Patrick White - The Twyborn Affair

The interloping couple now sat knee to knee, on the edge of the bench, facing each other, beatified by the afternoon light, the draughts of too lusty air pouring through the open window. Or were they reaching into some inner pocket of a relationship where nobody else would have known how to follow? Certainly the peasants, whether French or Gallo-Italian, were only equipped to stare. Nor did the widow’s sane mind allow her a clue. She knew only that the foreign couple (spies possibly?) were presenting some kind of sham which she could not fathom. The old man, wearing the ridiculous gilt eagle on a moiré ribbon (something to tell Monique) was no more ill than she — less so, probably, for she had begun to regurgitate the truffled pâté defoie .

The train gradually emptied, except for a few Italians trailing towards the frontier. The widow left them for Monaco with formal protestations of goodwill.

They arrived at sunset in a town heavy with dust and a scent of carnations after a day unusually warm for the time of year. Almost as though by arrangement they found a cab. The obstructions and frustrations of the journey were at once erased. Though he did not answer, the driver must have heard of the pension the young woman mentioned, for he slashed at his horse and started off in a direction his fare accepted as the only one.

‘It does exist then,’ the old man agreed. ‘I would not have believed it—“My Blue Home”!’

‘Any more than “Crimson Cottage”?’

Thrown about on the back seat as the cab climbed a hill out of the embalmed town, they grew hilarious, then settled down. They must not question the nomenclature that panders to the gentility and mysterious origins of those who inhabit the Coast; to dismiss the credibility of ‘My Blue Home’ and ‘Crimson Cottage’ might have been to deny the existence of the Nicaean dynasty, the whole structure of Byzantium, including its lynch-pin the Australian hetaira.

‘My Blue Home’ when it appeared, was a thin edifice overlaid with pinkish stucco and fitted upon a narrow ledge carved out of the mountainside. The woodwork at least was a blistered blue, and the vista a solid azure beneath a powdering of silver cloud. In the circumstances one ignored the criss-cross of lath showing here and there in irregular patches through the stucco, and a show of grey undergarments pegged haphazardly to a clothes-line above the weeds in what had once been a garden. On the other hand, to impress those who might become depressed at signs of squalor, there was a meticulous fresco in the Greek style, of terracotta urns alternating with satyrs and their prey stencilled round the walls between the eaves and lintels of the upper windows.

Leading her charge, the traveller bowed her head and entered.

Like the cab at the station, the proprietress must have been waiting for them. The young woman explained that through unforeseen events she and her husband were arriving à l’improviste . There had not been time to telegraph, but she mentioned the name of a lady who had been Madame Sasso’s guest and who was a subscriber at Miss Clitheroe’s library at St Mayeul. Madame Sasso could not recall her former guest, but knew of course by repute Mademoiselle Clitheroe of the English Tea-room and Library.

Madame Sasso smiled, and explained, ‘I spick Eenglish,’ to encourage another of the foreigners through whom she made a respectable living.

She was composed of rounded and cylindrical forms, with a vertical arrangement of plump black buttons from the cleavage to the hem of her black dress. After giving the matter thought, she admitted to having a room vacant, which she hoped her guests might occupy until she was in a position to offer something more —convenable .

It was a room as narrow as one would have expected in such a narrow house. It was the kind of room from which a maid might have fled without giving notice. To encourage its prospective tenants, Madame Sasso prodded the bed, which gave out somewhat discouraging sounds. The bed matched the room in narrowness, but there was an ample chair covered in a thick green material reminiscent of governesses and schoolrooms.

‘Oh yes,’ the young woman declared, ‘we must have it. We must sleep somewhere . My husband has been ill.’

‘Not seriously?’ Madame Sasso hoped; and would they pay a deposit?

‘If we are already here?’ the husband pointed out.

‘In advance then — if you would prefer it …’ Madame Sasso smiled.

She tried to make a joke of it, but the wife was of a serious disposition; she opened her bag and brought out two or three notes as token payment.

So they were installed: Monsieur et Madame Vatatzes — un nom grec . Madame Sasso was impressed by the old gentleman’s distinguished appearance and the beauty of his young — wife.

Left to themselves in their narrow room the travellers spoke in whispers at first. They touched each other often and gently, as though each suspected the other might break, or even vanish.

24th March

Soon after our arrival at this not very savoury pension Angelos took to his bed. The awfulness of yesterday’s journey was too much for him. A. is prepared to accept this place as an asylum, in which case I do too. I realise by now we can never be separated, not by human intervention (no Golsons!) only of my own free will. There I come up against the big snag. Shall my will ever grow strong and free enough for me to face up to myself? If I wanted that. To leave my one and only lover. I don’t. I don’t.

He snored the night away in this maid’s bed. Myself comfortable enough in the chair until he asked me to come to him. We comforted each other narrowly and fell asleep towards dawn.

Will they hear us? The bed such a musical one, and the house, I’m sure, full of attentive ears.

Dined alone last night as he had no appetite: little separate tables, each with its complement of bottles — pills, spa water, wine eked out from previous meals to be consumed by sour mouthfuls at those to come. Dirty napkins put away in paper envelopes. Overall a smell of thrift and cheap oil.

Most of the guests are English (the Anglaise predominating) escaping from bronchitis, rheumatism, taxation, one or two perhaps from scandals. A few faces of mixed race — Levantines? A. would have known, too vocally to be comfortable, if he had been present. Trust A. to spot the Frangolevantini .

He ate a splinter of fish, mostly skin, which I took to our room, then he fell asleep again …

This morning was an improvement in every respect, though morning usually is. Looking back, my whole childhood is composed of mornings, yet I wasn’t happy by any means. The future threatens very early. This growing threat which I’ll always associate with unruly masses of purple lantana, and cats lying on hot asphalt as they died from eating too many lizards … Or was that a parent’s disgnosis?

MOTHER: Don’t look, darling. Patches is sick from eating lizards. They somehow poison cats. We’ll take her to the vet and he’ll make her better.

The vet didn’t. I think Eadie hated cats. We were a house of dogs. Father was a cat man, but seldom there — away on circuit, or at the club. Father never wanted his child hanging round, or was in some way afraid. Eadie wanted one constantly.

EADIE: Don’t you love me, darling? … Then why are you avoiding me?

Eadie’s desire to devour — when you could have devoured the stuffy Judge — his man’s smell! (This I think more than half explains my relationship with Angelos.)

Washed smalls, then walked down into the town. A scent of jonquils, roses — flowers. A yucca flaunting last year’s brolly reminded me of home. Always these pointers. In the town the Golsons were out in force — a less showy variety because less affluent than those at St Mayeul. The ladies several years behind in their style, or else in enforced collusion with the past — putting on a brave show however, shaking their plumes, disentangling lorgnettes from lace. Elderly gentlemen in seedy retirement: tweeds in brown or grey, all tending to turn green. With luck their tweeds will see them out. The network of veins in flushed elderly male cheeks …