Adam Thirlwell - The Escape

Everyone was on their desert island, waiting to be rescued by another god. It was true of Frau Tummel; it had been true of Haffner too.

Haffner auf Naxos!

Was Haffner laughable? Perhaps. But no more laughable than anyone else in love. To go for a young woman at seventy-eight was simply to add to the comedy of passion the comedy of the object.

The manager reappeared, with Viko.

— Yes, said Viko, looking bored.

That was the same man. Absolutely, improvised Viko. He had seen him kiss her too. Well then, said the manager. There seemed nothing more to say. He was sorry, but the matter seemed unambiguous.

Haffner had thought that a spa town would be a paradise of liberation. In his imagination, it was a bohemian idyll. And maybe it had been like this, for him, in some secret way. But the overt facts were disappointing. The morality of this place was so depressingly limited: a bourgeois, Communist morality — unoriginal even in its rules.

Haffner looked down, at his suit, at his shoes; at the tie which had been unaccountably crumpled by some customs official in Boston or Tehran. It seemed an adequate outfit for his own banishment.

There would be no need to let the girl go, he said. Instead, he would leave himself. He trusted that this would end the matter. The girl had done nothing wrong. He was sorry if he had behaved in an unbecoming manner.

This was really not what he had in mind, said the manager.

But no, Haffner halted him. It was the only just solution. He was sorry for the inconvenience.

And in the halo of his grandeur, Haffner nodded goodbye to Frau Tummel, to Viko, to the manager of his hotel, and strode out on to the veranda — where Benjamin was standing, looking out at the sky and its clouds, considering the phenomenon of Haffner.

— I am leaving in protest, said Haffner. This is a scandal. I will find another hotel.

— It's always like this, said Benjamin. It's kind of amazing. Everywhere you go, there's a crisis.

Haffner tried to protest. Once again, he had been the victim of an extraordinary set of circumstances. Benjamin said he had no idea.

Haffner changed the subject.

— So you're leaving as well, said Haffner.

— I'm really not sure now, said Benji.

— Come now, said Haffner.

— But Mama, said Benji.

— We will manage her, said Haffner.

And Benji, newly criminal, smiled.

— But you're sure you can handle this business? said Benji.

— It's paperwork, said Haffner.

He put his hand on Benji's shoulder, in his manly gesture of camaraderie.

— I always stick up for you, said Benjamin, looking out at the sun and the sky. Always.

And he broke off. He tried again.

— Even when she left, said Benjamin, — I still defended you.

And Haffner contemplated, for a moment, in an access of irritability at this kid's sincere demonstration of love, telling Benjamin the truth. For a moment, he imagined the conversation where he revealed, here, to Benjamin, and so to his family as well, the story of Livia with Goldfaden. How Livia had left Haffner not because she was enraged by Haffner's minor infidelities, not because of his refusal to take the art of ballet nor the religions of his forefathers seriously, but because she had been in love with another man. And then Haffner could have continued, and explained that the reason why Livia then lived for two years, the last two years of her life, on her own, in her flat in Golders Green, was not because she had so taken against the selfishness of Haffner that she had finally decided to abandon him, as her family believed, but because Goldfaden, when confronted by Livia's proposal that they could finally live together, now that his wife was gone, had gently but irreparably told her that this was a very bad idea. He was quite happy as he was. He couldn't understand what had come over her. There was no need for such theatrics, he had said.

This was why she had left, and not come back. She would not admit that she had been humiliated.

But Haffner would never tell Benji this. He would never tell anyone. No one would ever know about her defeat. He loved Livia with all the passion he was capable of; with an overwhelming care for her secrecy.

And maybe, I now think, as I watch Haffner stand there, that is how to truly be a libertine: to accept the libertinism of others.

For a final time, Haffner looked at the hotel's private landscape, the giant mountains, the infinite sky; then he patted Benji's shoulder again.

— You're a pal, he said.

And Haffner left the hotel.

Haffner stepped out into the midsummer afternoon, carrying his suitcase. It still trailed rags of cellophane.

The question was, thought Haffner, what he was to do next. Some form of shelter seemed imperative.

Wearily, Haffner made the long walk across the park, into the town, in search of a new hotel. The square was empty. The square was metaphysical. It was a Platonic form of sun. He passed a sports shop with a crate of plastic balls outside, printed with pictures of more leathery, more professional balls; he passed a patisserie with trays of greaseproof paper in the window. On a cafe terrace, a woman was pushing a folding chair flat with a pensive knee. On and on went Haffner, homeless in the heat. He was ancient. Everywhere was ancient: the imprinted gas vents were fossils in the pavements.

He couldn't stay just anywhere. He had his standards, his distastes. One hotel Haffner rejected because of the canaries kept behind the counter; another he rejected because of its incorporation of a nightclub.

So Haffner continued to walk, past the former medical institute, past the baths for men and the baths for women, and then, ahead of him, was the Metropole Cinema: its sign in handwritten squiggles of pink neon.

In general, if Haffner were forced to discuss the matter, he felt disappointed by the film industry. He did not feel the pictures had, as a rule, distinguished themselves. First the films were American. And these, Haffner had admired. Once, he had been Jayne Mansfield's banker: and she was a very handsome woman. Then there was a fashion for the French, which — as Haffner would inform the dinner party, the work colleague — left him cold. He never understood them: with their inexplicable cuts, their disdain for plot. Then Italian, then Japanese. Now they were God knows what. They were Mexican. But whatever their provenance, it really didn't matter, because one thing was sure: the new cinemas, with their speaker systems, were too loud for Haffner.

But Haffner, today, was tired. He wanted succour. At this point, Haffner would take anything.

He looked at the posters in front of the cinema. He recognised nothing; or no one. The language — as always, written in the language which for ease of reference Haffner was calling Bohemian — escaped him. The faces were foreign too. But Haffner didn't really want the film. He wanted the cinema instead: the rich festooned interior, the air conditioning and the darkness and the popcorn. He wanted peace.

So Haffner made his tentative way in.

In the foyer, a depressed salesgirl stood behind a stall which offered multicoloured packets of multicoloured chocolate. This combination tempted him. He bought two bars of chocolate. Then he approached the cloakroom. He lifted up his destroyed suitcase. The girl behind the counter looked at him.

— Is possible? asked Haffner, in his best imitation of foreign English.

She continued to look at him. Then she tore off a perforated ticket, and pushed it flat on the counter towards Haffner, letting it come to rest beside her magazine, which boasted of its proximity to the lives of the stars. Haffner heaved his suitcase up on to the counter, where a protruding plastic wheel caught the pages of her magazine, a circumstance which for a moment Haffner did not notice. As he pushed the suitcase across, he heard, to his alarm, a tearing sound, identical to the sound of glossy paper ripped.