The Love Object (15 page)

When she entered the vast kitchen the first thing the servants did was to smile. Women in black, with soft-soled shoes, all smiling, no complicity in any of those smiles. She had brought with her a phrase book, a notebook and an English cookery book. The kitchen was like a laboratory – various white machines stationed against the walls, refrigerators churtling at different speeds, a fan over each of the electric cookers, the red and green lights on the dials faintly menacing as if they were about to issue an alarm. There was a huge fish on the table. It had been speared that morning by the men. Its mouth was open; its eyes so close together that they barely missed being one eye; its lower lip gaped pathetically. The fins were black and matted with oil. They all stood and looked at it, she and the seven or eight willing women to whom she must make herself understood. When she sat to copy the recipe from the English book and translate it into their language they turned on another fan. Already they were chopping for the evening meal. Three young girls chopped onions, tomatoes and peppers. They seemed to take pleasure in their tasks, they seemed to smile into the mounds of vegetable that they so diligently chopped.

There were eight picnic baskets to be taken on the boat. And armfuls of towels. The children begged to be allowed to carry the towels. He had the zip bag with the wine bottles. He shook the bag so that the bottles rattled in their surrounds of ice. The guests smiled. He had a way of drawing people into his mood without having to say or do much. Conversely he had a way of locking people out. Both things were mesmerizing. They crossed the four fields that led to the sea. The figs were hard and green. The sun played like a blowlamp upon her back and neck. He said that she would have to lather herself in sun-oil. It seemed oddly hostile, his saying it out loud like that, in front of the others. As they got nearer the water she felt her heart race. The water was all shimmer. Some swam out, some got in the rowing boat. Trailing her hand in the crinkled surface of the water she thought it is not cramp, jellyfish, or broken glass that I fear, it is something else. A ladder was dropped down at the side of the boat, for the swimmers to climb in from the sea. Sandals had to be kicked off as they stepped inside. The floor was of blond wood and burning hot. Swimmers had to have their feet inspected for tar marks. The boatman stood with a pad of cotton soaked in petrol ready to rub the marks. The men busied themselves – one helped to get the engine going, a couple put awnings up, others carried out large striped cushions, and scattered them under the awnings. Two boys refused to come on board.

‘It is pleasant to bash my little brother up under water,’ a young boy said, his voice at once menacing and melodious.

She smiled and went down steps where there was a kitchen, and sleeping quarters with beds for four. He followed her. He looked, inhaled deeply and murmured.

‘Take it out,’ she said, ‘I want it now, now.’ Timorous and whim mad. How he loved it. How he loved that imperative. He pushed the door and she watched as he struggled to take down the shorts, but could not get die cord undone. He was the awkward one now. How he stumbled. She waited for one excruciating moment and made him wait. Then she knelt and as she began he muttered between clenched teeth. He who could tame animals was defenceless in this. She applied herself to it, sucking, sucking, sucking with all the hunger that she felt and all the simulated hunger that she liked him to think she felt. Threatening to maim him she always just grazed with the edges of her fine square teeth. Nobody intruded. It took no more than minutes. She stayed behind for a decent interval. She felt thirsty. In the window ledge there were paperback books and bottles of sun-oil. Also a spare pair of shorts that had the names of all the likely things in the world printed on them – the names of drinks and capital cities and the flags of each nation. The sea through the porthole was a small, harmless globule of blue.

They passed out of the harbour, away from the three other boats and the settlement of pines. Soon there was only sea and rock, no reedy inlets, no towns. Mile after mile of hallucinating sea. The madness of mariners conveyed itself to her, the illusion that it was land, and that she could traverse it. A land that led to nowhere. The rocks had been reduced to every shape that the eye and the mind could comprehend. Near the water there were openings that had been forced through by the sea – some rapacious, some large enough for a small boat to slink in under, some as small and unsettling as the sockets of eyes. The trees on the sheer faces of these rocks were no more than the struggle to be trees. Birds could not perch there, let alone nest. She tried not to remember the swimming lesson, to postpone remembering until the afternoon, until the next lesson.

