By Christopher Isherwood 7 страница

Jim used to say that she kept the garage blocked in order not to be able to

own a car. In any case, she absolutely refuses to learn to drive. If she needs

to go someplace and no one offers to give her a ride, well then, that's too

bad, she can't go. But the neighbors nearly always do help her; she has them

 

utterly intimidated and bewitched by this Britishness which George himself

knows so well how to em-ploy, though with a different approach.

 

The house next to Charlotte's is on the street level. As you begin to

climb her steps, you get an intimate glimpse of domestic squalor through its

bathroom window (it must be frankly admitted that Soledad is one whole

degree socially inferior to Camphor Tree Lane): a tub hung with panties and

diapers, a douche bag slung over the shower pipe, a plumber's snake on the

floor. None of the neighbors' kids are visible now, but you can see how the

hillside above their home has been trampled into a brick-hard slippery

surface with nothing alive on it but some cactus. At the top of the slope there

is a contraption like a gallows, with a net for basketball attached to it.

 

Charlotte's slice of the hill can still just be described as a garden. It is

terraced, and a few of the roses on it are in bloom. But they have been sadly

neglected; when Charley is in one of her depressive moods, even the poor

plants must suffer for it. They have been allowed to grow out into a tangle of

long thorny shoots, with the weeds thick between them.

 

George climbs slowly, taking it easy. (Only the very young are not

ashamed to arrive panting.) These outdoor staircases are a feature of the

neighborhood. A few of them have the original signs on their steps which

were painted by the bohemian colonists and addressed, apparently, to guests

who were clambering upstairs on their hands and knees, drunk: Upward and

onward. Never weaken. You're in bad shape, sport. Hey--you can't die here!

Ain't this heaven?

 

The staircases have become, as it were, the instruments of the

colonists' posthumous vengeance on their supplanters, the modern

housewives; for they defy all labor-saving devices. Short of bringing in a

giant crane, there is absolutely no way of getting anything up them except by

hand. The icebox, the stove, the bathtub and all of the furniture have had to

be pushed and dragged up to Charley's by strong, savagely cursing men.

Who then clapped on huge extra charges and expected triple tips.

 

Charley comes out of the house as he nears the top. She has been

watching for him, as usual, and no doubt fearing some last-moment change

in his plans. They meet on the tiny unsafe wooden porch outside the front

door, and hug. George feels her soft bulky body pressed against his. Then,

abruptly, she releases him with a smart pat on the back, as much as to show

him that she isn't going to overdo the affection; she knows when enough is

enough.

 

"Come along in with you," she says.

 

Before following her indoors, George casts a glance out over the little

valley to the line of boardwalk lamps where the beach begins and the dark

 

unseen ocean. This is a mild windless night, with streaks of sea fog dimming

the lights in the houses below. From this porch, when the fog is really thick,

you can't see the houses at all and the lights are just blurs, and Charlotte's

nest seems marvelously remote from everywhere else in the world.

 

It is a simple rectangular box, one of those prefabs which were put up

right after the war. Newspapers enthused over them, they were acclaimed as

the homes of the future; but they didn't catch on. The living room is floored

with tatami, and more than somewhat Oriental-gift-shop in decor. A

teahouse lantern by the door, wind bells at the windows, a huge red paper

fish-kite pinned to the wall. Two picture scrolls: a madly Japanese tiger

snarling at a swooping (American?) eagle; an immortal sitting under a tree,

with half a dozen twenty-foot hairs growing out of his chin. Three low

couches littered with gay silk cushions, too tiny for any useful purpose but

perfect for throwing at people.

 

"I say, I've just realized that there's a most ghastly smell of cooking in

here!" Charlotte exclaims. There certainly is. George answers politely that

it's a delicious smell and that it makes him hungry.

 

"I'm trying a new kind of stew, as a matter of fact. I got the idea from

a marvelous travel book Myrna Custer just brought me--about Borneo. Only

the author gets slightly vague, so I've had to improvise a bit. I mean, he

doesn't come right out and say so, but I have a suspicion that one's supposed

to make it with human flesh. Actually, I've used leftovers from a joint..."

