Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

‘It’s no trouble,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘It gives me a chance to see your lovely house.’

‘You don’t think it’s corny? I always wanted to live in the country — I had to get out of Chelsea. It was so stifling. We’re going to grow our own vegetables here.’

Mr Gawber joined her at the window as she indicated the half-dug garden, a vertical spade in a small rectangle of hacked earth, like the beginnings of a cemetery plot, her own grave. He saw frailty on the actress’s face, lines of indecision he had never noticed before, deepened by shadow. It was more than the shaken guarded look that women habitually had, vulnerable in dressing gowns in their own homes; it was a threatened wincing expression, as if she had, shortly before he entered, heard a very loud noise. And dramatizing this with tragic pats on his arm she passed the unease to him, made him apprehensive, so that staring through the window to what looked to be a family graveyard he could only say, ‘No, I couldn’t agree more.’

She peered abstractly over the hedge as if into the past, and the abstraction in her eyes entered her voice as a drawl when she said, ‘Wat Tyler marched over there, on that road. He was a fantastic person. He was into revolt before people knew the word. God, why aren’t there people like that anymore?’

‘Good question.’ Wat Tyler, the lunatic with the pitch-fork, leading his mob of gaffers? ‘I wish I knew the answer.’

Suddenly Araba said, ‘You know, I’ve never been honest with you.’

He didn’t know how to reply. He said, ‘I never knew Wat Tyler had been here. I’m so glad you said that. Puts it all in a new light.’

‘But you’ve always been honest with me,’ she said, ignoring Mr Gawber, who was nodding studiously at the heath. ‘You’ve always told me the truth.’

‘I suppose I have,’ he said. ‘But there it is.’

‘I was really touched that you came to the play. It meant something.’

‘A very great pleasure,’ he said, and pretending to look at his shoes he glanced at his watch. Nearly ten. What did the woman want?

‘When I saw you there I knew you believed in me. You’ll stand by me and help me no matter what.’

He said, ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘I admire your frankness — it’s something I never learned.’

My frankness? What have I ever exposed? But her statement gave him courage and he said, ‘I think I should tell you the tax people have been onto me again.’ He reached for his briefcase. ‘I have the correspondence somewhere here.’

‘Don’t show me!’ She walked to the far end of the room, fleeing the letters he held. ‘I couldn’t bear that. No, put them away.’

He stuffed them into the briefcase. ‘They think we’re dragging our feet.’

‘What have you told them?’

‘The standard thing. Thank you for yours of the et cetera. We are awaiting instruction from our client et cetera. Yours faithfully.’ He frowned. ‘They think we’re being a bit bolshie.’

‘Perhaps we are.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘But that’s not what I wanted to discuss,’ she said.

‘Of course not.’

‘Mister Gawber, that fellow you brought to the play —’

‘Mister Hood,’ he said. ‘Very interesting chap.’

‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘I suppose he is. I must say he was quite taken with you.’

‘Really,’ she said, and her tone softened. ‘I was hoping you could tell me something about him.’

‘There’s not an awful lot I can tell you,’ he said. ‘I met him purely by accident some time ago. He’s become a client.’ He thought of Hood. A friendly sort. He had enjoyed his company, but Miss Nightwing was causing him distress. He wondered if at a certain age one turned to other men for consolation. Women didn’t turn to other women; they never lost their appetite for men — they still hungered at sixty. But he had only been at ease with men, and he was glad to be acting for Hood — that weekly cheque. Odd request; but it was an odd business.

‘American, isn’t he?’

‘What’s that? Oh, yes. But one of your better sort.’

‘The thing is,’ said Araba, and as she moved towards him companionably her dressing gown fell open. Mr Gawber saw her nakedness and the shock blinded him. He went shy. She said, ‘The thing is, I was counting on you to tell me where he lives. McGravy and I are giving a little party and we wanted to invite him. I said to McGravy, “I know. I’ll ask Mister Gawber. He’ll be glad to tell me.” ’

Mr Gawber laughed and said, ‘I’d love to help you out.’

‘Good,’ said Araba.

‘But I’m afraid I can’t,’ he went on. ‘Business. Silly rule, really. I don’t divulge clients’ addresses. I’ve been asked enough times for yours, my dear. I always say, “My lips are sealed,” and hope the person won’t press me too hard.’

She said, ‘But you have always been so frank with me.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I am being frank with you now. I can’t tell you a thing.’

‘All I want to know is his address. So I can contact him for this party. Surely you understand?’

He couldn’t look. The question was pardonable; but the nakedness? The dressing gown flapped. Did she know she was naked? The whiteness at the edge of his eye chilled him like snow, and he felt fear, like frost, in his own joints. He had been frozen in just that way, faced by a strange drooling dog on a footpath.

‘I understand perfectly,’ he said almost sorrowfully to the window, which held in its glaze segments of her body. Why was she putting him through this? ‘But I can’t help you. I must be going. I’m late for work as it is.’

‘Mister Gawber, I won’t let you go unless you tell me.’ She closed in on him carelessly. He folded his arms to block the view, but saw on her face an unreasonable wrath: his refusal had upset her — more than that, unhinged her. She took it personally. If she touches me I’ll scream. He wanted to be out of the house, and he thought: I will never come here again for any purpose whatsoever. He said, ‘You’re going to catch your death like that.’

‘I don’t care.’ She pushed at her dressing gown, but the white fabric was her own flesh.

‘It’s parky.’ His eyes hurt.

‘Tell me — I must know!’

‘This is very awkward,’ he said.

Araba raised one leg and put her foot on the seat of a chair. Her thigh shook. She said, ‘Don’t you have any feelings?’

‘A compromise, then.’ He straightened himself. He had seen under her flat belly a clinging mouse. ‘I’ll meet you halfway. Give me a note and I’ll see that he gets it. That’s simple enough.’

Araba said, ‘You’ve never let me down before this. Why are you protecting him? Has he something to hide?’

‘I respect privacy — yours, anyone’s.’

‘I have nothing to hide!’ said Araba and opened her dressing gown, showing her body: a narrow column of ice, the coldest candle he had ever seen. Once, she had told him she was a bitch. He had denied it, but now he saw the accuracy of it. How was it possible for the actress to play a bitch and not have malice in her? The bitch, the whore, the nag, the shrew: they lived in the actress, she gave them voice. She could not be forgiven her roles.

‘Try to understand,’ he pleaded, memorizing the carpet’s blooms.

‘All right, have it your own way,’ she said, and wrapped herself again in blue. ‘I’ll send you a letter. But if he doesn’t reply I’m bound to be a bit suspicious.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘But I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. He seems a most dependable sort of chap.’

Araba said, ‘I never realized until now you hated me so much.’