The Bay of Angels (8 page)

In contrast my mother had been kind, polite, but clearly not at ease, not only on Simon’s account but on her own. Life had not prepared her for the introduction of her daughter’s lover. I think she envisaged my life as closely resembling her own: years of pious simplicity crowned by a gift from the gods. But gifts from the gods are usually qualified; conditions are attached, the gods’ indulgence never to be taken for granted. Adam’s presence, which no one could ignore, struck her as boastful, whereas it was merely confident. But without his being in any way at fault he had introduced into their settled lives the subversive notion of sex, and, worse, sex which knew no formal boundaries. In their world, certainly in my mother’s, such behaviour had no place in other people’s houses. The difference was that she would have felt not indignation at a breach of good manners, but sadness that I was being seduced away from those standards of modesty and propriety which she had upheld with such difficulty for so many years.

Simon would have needed no such pretext for denouncing Adam, but he would also have been fascinated. For here was a man whom Simon could never have resembled, a man who took his own facility for granted, and who pleased himself in all circumstances. Simon clearly had a right to criticize Adam’s manners; in objecting to his youth and beauty he was on shakier ground. It was clear from his generosity, his fussy care, his desire to maintain the fiction that we were all devoted, and happy to be so, that Simon had never enjoyed licence. Adam’s liberty of behaviour was an affront to his whole way of life, for he too, it seemed, had been lonely and virtuous. He was old, he had grown heavy: it was impossible to ignore the contrast between them. And Simon was also rather vain, took a pride in his appearance, which was nevertheless that of a man ‘almost on the wrong side of seventy’. Faced with the sight of Adam every morning he found it easy to imagine the preceding night. All of Adam’s nights, whether known or unknown, would have offended him. And now there was no cure for the years of good behaviour, for age had dealt with them in a fashion against which there was no redress.

Adam’s fault was to understand this long before I did, so that I was concerned merely to smooth over difficulties which had to do with incompatibility, or so I thought. I was more worried about Adam’s feelings than about Simon’s, although I realized that it was a matter of some urgency to separate them. I had not, I realized, made sufficient allowance for Adam’s distaste, the distaste one might feel at having a deviant in the family. My mother’s position would have been undermined by both of them, for, left to themselves, virtuous women can entertain harmless fantasies about young men, whom they see as the sons they never had. But she was obliged to ally herself with her husband, whose elderly habits were not perhaps entirely to her taste. While Adam and I were in Paris reproaches were probably mildly voiced on either side. My mother would not have been surprised by Simon’s vehemence, for her instinct had supplied explanations not consciously taken into account. The detail of his voyeurism would be remembered when the cause of it had moved on to more accommodating prospects.

I was too sad at the irreparable effects of this on my own life to feel much sympathy for Simon, or even for my mother. Both were ill equipped to deal with modern behaviour, because they still obeyed harsher and more rigid rules. They were now beginning to understand that they too might have enjoyed their youth had they been differently taught, or less frightened of their own wishes. It was as if the Bible had been spreading false doctrines, and although neither of them was in the least religious they bore the marks of a sententious upbringing, in an era when obligations were more important than entitlements. Their incomprehension had something pitiable about it as well as ludicrous. And the embodiment of their confusion was so sincerely unapologetic that he made nonsense of their careful constraints and of who knew what disappointments they might have kept concealed.

What was clear was that they had been made unhappy, that my mother, in particular, was less happy now than she had been in the past. In the course of my next telephone call I asked if I might come to Nice for Christmas, professed a longing to see them which was sincere, for it seemed to me to be up to me to persuade them that nothing had come between the three of us. My mother’s response was so eager that I was glad of my impulse to gratify them. Other irreconcilables I would deal with on my own. If the way ahead for all of us was to be through reconciliation I was ready to play my part. My austere way of life had given me a longing for some kind of comfort, wherever it was to be found. I resolved to reserve my pity for others. For I was not altogether unfamiliar with the harsh imperatives of a doctrine which was in many ways not negotiable. I smiled with exasperation at my earlier version of a happy ending, saw belatedly that some form of ordeal was inflicted on every character in literature, and that even the gods had to make do with fairly limited powers, and were allowed only the satisfactions of caprice and rarely those of reciprocity.