 

She is a lot younger than George--forty-five next birthday--but,

already, like him, she is a survivor. She has the survivor's typical battered

doggedness. To judge from photographs, she was adequately pretty as long

as her big gray eyes were combined with soft youthful coloring. Her poor

cheeks are swollen and inflamed now, and her hair, which must once have

made a charming blur around her face, is merely untidy. Nevertheless, she

hasn't given up. Her dress shows a grotesque kind of gallantry, ill-advised

but endearing: an embroidered peasant blouse in bold colors, red, yellow and

violet, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; a gipsyish Mexican skirt

which looks as if she had girded it on like a blanket, with a silver-studded

cowboy belt--it only emphasizes her lack of shape. Oh, and if she must wear

sandals with bare feet, why won't she make up her toenails? (Maybe a

lingering middle-class Midlands puritanism is in operation here.) Jim once

said to her kiddingly about a similar outfit, "I see you've adopted our native

costume, Charley." She laughed, not at all offended, but she didn't get the

point. She hasn't gotten it yet. This is her idea of informal Californian

playwear, and she honestly cannot see that she dresses any differently from

Mrs. Peabody next door.

 

 

"Have I told you, Geo? No, I'm sure I haven't. I've already made two

New Year's resolutions--only they're effective immediately. The first is, I'm

going to admit that I loathe bourbon." (She pronounces it like the dynasty,

not the drink.) "I've been pretending not to, ever since I came to this country-

-all because Buddy drank it. But, let's face it, who do I think I'm kidding

now?" She smiles at George very bravely and brightly, reassuring him that

this is not a prelude to an attack of the Buddy-blues; then quickly continues,

"My other resolution is that I'm going to stop denying that that infuriating

accusation is true: Women do mix drinks too strong, damn it! I suppose it's

part of our terrible anxiety to please. So let's begin the new regime as of

now, shall we? You come and mix your own drink and mine too--and I'd

like a vodka and tonic, please."

 

She has obviously had at least a couple already. Her hands fumble as

she lights a cigarette. (The Indonesian ashtray is full, as usual, of lipstick-

marked stubs.) Then she leads the way into the kitchen with her curious

rolling gait which is nearly a limp, suggesting arthritis and the kind of

toughness that goes with it.

 

"It was sweet of you to come tonight, Geo."

 

He grins suitably, says nothing.

 

"You broke your other appointment, didn't you?"

 

"I did not! I told you on the phone--these people canceled at the last

minute--"

 

"Oh, Geo dear, come off it! You know, I sometimes think, about you,

whenever you do something really sweet, you're ashamed of it afterwards!

You knew jolly well how badly I needed you tonight, so you broke that

appointment. I could tell you were fibbing, the minute you opened your

mouth! You and I can't pull the wool over each other's eyes. I found that out,

long ago. Haven't you--after all these years?"

 

"I certainly should have," he agrees, smiling and thinking what an

absurd and universally accepted bit of nonsense it is that your best friends

must necessarily be the ones who best understand you. As if there weren't far

too much understanding in the world already; above all, that understanding

between lovers, celebrated in song and story, which is actually such torture

that no two of them can bear it without frequent separations or fights. Dear

old Charley, he thinks, as he fixes their snorts in her cluttered, none-too-

clean kitchen, how could I have gotten through these last years without your

wonderful lack of perception? How many times, when Jim and I had been

quarreling and came to visit you--sulking, avoiding each other's eyes, talking

to each other only through you--did you somehow bring us together again by

the sheer power of your unawareness that anything was wrong?

 

 

And now, as George pours the vodka (giving her a light one, to slow

her down) and the Scotch (giving himself a heavier one, to catch up on), he

begins to feel this utterly mysterious unsensational thing--not bliss, not

ecstasy, not joy--just plain happiness. Das Glueck, le bonheur, la felicidad--

they have given it all three genders, but one has to admit, however

grudgingly, that the Spanish are right; it is usually feminine, that's to say,

woman-created. Charley creates it astonishingly often; this doubtless is

something else she isn't aware of, since she can do it even when she herself

is miserable. As for George, his felicidad is sublimely selfish; he can enjoy it

unperturbed while Charley is in the midst of Buddy-blues or a Fred-crisis

(one is brewing this evening, obviously). However, there are unlucky

occasions when you get her blues without your felicidad, and it's a graveyard

bore. But not this evening. This evening he is going to enjoy himself.

 

Charlotte, meanwhile, has peeked into the oven and then closed its

door again, announcing, "Twenty more minutes," with the absolute

confidence of a great chef, which by God she isn't.

 

As they walk back into the living room with their drinks, she tells

him, "Fred called me--late last night." This is said in her flat, underplayed

crisis-tone.

