The Four-Gated City. Doris Lessing

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СКАЧАТЬ Henry not being a person who knew how to share it.

      She supposed she did hide it, for in a moment he was urging her into a pub, buying her drinks, talking about the war, and radiating relief that nothing was to be asked of him.

      ‘You know, Henry, after one’s been a week here, one simply wants to put one’s arms around you – oh no, not you personally.’

      ‘Oh dear, I was rather hoping …’ said he, laughing with relief that he would have to suffer no such demonstration. He had even involuntarily glanced around to see if there was anyone near that he knew.

      ‘No, the whole island, all of you.’

      ‘Oh but why? Do tell me!’

      ‘If I could, you see, there’d be no need to feel that.’

      The exterior of Baxter’s was in no way more distinguished than that of Joe’s. A modest brown door had Baxter’s on it – just the word, nothing more. There was a window completely covered by white muslin that needed washing. Martha stood outside for a moment, holding this delicious moment known only to newcomers in a city: behind this door, which was just like so many others, what will there be? A southern courtyard with a lemon-tree beside a fountain and a masked Negro lute-player asleep? A man with a red blanket slung across his shoulder, stands by a black mule? A pale girl in sprigged muslin goes upstairs with a candle in her hand? Two old men in embroidered skullcaps play chess beside a fire? Why not? Since what actually does appear is so improbable. Last week she had opened a door by mistake on a staircase in Bayswater and a woman in a tight black waspwaisted corset, pearls lolling between two great naked breasts, stood by a cage made of gold wire the size of a fourposter bed, in which were a dozen or so brilliantly fringed and tinted birds. Martha said: ‘I’m sorry.’ The woman said: ‘If you are looking for Mr Pelham, he’s in Venice this week.’

      She went in. A man in shabby dinner clothes and sleeked-down dandruffy hair came forward, already disapproving. Through his eyes, she saw a young woman with damp hair, a damp coat, and a stretched smile. For Martha was suddenly bloody-minded, because of this man’s automatic bad manners, though she knew they were the stuff of his life and what he earned his wages for. A subordinate man, a waiter, came to stand by the first, the headwaiter. Together they surveyed her with a cold skill that cracked her into speaking first. ‘I am meeting Mr Matheson,’ she said, awkward. The two conferred, in a long silence and a swift glance. The first man turned away, to other business; and the second, having not said a word, took her, without going through the main room, to a table which was turned to one side. He pulled out a chair in which she would face a wall. He had not asked her to take off her coat. She did so, shrugging it on to the back of her chair. A lean, elderly man, whose whole life had been dedicated to the service of such minutiae, he again flicked his eyes fast over her and again with an arrogance of bad manners that astounded her, so naked did it seem to her. Her sweater and skirt were adequate. But wrong? Why? She did not know, but he did. He left her to wait.

      The place was still half full, since it was early for dinner. The people were middle-aged, or gave an appearance of being so. She saw, glancing with difficulty backwards, that there were two young people, but their youth was damped into the staid middle-aged air of the atmosphere. They, and the waiters, fitted into the décor which was designed, according to unwritten invisible rules, to fit them. The place was muted, dingy, rather dark; and no single object had any sort of charm or beauty, but had been chosen for its ability to melt into this scene. And the people had no sort of charm or flair. Yet, looking closely, things were expensive: money had been spent obviously, and since the war, to keep the restaurant exactly as it had always been: in an expensive shabbiness, dowdiness. The girl – the only one present apart from Martha, wore a black crêpey dress. It was ugly. Martha recognized this dress because before leaving ‘home’ Marjorie had told her what she would need – she gave her a list of clothes she would need, not for utility or warmth, but for occasions. ‘A uniform!’ Martha had exclaimed. This dress was part of that uniform, relating to no standard of charm or sexuality; doing nothing for the girl who wore it: it was a black dress worn with pearls, and it had a cousinship with the restaurant, its furnishings, and the people in it, who, when you looked, were good-looking, even well-built, certainly well-fed and easy. But now Martha could see perfectly well why her clothes, every bit as expensive, and certainly more attractive, that is, if clothes are to be judged by what they can do for the appearance of who wears them, would not do, and why the black dress did: she was not in the right uniform.

      The point was, not a word of what she thought could be told to Henry: he would not understand it: but when she met Jack tonight, she would only need to mention the girl’s dress, her pretty artless face and hair, the dull-flowering wall-paper, the men’s emphatically assured faces – and he would laugh and understand. And Jack would understand perfectly well when she said (though she would not need to say it) – The trouble is, you have to choose a slot to fit yourself to, you have to narrow yourself down for this stratum or that. Yet although the essence of Henry’s relation to me is that I should choose the right slot, find the right stratum, he would not understand me if I said that: he’d be embarrassed, irritated, if I said it.

      Yes, because Jack had chosen a life that freed him, he would understand all this: but he could not understand her other preoccupation, and the trouble was, the only person she had so far met who did, was Marjorie’s sister – Phoebe.

      Henry came in. Silent communications had already taken place between him and the headwaiter, because his face was prepared whimsically to accept her unsuitability for this restaurant. And all this because the weather had changed! A month ago, in another expensive dingy restaurant, she had been wearing, because of the heat, a slip-dress of black linen, and had been perfectly conformable – though much better dressed than anyone else in the restaurant, because they were over-dressed, being people who could not dress for the sun. Henry had been showing her off: slightly embarrassed, since her simplicity was challenging; and partly because, when the sun shines in England, a licence comes into power with it.

      He sat down. ‘My dear Martha, how very well you look.’

      ‘I know that my hair is wet: but I was not asked if I wanted to use the ladies – if they’ve got one at all.’

      This challenge caused him to send her a quick thoughtful look, before he looked past her head at some brown varnished wood and said: ‘I remember, about two years ago, my Aunt Maynard sent me a protégée – from Cape Town I think she was. She was very combative you know.’

      ‘My problem is, what part of Rome is one going to choose to combat?’

      ‘Hmm,’ he said.

      ‘And I had no idea Aunt Maynard’s fief extended as far as Cape Town.’ ‘Oh, one of those places.’

      Martha sat checking herself like an engine: had she eaten, had she slept, was she over-tired – no, no, yes: because her flare of anger was really so very strong. That aspect of ‘Matty’ which was brought into being by Henry was pure childish aggression. If she chose and was in control enough not to be aggressive or show hostility, then ‘Matty’ was bumbling, charming – apologetic by implication. She preferred aggression: it was a step better than the infant clown.

      Henry was looking past Martha at a man who had just come in. He was like Henry; all open good looks, charm, assurance. He smiled at Henry, and was about to come forward, but Henry smiled differently, and the man sat down behind a menu-sheet across the room.

      ‘Your partner?’

      His look was very quick now: ‘Yes.’

      ‘You had asked him to look me over, but you find I’m not lookoverable at the moment, so you’ve radared him СКАЧАТЬ