She came out and joined them. A young girl sat at the stern, among the cushions, playing a guitar. She wore long silver spatula-shaped ear-rings. A self-appointed gipsy. The children were playing ‘I Spy’ but finding it hard to locate new objects. They were confined to the things they could see around them: By standing she found that the wind and the spray from the water kept her cool; The mountains that were far away appeared insubstantial, but those that were near glinted when the sharp stones were favoured by the sun.

‘I find it a little unreal,’ she said to one of the men. ‘Beautiful but unreal.’ She had to shout because of the noise of the engine.

‘I don’t know what you mean by unreal,’ he said.

Their repertoire was small but effective. In the intonation the sting lay. Dreadfully subtle. Impossible to bridle over. In fact the unnerving thing about it was the terrible bewilderment it induced. Was it intended or not? She distinctly remembered a sensation of once thinking that her face was laced by a cobweb but being unable to feel it with the hand and being unable to put a finger on their purulence felt exactly the same. To each other too they transmitted small malices and then moved on to the next topic. They mostly talked of places they had been to and the people who were there; and though they talked endlessly they told nothing about themselves.

They picnicked on a small pink strand. He ate very little and afterwards he walked off. She thought to follow him, then didn’t. The children waded out to sea on a long whitened log and one of the women read everybody’s hand. She was promised an illness. When he returned he gave his large yellowish hand reluctantly. He was promised a son. She looked at him for a gratifying sign but got none. At that moment he was telling one of the men about a black sloop that he had loved as a child. She thought, What is it that he sees in me, he who loves sea, sloops, jokes, masquerades and deferment? What is it that he sees in me who loves none of those things?

Her instructor brought flat white boards. He held one end, she the other. She watched his hands carefully. They were very white from being in water. She lay on her stomach and held the boards and watched his hands in case they should let go of the board, the boards kept bobbing about and adding to her uncertainty. He said a rope would be better.

The big fish had had its bones removed and was then pieced together. A perfect decoy. Its head and its too-near eyes were gone. On her advice the housekeeper had taken the lemons out of the refrigerator so that they were like lemons now rather than bits of frozen sponge. Someone remarked on this and she felt childishly pleased. Because of a south wind a strange night exhilaration arose. They drank a lot. They discussed beautiful evenings. Evenings resurrected in them by the wine and the wind and a transient good will. One talked of watching golden cock pheasants strutting in a backyard: one talked of bantams perched on a gate at dusk, their forms like notes of music on a blank bar; no one mentioned love or family, it was scenery, or nature or a whippet that left them with the best and most serene memories. She relived a stormy night with an ass braying in a field and a blown bough fallen across a road. After dinner various couples went for walks, or swims, or to listen for children. The three men who were single went to the village to reconnoitre. Women confided the diets they were on, or the face creams that they found most beneficial. A divorcée said to her host, ‘You’ve
got
to come to bed with me, you’ve simply
got
to,’ and he smiled. It was no more than a pleasantry, another remark in a strange night’s proceedings where there were also crickets, tree frogs and the sounds of clandestine kissing. The single men came back presently and reported that the only bar was full of Germans and that the whisky was inferior. The one who had been most scornful about her swimming sat at her feet and said how awfully pretty she was. Asked her details about her life, her work, her schooling. Yet this friendliness only reinforced her view of her own solitude, her apartness. She answered each question carefully and seriously. By answering she was subscribing to her longing to fit in. He seemed a little jealous so she got up and went to him. He was not really one of them either. He simply stage-managed them for his own amusement. Away from them she almost reached him. It was as if he were bound by a knot, that maybe, maybe, she could unravel, for a long stretch, living their own life, cultivating a true emotion, independent of other people. But would they ever be away? She dared not ask. For that kind of discussion she had to substitute with a silence.

