Renata Adler - Pitch Dark

But then, stopping everywhere, as I was, to ask directions, it was by no means clear, at many intersections, which was the straight continuation of the road and which was another road entirely. I asked various bicyclists, farmers, passersby. And once, when I pulled far off the road, for the last of several farmers with their herds of lowing cattle, I met, no, not met, encountered, one of the truly gentle and poetic souls, a man who said, You’ve bent part of your fender against this tall grass; and who bent the metal back in place, along its tidy line, getting mud on his trousers and his hands. A kind man, with the profound sense of natural honor from which, I supposed, the lorry driver’s You have my word, in some way, derived. My sense of the ominous and hostile receded. I began to think these were omens, perhaps, after all, auspicious. As the weather let up, I became aware for the first time of serenity, of the fields, the walls of stone, slate sky, the incredibly long eyelashes of the cows. I passed through the countryside, the towns. Just before dark, I found the unpaved road to Cihrbradàn, then the iron gates, and the long drive to the castle. In the circle of gravel, at the front door, I parked my car in such a way that the driver’s side, the damaged fender side, was visible to all comers on the road. Later, I thought this even then, later I could say, What kind of fool do you take me for; if concealment was what I had in mind, do you take me for such a fool as to park my car in such a way that the damaged side is there for all the world to see? As I opened the car door and got out, I felt watched. I saw a round middle-aged face peering at me through the shades. Celia, I thought, the hearty cook, looking out eagerly for the first glimpse of the stranger. But, as I crossed the few remaining yards of gravel driveway, she made no move toward the door.

After I had knocked for quite a while, the door was opened by a younger woman. Kathleen, I thought, but when I introduced myself, she did not give her name. She said, There’s a note for you from Captain and Mrs. Walton, and led me to a small room, full of guns, boots, hunting jackets, and a large desk. On the wall above the desk, there was an ancient telephone, on a wooden panel, with many wires and switches. An envelope addressed to me lay on the desk. Kathleen handed it to me; and walked back across the little entryway, down a short, narrow corridor, to an immense kitchen, where she introduced me to Celia, who stood beside the kitchen table, watching protectively over a round pink child. You’ll be wanting to see your room then, Kathleen said. We climbed a beautiful, old, slowly rounding staircase, to a room which looked out in two directions, on an old grey tower, and on the sea. The waves were placid against the black rocks of the bay; to the absolute verge of those rocks, and the sea itself, the fields extended, in calm, perfect, implausibly familiar, muted green. Three sources of heat in the room, Kathleen pointed out to me briskly: central heating, an electric blanket, the peat fireplace. She also showed me the closet and the bed. Not the bathroom, which I found later, at some distance, down the hall. You’ll be wanting tea, she said, as she was going down the staircase. I said, Thank you, yes. And what time would you like your dinner? I looked at my watch. It was five-fifteen. I said, At seven, please. And then, On second thought, with dinner as soon as that, instead of tea, I’d like a drink. I like to go to bed early, I added, and get up early. We walked through the first kitchen, past Celia and the baby, through a second, still larger kitchen, to a pantry, with an enormous wall safe. We always keep it locked, Kathleen said, when the ambassador’s away. The door swung open, revealing shelves and quantities of every kind of whiskey, gin, rum, brandy, vodka. As you’re his guest, she said, I’ll leave the key in while you’re here. I chose one of the Irish whiskeys, Bushmills. Have you known the ambassador long? she asked, as she led me through several dark rooms, one of which seemed to be the study, to the drawing room, where the lamps nearest the sofa were on, and there was a peat fire burning in the grate. He had said, Talk to them, they are friendly; so I said, Not long, and told her how I met him, and that he sent his best. Will you be wanting ice? she said. She brought cubes, in a glass, and some water in a small pewter pitcher. I stayed a long time, alone, with my drink, beside the grate in the drawing room. I opened the envelope from Captain and Mrs. Walton. An invitation to dinner, the following evening, at eight. Paddy, the groundskeeper there, will give you directions, it said. Hope you can come. An illegible signature. A legible phone number. One digit, like the number of the castle. I sloshed a bit more water from the pitcher into my glass. A little tired now, from the whiskey, and the day itself, I thought I should call to accept. I found my way to the hunting and phone room, looked at the wooden panel, with its wires and switches. Celia appeared in the doorway. I’d like to phone the Waltons, I said. I can’t figure out quite how this works. Kathleen does that, Celia said. A pause. She’s upstairs. Feeding the baby. Shall I call her down? I say, It’s nothing urgent. Another pause. Celia walks to the phone, turns a crank, flips several switches, then hands the receiver to me. So glad you’re here, says the Captain; heard all about you; look forward enormously; just ask Paddy for directions; eight o’clock then. Hangs up. Celia stands in doorway. Whenever you’re ready, she says. Your dinner’s there.

