Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

‘Would you like some food? I’ve got crackers and cheese, or I can even make you some soup. It’s not much, but it’s all that I’ve got.’

He pours two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and wonders if she minds the fact that it’s a screwtop bottle. Some people like to hear the cork pop, but her silence is making him uneasy so he has chosen the quickest option. When he walks back into the living room she is sitting forward on the edge of the sofa and apparently gawping at the blank television screen. However, he soon realises that in the absence of a mirror she is probably staring at her own reflection. She has removed the plastic clip, and spilled her blonde hair so that it now reaches down to her shoulders. However, he can see that the roots are dark brown. He hands her a glass of wine and then crosses to the CD player.

‘I said I could put together some food if you’re hungry.’

‘I am not hungry. But if you are hungry then you must eat.’

He puts on some Wynton Marsalis, the music being neither too abstract nor too difficult, and then he sits opposite her on a plain wooden chair. He thinks of Marsalis as the prime exponent of light jazz, for his graceful music is perfect for background atmosphere as it never seems to disrupt a private train of thought or hijack a conversation. The skies have opened, and rain is now lashing against the windows. Add a view of a Paris skyline, and the cliché would be complete. She sits back and raises her glass.

‘Cheers, Mr Keith.’

‘And cheers to you too. And to learning English in Acton.’

‘Now that is quite funny. Very good. Cheers to learning English in Acton.’

They listen in silence to the end of the track. Her black woollen winter tights represent the triumph of common sense over style, but he notices that her shoes are both scuffed and badly worn down at the heels. He looks up at her pale, slender face, and decides to ask the question before Marsalis has a chance to blow the long mournful notes of the next ballad.

‘Are you married?’

She laughs.

‘No, of course I am not married. Are you married?’

‘I used to be, but three years ago we decided to go our own way. It was reasonably amicable.’ He pauses. ‘Friendly.’

‘I understand “amicable”.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘And so you are a social worker who lives by himself and who likes to try to pick up girls in strange places.’

‘Have I picked you up?’

‘I am curious about you, Mr Keith. You like lonely pubs, and this is a lonely flat.’

He understands that being occasionally talked down to is the price an older man has to pay for the privilege of having a young girl flatter him with some attention. If he took anything from his disastrous relationship with Yvette, he took this much. He is learning to tolerate a disrespectful aggression that women of his own age would never resort to, but he suspects that this is because women of his own age no longer possess the gift of youth to embolden their behaviour. The confidence of most older women has usually been undermined by the harsh reality of accepting that their stepping into a room no longer results in heads being turned, but not this girl called Danuta who behaves as though she has never suffered a single moment of self-doubt. He imagines that her parents are most likely still alive, and he suspects that she has probably never endured the sudden, heart-wrenching loss of friends or loved ones. The girl in the black woollen tights remains untouched by life.

‘Do you have a job in Poland?’

‘I work with young children. Before they go to school.’

‘Kindergarten. That’s what they call it here. A kindergarten school.’

‘The word is similar in Polish. I am a teacher, but I want to open an international kindergarten, for foreign children too. Children of businessmen and diplomats.’

‘More money, right?’

‘Of course, more money. But first I must improve my English. It is good to have conversation.’

‘Is that why you agreed to have a drink with me? For my conversation?’

‘Perhaps this is the reason.’ She grins, and then she bursts out laughing as though unable to contain herself any longer. ‘You are a very stupid man.’

He smiles quickly, and then he stands and takes the empty glass from her proffered hand. In the kitchen he refills both glasses, and then replaces the nearly empty bottle in the fridge. He catches a glimpse of himself in the dark kitchen window. He should know better. Where is all of this leading to? A quick fumble on the sofa, and then into the bedroom, leaving the lights on in the living room, the music playing, and the wine glasses still full? Perhaps they will scatter a trail of clothes behind them, or will they both have the discipline to wait until they get into the bedroom before they start peeling off the layers? And then what about all that confusion with the lights in the bedroom? Will they go for dim lighting, which will mean a quick timeout and crossing to the bedside lamp; or no lighting at all, which is maybe too weird; or perhaps a compromise and leave the door ajar so that some light from the living room is able to leak in? And then immediately afterwards, the sudden panic about contraception and disease. And she is probably the type of girl who after sex likes to roll up on to her elbow for a cigarette and talk. And will she be staying the night, or will he want her to leave straight away so that he can read or watch television? And what will she expect? A relationship? A phone number? Dinner? Suddenly it all seems extremely complicated, and as he continues to stare at himself in the kitchen window he wonders if indecision really is a sign of ageing.

‘Would you like to stay?’

He hands her the refilled glass of wine.

‘What do you mean “stay”?’

‘I mean longer. We could order some food. Chinese. Indian. Whatever you like, they’ll deliver.’

‘I think I have to go now. But I like this music. It is very nice. May I know the name of the man who is playing?’

‘Wynton Marsalis.’

He crosses to the CDs that are neatly stacked in a revolving tower. Skimming down from the top he identifies, and then plucks out, seven CDs by Marsalis and shuffles them like a deck of cards. He squares their edges, and then hands them to the girl. He wants her to be fascinated by the music, to ask him more questions, to give him the opportunity to share his knowledge with her. The more he gazes at this Danuta’s mop of blonde hair, and her chewed nails and nicotine-stained fingers, the more he wants to know about her. She looks at the artwork on the covers and then, one at a time, she places them down on the coffee table before eventually reclaiming her glass of wine.

‘You say you do not have a wife, so who is this woman in the photograph?’

She points to a small headshot in a stainless steel frame that is tucked away on the windowsill behind the television. He is surprised that she has spotted it, but he is coming to terms with the fact that she seems far more interested in her surroundings than she is in him.

‘That’s Brenda. She’s my father’s wife.’

‘But she is not your mother.’

‘No, she’s not. To be more accurate I should say she used to be his wife.’

‘But you do not have a picture of your mother, and you do not have a picture of your father, but you have a picture of your father’s wife?’

He has noticed that she likes to phrase her questions as mildly accusatory statements of fact, but he is unsure if this reflects her combative character or if it is just evidence of her inexperience with the English language. He shrugs his shoulders.

‘If you do not wish to talk about these things then this is good with me.’

‘I’d rather talk about you.’