She stole into their rooms to find clues to their private selves – to see if they had brought sticking plaster, indigestion pills, face flannels, the ordinary necessities. On a dressing table there was a wig block with blonde hair very artfully curled. On the face of the block coloured sequins were arranged to represent the features of an ancient Egyptian queen. The divorcée had a baby’s pillow in a yellow muslin case. Some had carried up bottles of wine and these though not drunk were not removed. The servants only touched what was thrown on the floor or put in the wastepaper baskets. Clothes for washing were thrown on the floor. It was one of the house rules like having cocktails on the terrace at evening time. Some had written cards which she read eagerly. These cards told nothing except that it was all super.

His secretary, who was mousy, avoided her. Perhaps she knew too much. Plans he had made for the future.

She wrote to her doctor:

I am taking the tranquillizers but I don’t feel any more relaxed. Could you send me some others?

She tore it up.

Hair got tangled by the salt in the sea air. She bought some curling tongs.

One woman, who was pregnant, kept sprinkling baby powder and smoothing it over her stomach throughout the day. They always took tea together. They were friends. She thought. If this woman were not pregnant would she be so amiable? Their kind of thinking was beginning to take root in her.

The instructor put a rope over her head. She brought it down around her middle. They heard a quack-quack. She was certain that the plastic duck had uttered. She laughed as she adjusted the noose. The instructor laughed too. He held a firm grip of the rope. She threshed through the water and tried not to think of where she was. Sometimes she did it well; sometimes she had to be brought in like an old piece of lumber. She could never tell the outcome of each plunge; she never knew how it was going to be or what thoughts would suddenly obstruct her. But each time he said, ‘Lovely, lovely,’ and in his exuberance she found consolation.

A woman called Iris swam out to their yacht. She dangled in the water and with one hand gripped the sides of the boat. Her nail varnish was exquisitely applied and the nails had the glow of a rich imbued pearl. By contrast with the pearl coating the half-moons were chastely white. Her personality was like that too – full of glow. For each separate face she had a smile and a word or two for those she already knew. One of the men asked if she were in love. Love! She riled him. She said her good spirits were due to her breathing. She said life was a question of correct breathing. She had come to invite them for drinks but he declined because they were due back at the house. Some lawyers had been invited to lunch. She heard this without any regret and as she swam back to the shore, her poodle, who was waiting, yapped and she yapped back, mimicking its sound exactly. Those who had known her previously remarked on her new gaiety. At dinner he brought it up again. There was mention of her past escapades, the rows with her husband, his death which was thought to be a suicide and the unpleasant business of his burial which proved impossible on religious grounds. Finally his body having to be laid in a small paddock adjoining the public cemetery. Altogether an unsavoury story, yet dangling in the water had been this radiant woman with no traces of past harm.

‘Yes, Iris has incredible will power, incredible,’ he said.

‘For what?’ she asked, from the opposite end of the table.

‘For living,’ he said tartly.

It was not lost on others. Her jaw muscle twitched.

Again she spoke to herself, remonstrated with her hurt: ‘I try, I try, I want to fit, I want to join, be the someone who slips into a crowd of marchers when the march has already begun, but there is something in me that I call sense and it baulks at your ways. It would seem as if I am here simply to smart under your strictures.’ Retreating into dreams and monologue.

She posed for a picture. She posed beside the sculptured lady. She repeated the pose of the lady. Hands placed over each other and laid on the left shoulder, head inclining towards those hands. He took it. Click, click. The marble lady had been the sculptor’s wife and had died tragically. The hands with their unnaturally long nail fronts were the best feature of it. Click, click. When she was not looking he took another.

She found the accounts books in a desk drawer and was surprised at the entries. Things like milk and matches had to be accounted for. She thought, Is he generous at the roots? The housekeeper had left some needlework in the book. She had old-fashioned habits and resisted much of the modern kitchen equipment. She kept the milk in little pots, with muslin spread over the top. She skimmed the cream with her fat fingers, tipped the cream into small jugs for their morning coffee. What would they say to that! In the evenings when every task was done the housekeeper sat in the back veranda with her husband, doing the mending. They had laid pine branches on the roof and these had withered, and were tough as wire. Her husband made shapes from soft pieces of new white wood, and then in the dark put his penknife aside and tickled his wife’s toes. She heard them when she stole in to get some figs from the refrigerator. It was both poignant and disturbing.