I look at you for signs of leaving me and find to my despair that one of us has already left. Maybe it’s me. But, if it’s me, I always do come back, or always have. Please don’t go. Writing is always, in part, bending somebody’s ear. As reading is. In the matter of the commas. In the matter of the question marks. In the matter of the tenses. In the matter of the scandal at the tennis courts.

But then, don’t you see, I despaired. I simply, no, not simply, I rarely do anything simply, despaired. And then I despaired.

In the dining room, my place is set, back to the windows, at one end of the table, which is long. Along the wall at the opposite end of the table is a massive sideboard, on which there is a silver bowl of fruit. On the table, to the left of my plate, is a small electric bell. From the kitchen, Kathleen brings in oxtail soup, which is very hot. Before I have finished, she brings in a serving tray with five lamb chops, also mashed potatoes, string beans, squash, all home grown. Five lamb chops seems a lot for a single guest. I eat two, wonder ever so briefly who will eat the others. Kathleen comes in with a crème caramel large enough to serve, I guess, twenty people. When I ask for seconds, having for the first time used the electric bell, Kathleen returns with the immense dish, on which half a single portion now remains. I am really tired, and perhaps slightly crocked. As I pass the kitchen, on my way to the stairs, Celia says, What time will you be wanting breakfast? I say, Don’t trouble with breakfast; I like to go to sleep very early, and get up very early. Kathleen says, We come in at nine-thirty, but you just sleep in late. That subject seems closed somehow. But before I say goodnight, I ask, Is there anything I need to know about the peat fire in my room: I mean, do I just use a match? Kathleen says yes. When I reach my room, there are no matches. I return to the drawing room, find matches beside the grate, go back upstairs to my room, and try match after match against the peat, to no effect. I go downstairs to the kitchen, say, Somehow the matches don’t quite seem to work. Oh well, Kathleen says, of course you need the firestarter. She walks into a room, which, when she turns the light on, turns out to be the study, hands me a packet of brown squares, in color and texture rather like what was served to us in college as scrapple. I take the packet to my room, put one of the squares against the peat and light it. The fire takes, immediately. Soon the room is hot. I open the window slightly, upon the luminous seascape and the tower; I do not shut the drapes against the sky. Putting blankets, pillow, sheets on the carpeted floor, beside the grate, I fall asleep almost at once, coughing slightly, from the smoldering peat perhaps, or the air coming through the windows. I think of the coughing man on the plane, and then, with a smile, of the seriousness with which our night editor, at the paper, regards what his secretary refers to as his little colds. When I wake up, well before dawn, I am warm. The sky is still blue-black; and yet sea, rocks, green verge, and tower are irradiated, clear. I have begun to love the beauty, and the quiet. To begin with, after all, I almost went instead to Graham Island. Not to have to wait for you any more, your call, the sound, as characteristic as your footsteps, of your engine in the driveway, what that would mean. Not to think of you all the time any more. And suddenly I welcomed grey weather, clouds and rain.