Benjamin Black - Elegy For April

The bedroom door behind him opened. “Ah. Sleeping beauty has awoken at last.” Today Isabel Galloway wore not her silk wrap but an outsized pink wool dressing gown. She was smoking a cigarette. She leaned in the doorway and folded one arm into the crook of the other and regarded him with a faint, sardonic smile. “How do you feel, or need I ask?”

“About as bad as I imagine I deserve to feel. Where are my trousers?”

She pointed. “On the chair, behind you.” He pulled them on, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He was dizzy. Isabel came forward and put a hand on top of his head, pushing her fingers into his hair. “Poor you.”

He looked up at her out of suffering eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember much,” he said. “Was I very drunk?”

“I’m not sure what you’d consider very drunk.”

“Did I- did I disgrace myself?”

“You tried to get me into bed, if that’s what you mean. But then you toppled over, very slowly, rather like a tree being felled, and so my honor was preserved.”

“I’m sorry.”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh and grasped a fistful of hair and tugged it. “I hope you’re not going to keep on apologizing, are you? Nothing is as annoying for a girl as a man in the morning saying sorry. Come down, there’s coffee on.”

When she had gone he went into the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall and peered at himself in the mirror. It seemed for a moment that he was about to be sick, but then the nausea passed. He bathed his face in ice-cold water, gasping softly.

In the kitchen Isabel was standing by the stove, waiting for the percolator to come to the boil. She saw him looking at her dressing gown. “The silk one was for effect,” she said. “My bottom was blue as a baboon’s by the time you left.” He looked at her socks, too; they were thick and gray. “My mother knits them for me,” she said. She turned back to the stove. “Yes, I have a gray-haired old mother, who knits for me. It’s all terribly banal, my little life.”

He sat down at the table, bracing a hand on the back of the chair and easing himself down slowly. He was about to apologize again but stopped himself in time.

She brought the coffee to the table and poured out cups for both of them. “The toast is cold,” she said. “Shall I make more?”

“No, thank you, coffee will do. I don’t think I could eat anything.”

She stood over him with the percolator in her hand, regarding him with a look of wry compassion. “Where were you drinking?”

“A number of places, as far as I recall. I had dinner with Phoebe.”

“Surely she didn’t let you get that drunk?”

“No, I went on afterwards. Jury’s, I think. There was a party that I got invited to. Don’t ask me who the people were.”

“All right, I won’t.” She sat down opposite him, setting the coffeepot on a cork mat. She folded her arms, sliding her hands into the sleeves of the dressing gown as if into a muff, and leaned there, studying him. “What a sorry mess you are, Quirke.”

“Yes.” The gray light was strengthening in the window behind the sink. He felt cold and hot at the same time, and there was a rippling sensation in his innards, as a wave of something slow and foul and warm flowed through them. “I shouldn’t have come to you,” he said. “You shouldn’t have let me in.”

“You were very insistent. And I didn’t want to give scandal to the neighbors. It was three o’clock in the morning. You can be very loud, you know, Quirke.”

“Oh, God.”

“Let me make some toast for you.”

“No. The coffee is working. I’ll be all right. It’s only a hangover, I’m used to it.”

She leaned back on the chair, still with her arms folded and her hands hidden. “So you were with Phoebe,” she said. “How is she?”

“All right. Better than all right, in fact. Has she got a new boyfriend or something?”

“I don’t know. What made you think she might?”

“She seemed- happy.”

“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “That would be an indication, all right. Why didn’t you ask her?”

“What? If she has a boyfriend?”

“Would it be such a strange thing to do? She is your daughter, after all.”

He frowned, and flexed his shoulders, dipping one and lifting the other. “We don’t- we don’t talk about things like that.”

“No,” she said flatly, “I don’t suppose you do.” She refilled his cup. “I’m going to take a bath and then get dressed. I have a rehearsal this morning. Maeterlinck and fairyland await me.” She stood up, drawing the dressing gown around her. As she was going past she paused and leaned down and kissed him quickly on the crown of his head. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Won’t you have to go to work, and so on?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Don’t leave before I come down.”

When she was gone he sat at the table for a long time, watching the wan light struggling to establish itself in the window. He was thinking about Phoebe. At dinner last night she had lied to him. When he told her what the woman in the flat had said to Hackett, about April and the black man, she had lied. He did not know it at the time, but he did now. She was a bad liar, always had been.

He got to his feet and pushed back the chair, making its legs squeal on the tiled floor. The wave rippling through his insides had suddenly broken. He made for the back door and wrenched it open and stumbled into the yard and leaned over the drain there as the coffee he had drunk came gushing back up his throat and spilled out in a hot cascade, spattering his trousers. He waited, panting, then retched again, but this time there was nothing to come up; he had vomited up the sole already, during the party in the hotel, he remembered now. He straightened and leaned against the pebble-dashed wall. The cold air was like a hand laid comfortingly against his forehead. He put his head back and gazed up at a sky as flat and dully white as pipe clay. The cold was striking through his shirt and gripping at his throat. He went inside and rinsed his mouth at the sink with water from the tap that tasted of metal. Then he climbed the narrow stairs, and knocked at the bathroom door, and went in.

Isabel was lying full-length in the bath, reading a magazine. It was a worn bath, yellowed with age, and there were brownish streaks in the enamel behind the taps. Fine wreaths of steam moved in the air, billowing in the draft from the doorway. “Do come in,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’d ask you to join me, but I’m afraid you’d swamp the house.” She wore a plastic cap over her hair, which made her face seem all the more slender, narrowing to the delicately cleft point of her chin. Her nakedness glimmered under the greenish water. A cigarette was smoking in an ashtray beside her head, and now she reached up to it with one dry hand and took a draw of it and set it down again. She tossed the magazine over the side of the bath, and it flopped on the floor, the pages splaying in a multicolored fan. “I used to read good books,” she said, “but they always got so soggy I gave up. What do you do in the bath, Quirke? I suppose you don’t do anything. I suppose you’re like all men, you dive in and have a quick sluice and then out again. Women are true sybarites when it comes to bathing, don’t you find? It’s one of our only real self-indulgences, despite what people say. I can quite see myself in ancient Egypt, up to my neck in asses’ milk, with dusky handmaids fanning me with palms.” She stopped and made a face, twisting her mouth upwards at one side. “What is it, Quirke?” she asked. “Tell me.”

“I was sick,” he said. “It’s all right, I got to the yard in time. It was just the coffee, anyway.” She waited, watching him. He sat down on the edge of the bath. “I wanted to say- I wanted to ask”- he rolled his shoulders again helplessly-”I don’t know.”