. He explained what arrangements had to be made, unless I wished to take her body back to England. At this point I must have changed colour, for I found him at my side with a glass of water in his hand. I assured him that I was quite composed; what I wanted was for him to go away and leave me in communion with the events of that long night. Yet I felt nothing but a deep sense of preoccupation, as if there were no end to this mystery, although the end had already come about. When I looked up again the room was empty. I was free to leave.

And so, to borrow David Copperfield’s words, I lost her. In the street the weather was unclouded; there was a smell of coffee and washed pavements. At some point I should have to go back to the clinic, if only to pay the bill. This could be done later in the day, for I had no patience for such contingencies, no capacity for them either. The distractions of the past few days had merged into one major distraction and into one unanswerable question: how to live now? I needed no friend to whisper insidiously that life would be simpler, for I already knew that. Life would be simpler, but it would not be better. The world would be a lonelier place, and no amount of rationalization could alter this. At the same time I knew that this was a rite of passage which all must undergo, and there was even a sort of relief in acknowledging that this experience was part of the human condition. What hurt most was the realization that I must return to her room and collect her belongings, for the room was already earmarked for another. The pitifully small suitcase I had packed for her to take to the clinic was still in Dr Balbi’s office, for I could not bear to confront the fact that it would no longer be needed, could not bear to pick it up and walk out with it, as though setting the seal on the inevitable. I wanted to be empty-handed on this fine morning, to be out of touch, to be unavailable. Despite the pressing decisions that awaited me I wanted to be alone. Even now various busy persons, people in authority, were expecting me to tell them what I had in mind for the funeral. This was laughable. Any funeral would be irrelevant. Therefore any funeral would do.

In the rue de France M. Cottin came out from behind the counter of the shop when he saw my face, sighed, and shook my hand. I found that I could not bear to be in my room, although it was recognizably an ordinary room, not the room of the dream with its gap in the wall. I needed no one to explain the meaning of the dream, the symbolism of that exit—for it was an exit rather than an entrance; I saw that now. The walls of my real room were intact; the room was shadowy, as it had always been, but it contained no hidden surprises. Its very blankness signified that it had served its purpose and would shortly be returned to anonymity. For I should have no further use for it, should take my leave of M. Cottin, and go home, the home that my mother had professed to long for, or so she said. Now I wondered. She had not been homesick; she had been displaced. This was the condition that so perplexed her and which seemed to continue to perplex her even when death itself was overtaking her. For she had known that death was near. The open eyes had looked beyond me, as if there were matters of greater interest to absorb her. That was why after speaking her name once I had said no more.

I believe I spent the day in the garden of the Musée Masséna, as I had once loved to do. I found my usual seat, and must have stayed there for several hours. Only when I felt faint did I realize that it might be wise to eat something. I found a noisy bar with a radio playing and ate the two stale croissants that had been left over from early that morning. Instinct told me that I would need all my strength for the days ahead. I went home and washed myself thoroughly, as if preparing for some ultimate ceremony. It was evening once more when I emerged, as ready as I should ever be for what lay ahead.

The disappearance of the sun saddened me, as it always did. The painter’s pronouncement—the sun is God—still held good. Creativity seemed called for, though I had none to offer. I had no sense of a possible future, only of the innumerable tasks that lay ahead. I now had to do caretaker’s work: there were arrangements to be made, people to be advised, explanations to be offered to those who might be kind enough to inquire. Life was hugely complicated, as it had not been when my mother was alive. Then my steps had taken me from the rue de France to the rue Droite, with very few deviations. Of my evening walks I preferred not to think, or of that strange freedom, that inevitability with which I recognized a known face. That inevitability had been an illusion. I had registered as interest what had been no more than a taciturn kindness. Wanting more I had gained less.

Though I knew where I was going I lingered in the emptying streets, longing for any sign of life, of recognition, to help me through the night I would have to endure. I even delayed my arrival at the clinic, for the business was now finished and I knew that no one awaited me. I should have been there all day, I now realized, should have wept, have asked anxious questions to which I already knew the answer. Instead of which I had spent the afternoon like a tourist, and now, like a tourist, must take up my life again. The sight of the clinic alarmed me, so that instinctively I turned into a café and sat down at a table. I ordered coffee, though my heart was beating strongly. I put my hand to my throat, as I had seen my mother do, as if I were ready to join her in whatever malady had caused her physical death. For her spiritual death had taken place some time ago. Her removal to unfamiliar places, one after the other, had so undermined her that only a memory of home, or an illusion of home, had kept her intact for a while. That illusion had not lasted, and even the petty irritants of the Résidence Sainte Thérèse had become threatening. It had been, in its way, a death foretold, and for better or for worse we had both known it.

When I looked up, and wiped my eyes, Dr Balbi was sitting opposite me. ‘You have heard?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I thought I might find you here.’ But this was the preamble to another sort of encounter, or even the beginning of a prepared speech, one that might prove to be out of place in the present circumstances. ‘Do you want to walk?’ he asked.

‘No. I have done all the walking I shall ever do. You will not see me on the beach again at night. Do you know that I always looked for you?’

Now I had embarrassed him. There was no sign that this day would ever end, that I could say goodbye to sadness and confusion.

‘You knew that she was dying?’ I asked.

‘I thought so, yes. As you did.’

‘Did I? I suppose I did. Yet I rejected the idea so thoroughly that I managed to believe the opposite. Or I thought I did. Did you come looking for me? Not now, before. I wanted to believe that you did. I had no one else, you see. I’m sorry if I was a nuisance. I didn’t mean to be. I wanted to be self-confident, even a little high-handed, as if you were merely some sort of functionary, someone who was paid to carry out certain duties. I am so very sorry, sorry that I failed to be that person. It would have been so much easier to say goodbye, easier too for you to dismiss me, as you must have been yearning to do . . . ’