The people whom I knew to be good somehow remained good in spite of themselves. Such were my mother, and possibly Simon, who gave money when he could give nothing else. The harm he had caused me had proceeded from a dreadful, because forbidden, curiosity, and from the unbearable presence in his house of someone whose behaviour he could only imagine. He too must have experienced shame, but I had little sympathy with him on that account. What made me genuinely sad was the knowledge that with the best will in the world one can still fail the test that the world sets, a test easily surmounted by those with more variable standards. I still wanted life to be conducted justly, honestly. But what if honesty brought into the open unpalatable truths, tendencies, compulsions? Honesty could hardly be its own reward in those circumstances. How strongly should one condemn a curiosity which had, perhaps, never been satisfied? The well-behaved may have many regrets, have realized too late that they might have had a more amusing time had they only seized other opportunities, precisely the opportunities from which they had obediently averted their eyes.

I now felt pity for those two people, whose moral education had been so rigid, even absurd. I considered myself to be wiser than they were in many respects, though I was in a position to measure the danger of complete enlightenment.
Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner
; I beg to differ. Total forgiveness in all circumstances seemed to me to be nothing less than hazardous, for I understood both Simon and Adam and could forgive neither of them. I understood them, that was all. This did not automatically confer indulgence but was directly responsible for my pity. One feels pity for those who are unprotected, at risk, those whose high ideals have not been met. Therefore, in some strange way, I was bound to cherish Simon and my mother, not because they were my family, or what passed for one, but because they relied on me to cement their partnership, to bring them joy. They longed to be restored to themselves, after the irruption into their lives of a person whom they saw as lawless. That this could only come about by virtue of a fantasy was of course regrettable, but it would do no harm, and possibly some good, to be lenient.

In London the days grew darker, colder. I no longer walked in the early mornings: that phase of my life was past. The streets made an attempt to be festive: Christmas decorations had been in place since October. I was almost glad to be leaving for the holidays, although I knew that re-entry would be difficult. It was the time of the year that I most dreaded. And even Easter, which would surely come, would promise little in the way of true warmth, but perhaps something more in the way of hope. Holidays would be planned: I could even take a holiday myself, but I had no use for such limitless time. I was used to being left to my own devices, though I now saw how inadequate these were.

There were crowds at the airport. What I retained from that moment of departure was a feeling of solidarity, of rightness. On the plane we congratulated ourselves on having got away on time, joked, were conversational as we might not have been at any other season of the year. We applauded as the plane landed safely, bestowed good wishes on our neighbours, prepared to confront whatever arrangements remained to be made. The man in the next seat promised to telephone me, for we were the only two people travelling alone. He handed me over to Simon, whose uplifted arm signalled me from the airport lounge, with a certain regret; with Simon so insistently present there was no room for anyone else. He seemed to me, in the instant of recognition, much older, and also more anxious, as if much time had passed since our last meeting. And also as if he had doubted that I would ever return.

My mother too seemed older. She was taking on some of her husband’s elderly characteristics. They scrutinized me timidly, lovingly, and with excessive care. I was irritated by this, but also touched by it. Who could not be? When my mother showed me the new bedspread she had bought for my room she expressed tentative hopes that I should be pleased. They were out to woo me, as if I might desert them for other pleasures, as I had before. The Thibaudets were coming to dinner, my mother told me, lingering by the bedroom door as if reluctant to let me out of her sight. They were looking forward to seeing me, she said.

‘You won’t be too bored, darling? You know you don’t have to be with us all the time. You are entirely free, you know that.’

I assured her that I should be quite happy, said that I might look up some of my former companions. She approved of this. I was to be what I had always been, someone they could trust, young, carefree, without attachments.