 

"Oh?" George manages to sound sufficiently surprised. "Where is he

now?"

 

"Palo Alto." Charlotte sits down on the couch under the paper fish,

with conscious drama, as though she has said, "Siberia."

 

"Palo Alto--he was there before, wasn't he?"

 

"Of course he was. That's where that girl lives. He's with her,

naturally... I must learn not to say 'that girl.' She's got a perfectly good name,

and I can hardly pretend I don't know it: Loretta Marcus. Anyhow, it's none

of my business who Fred's with or what she does with Fred. Her mother

doesn't seem to care. Well, never mind any of that.... We had a long talk.

This time, he really was quite sweet and reasonable about the whole

situation. At least, I could feel how hard he was trying to be... Geo, it's no

good our going on like this. He has made up his mind, really and truly. He

wants a complete break."

 

Her voice is trembling ominously. George says without conviction,

"He's awfully young, still."

 

"He's awfully old for his age. Even two years ago he could have

looked after himself if he'd had to. Just because he's a minor, I can't treat him

like a child--I mean, and use the law to make him come back. Besides, then,

he'd never forgive me--"

 

"He's changed his mind before this."

 

 

"Oh, I know. And I know you think he hasn't behaved well to me,

Geo. I don't blame you for thinking that. I mean, it's natural for you to take

my side. And then, you've never had any children of your own. You don't

mind my saying that, Geo dear? Oh, I'm sorry--"

 

"Don't be silly, Charley."

 

"Even if you had had children, it wouldn't really be the same. This

mother and son thing--I mean, especially when you've had to bring him up

without a father--that's really hell. I mean, you try and you try--but

everything you do or say seems to turn out wrong. I smother him--he said

that to me once. At first I couldn't understand--I just couldn't accept it--but

now I do--I've got to--and I honestly think I do--he must live his own life--

right away from me--even if he begs me to, I simply mustn't see him for a

long long while--I'm sorry, Geo--I didn't mean to do this--I'm so--sorry--"

 

George moves closer to her on the couch, puts one arm around her,

squeezes her sobbing plumpness gently, without speaking. He is not cold; he

is not unmoved. He is truly sorry for Charley and this mess--and yet--la

felicidad remains intact; he is very much at his case. With his free hand, he

helps himself to a sip of his drink, being careful not to let the movement be

felt through the engaged side of his body.

 

But how very strange to sit here with Charley sobbing and remember

that night when the long-distance call came through from Ohio. An uncle of

Jim's whom he'd never met--trying to be sympathetic, even admitting

George's right to a small honorary share in the sacred family grief--but then,

as they talked, becoming a bit chilled by George's laconic Yes, I see, yes, his

curt No, thank you, to the funeral invitation--deciding no doubt that this

much talked of roommate hadn't been such a close friend, after all.... And

then, at least five minutes after George had put down the phone when the

first shock wave hit, when the meaningless news suddenly meant exactly

what it said, his blundering gasping run up the hill in the dark, his blind

stumbling on the steps, banging at Charley's door, crying blubbering

howling on her shoulder, in her lap, all over her; and Charley squeezing him,

stroking his hair, telling him the usual stuff one tells.... Late next afternoon,

as he shook himself out of the daze of the sleeping pills she'd given him, he

felt only disgust: I betrayed you, Jim; I betrayed our life together; I made

you into a sob story for a skirt. But that was just hysteria, part of the second

shock wave. It soon passed. And meanwhile Charley, bless her silly heart,

took the situation over more and more completely--cooking his meals and

bringing them down to the house while he was out, the dishes wrapped in

tinfoil ready to be reheated; leaving him notes urging him to call her at any

hour he felt the need, the deader of night the better; hiding the truth from her

 

friends with such visibly sealed lips that they must surely have suspected

Jim had fled the state after some sex scandal--until at last she had turned

Jim's death into something of her own creation entirely, a roaring farce.

(George is grinning to himself, now.) Oh yes indeed, he is glad that he ran to

her that night. That night, in purest ignorance, she taught him a lesson he

will never forget--namely, that you can't betray (that idiotic expression!) a

Jim, or a life with a Jim, even if you try to.

 

By now, Charlotte has sobbed herself into a calm. After a couple of

sniffs, she says "Sorry" again, and stops.

 

"I keep wondering just when it began to go wrong."

 

"Oh, Charley, for heaven's sake, what good does that do?"

 

"Of course, if Buddy and I had stayed together--"

 

"No one can say that was your fault."

 

"It's always both people's."

 

"Do you hear from him nowadays?"

 

"Oh yes, every so often. They're still in Scranton.

 

He's out of a job. And Debbie just had another baby that's their third--

another daughter. I can't think how they manage. I keep trying to stop him

sending any more money, even though it is for Fred. But he's so obstinate,

poor lamb, when he thinks something's his duty. Well, from now on, I

suppose he and Fred will have to work that out between them. I'm out of the

picture altogether--"

 

There is a bleak little pause. George gives her an encouraging pat on

the shoulder. "How about a couple of quick ones before that stew?"

 

"I think that's a positively brilliant idea!" She laughs quite gaily. But

then, as he takes the glass from her, she strokes his hand with a momentary

return to pathos, "You're so damned good to me, Geo." Her eyes fill with

tears. However, he can decently pretend that he hasn't noticed them, so he

walks away.

 

If I'd been the one the truck hit, he says to himself, as he enters the

kitchen, Jim would be right here, this very evening, walking through this

doorway, carrying these two glasses. Things are as simple as that.

 

SO here we are," Charlotte says, "just the two of us. Just you and me."

 

They are drinking their coffee after dinner. The stew turned out quite

a success, though not noticeably different from all Charlotte's other stews, its

relationship to Borneo being almost entirely literary.

 

"Just the two of us," she repeats.

 

 

George smiles at her vaguely, not sure yet if this is a lead-in to

something, or only sententious-sentimental warmth arising from the wine.

They had about a bottle and a half between them.

 

But then, slowly, thoughtfully, as though this were a mere bit of

irrelevant feminine musing, she adds, "I suppose, in a day or two, I must get

around to cleaning out Fred's room."

 

A pause.

 

"I mean, until I've done that, I won't feel that everything's really over.

You have to do something, to convince yourself. You know what I mean?"

 

"Yes, Charley. I think so."

 

"I shall send Fred anything he needs, of course. The rest I can store

away. There's heaps of space under the house."

 

"Are you planning to rent his room?" George asks--because, if she is

leading up to something, they may as well get to it.

 

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly do that. Well, not to a stranger, anyhow.

One couldn't offer him any real privacy. He'd have to be part of the family--

oh dear, I must stop using that expression, it's only force of habit.... Still, you

understand, Geo. It would have to be someone I knew most awfully well--"

 

"I can see that."

 

"You know, you and I--it's funny--we're really in the same boat now.

Our houses are kind of too big for us, and yet they're too small."

 

"Depending on which way you look at it."

 

"Yes.... Geo darling--if I ask you something--it's not that I'm trying to

pry or anything--"

 

"Go ahead."

 

"Now that--well, now that some time has gone by--do you still feel

that you want to live alone?"

 

"I never wanted to live alone, Charley."

 

"Oh, I know! Forgive me. I never meant--"

 

"I know you didn't. That's perfectly all right."

 

"Of course, I know how you must feel about that house of yours.

You've never thought of moving, have you?"

 

"No--not seriously."

 

"No--" (This is a bit wistful.) "I suppose you wouldn't. I suppose--as

long as you stay there--you feel closer to Jim. Isn't that it?"

 

"Maybe that's it."

 

She reaches over and gives his hand a long squeeze of deep

understanding. Then, stubbing out her cigarette (brave, now, for both of

them), she says brightly, "Would you like to get us some drinks, Geo?"

 

"The dishes, first."

 

 

"Oh, but, darling, let's leave them, please! I'll wash them in the

morning. I mean, I'd like to. It gives me something to do these days. There's

so little--"

 

"No arguments, Charley! If you won't help me, I'll do them alone."

 

"Oh, Geo!"

 

AND now, half an hour later, they're back in the living room again, with

fresh drinks in their hands.

 

"How can you pretend you don't love it?" she is asking him, with a

teasing, coquettish reproachfulness. "And you miss it--you wish you were

back there--you know you do!" This is one of her favorite themes.

 

"I'm not pretending anything, Charley, for heaven's sake! You keep

ignoring the fact that I have been back there, several times; and you haven't.