‘Come down when you’re ready. We’re longing to hear all your news.’

In fact they were not eager to hear any of it, fearing revelations of further liaisons. Simon, in particular, seemed to have placed an embargo on any questions, pre-empted any possible outpourings with a running bulletin of his own. His eyes sought mine constantly, but looked away when I returned his glance. He seemed ashamed, even fearful, relaxed only in the presence of the Thibaudets, who supplied any conversation that might otherwise have been lacking. Fortunately their forthcoming trip to their daughter in Philadelphia was pretext enough. Without this to look forward to, confided Armelle, she feared the doctor might have found time hanging heavy. Not that he missed his work—he was glad to be free of it—but he missed the structure that his work had previously given to the day. Had Simon felt like this on retirement? she asked. No, said Simon, I have everything I want here. His face cleared, and the look he gave my mother seemed filled with sweetness. Sweetness and gratitude. It was obvious that his own gifts to my mother had been more than reciprocated.

The two weeks passed quietly enough. I spent a lot of time out of the house, walking in the mild air. There was nothing much to do, for which I felt relieved. I was just a little concerned for my mother’s changing looks, her air of pleading concern.

‘Are you quite well, Mama?’ I asked her, as the time came for my departure.

‘Of course I am, darling. Never better. Why do you ask?’

‘You look a little thinner. Is everything all right?’

It was the nearest I ever came to soliciting information, and, as I hoped, none was forthcoming. We were both content to leave matters in abeyance, aware that to do so was the prime concern. Simon, in particular, was as benevolent as he had always been, apart from the anxious darting looks which I put down to the wariness of old age. Indeed the day could not be far distant when his age would no longer be notional but a very real factor in their lives. I saw his efforts as he got out of his chair, the determined bracing of his shoulders. But he did not impress me as infirm. We were all on our best behaviour, and we were all grateful for the harmony thus restored.

I telephoned when I got home. ‘We so enjoyed your visit, darling,’ said my mother quaintly. ‘When do we see you again? Try to come before Easter. You know you are always welcome.’ This was taking politeness too far. Was this how we were now expected to communicate? ‘Simon wants to say a few words. I’ll hand you over. Goodbye, darling. Until Saturday.’

Simon was touched by my thanks, as if he did not deserve them. ‘If there’s anything you need, Zoë, let me know. No need to worry your mother.’

He meant money. I assured him that everything had been taken care of, and thanked him again.

‘Goodbye, darling. Come back soon. We are lonely without you.’

This was clearly true. I had not been able to ignore their loneliness, so much greater than my own. I sat down and wrote a loving letter which was completely sincere. I should be back soon, I wrote. In the meantime they were to take great care of themselves. I ended it as I ended all our conversations: Love to you both.

7

What happened next had to be pieced together from several unreliable narratives; those of Mme Delgado, Dr Thibaudet, Armelle Thibaudet, and my mother, when she could finally speak.

On the telephone, rather earlier than her usual Saturday call, my mother, determinedly cheerful, told me that they had had a bit of bad luck: Simon had slipped on the terrace, fallen, and sprained his ankle. Dr Thibaudet had very kindly bound it up, though that was not, and never had been, his job, had given him strong painkillers and something to help him sleep, and advised him to rest. They were quite all right, she assured me; there was no need to worry, and certainly not to interrupt my work and fly out to see them. A sprained ankle was not an illness, and Simon was being very sensible, blaming himself for not being more careful. They both sent their love and would telephone as usual in a week’s time.

That night, Simon, no doubt confused by his sedatives, had got up, had gone into the bathroom, had trodden heavily on his injured ankle, had fallen again and cracked his head on the marble floor. My mother had heard him fall, had followed him, and had been unable to rouse him. Frightened, she had telephoned Dr Thibaudet, who had come at once. He had seen what she had not seen. He had retreated into professionalism, and into French.