I'm absolutely willing to admit that I like it better every time I do go. In fact,

right now I think it's probably the most extraordinary country in the world--

because it's such a marvelous mix-up. Everything's changed, and yet nothing

has. I don't believe I ever told you this--last year, in the middle of the

summer, when Jim and I were over there, you remember, we made a trip

through the Cotswolds. Well, one morning we were on this little branch-line

train, and we stopped at a village which was right out of a Tennyson poem--

sleepy meadows all around, and lazy cows, and moaning doves, and

immemorial elms, and the Elizabethan manor house showing through the

trees. And there, on the platform, were two porters dressed just the same

way porters have been dressed since the nineteenth century. Only they were

Negroes from Trinidad. And the ticket collector at the gate was Chinese. I

nearly died of joy. I mean, it was the one touch that had been lacking, all

these years. It finally made the whole place perfect--"

 

"I'm not sure how I should like that part of it," says Charlotte. Her

romanticism has received a jolt, as he knew it would. Indeed, he has told this

story to tease her. But she won't be put off. She wants more. She is just in

the mood for tipsy daydreaming. "And then you went up North, didn't you,"

she prompts him, "to look at the house you were born in?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Tell me about it!"

 

"Oh, Charley--I've told you dozens of times!"

 

"Tell me again--please, Geo!"

 

She is as persistent as a child; and George can seldom refuse her,

especially after he's had a few drinks.

 

 

"It used to be a farmhouse, you know. It was built in 1649--the year

they beheaded Charles the First--"

 

"1649! Oh, Geo--just think of it!"

 

"There are several other farms in the neighborhood much older than

that. Of course, it's had a lot of alterations. The people who live there now--

he's a television producer in Manchester--have practically rebuilt the inside

of it. Put in a new staircase and an extra bathroom and modernized the

kitchen. And the other day they wrote me that they now have central

heating."

 

"How horrible! There ought to be a law against ruining beautiful old

houses. This craze for bringing things up to date--I suppose they've caught it

from this bloody country."

 

"Don't be a goose, Charley darling! The place was all but

uninhabitable the way it was. It's built of that local stone which seems to

suck up every drop of moisture in the air. And there's plenty, in that ghastly

climate. Even in summer the walls used to be clammy; and in winter, if you

went into a room where the fire hadn't been lighted for a few days, it was

cold as death. The cellar actually smelt like a tomb. Mold was always

forming on the books, and the wallpaper kept peeling off, and the mounts of

the pictures were spotted with damp...."

 

"Whatever you say about it, darling, you always make it sound so

marvelously romantic. Exactly like Wuthering Heights!"

 

"Actually, it's almost suburban nowadays. You walk down a short

lane and there you are, on the main road, with buses running every twenty

minutes into Manchester."

 

"But didn't you tell me the house is on the edge of the moors?"

 

"Well, yes--so it is. That's what's so odd about it. It's kind of in two

worlds. When you look out from the back--from the room I was born in, as a

matter of fact--that view literally hasn't changed since I was a boy. You still

see hardly any houses--just the open hills, and the stone walls running over

them, and a few little whitewashed dots of farms. And of course the trees

around the old farmyard were planted long, long before I was born, to shelter

the house--there's a lot of wind up there, on the ridge--great big beech trees--

they make a sort of seething sound, like waves--that's one of the earliest

sounds I remember. I sometimes wonder if that's why I always have had this

thing about wanting to live near the ocean--"

 

Something is happening to George. To please Charley, he has started

to make magic; and now the magic is taking hold of him. He is quite aware

of this--but what's the harm? It's fun. It adds a new dimension to being

drunk. Just as long as there's no one to hear him but Charley! She is sighing

 

deeply now with sympathy and delight--the delight of an addict when

someone else admits he's hooked, too.

 

"There's a little pub high up on the moors, the very last house in the

village--actually it's on the old coaching road over the hills, which hardly

anyone uses now. Jim and I used to go there in the evenings. It's called The

Farmer's Boy. The bar parlor has one of those low, very heavy-looking

ceilings, you know, with warped oak beams; and there's a big open fire-

place. And some foxes' masks mounted on the wall. And an engraving of

Queen Victoria riding a pony in the Highlands--"

 

Charlotte is so delighted that she actually claps her hands. "Geo! Oh, I

can just see it all!"

 

"One night we were there, they stayed open extra late, because it was

Jim's birthday--that is, they shut the outside door and went right on serving

drinks. We felt marvelously cozy, and we drank pints and pints of Guinness,

far more than we wanted, just because it was illegal. And then there was àcharacter'--that was how they all described him--`0h, he's a character, he is!'

named Rex, who was a kind of a rustic beat. He worked as a farm laborer,

but only when he absolutely had to. He started talking in a very superior tone