John Coetzee - Scenes from Provincial Life

Mark was barring the way. ‘Where do you think you are going?’ he demanded. ‘Are you going to him ?’

‘Go to hell,’ I said. I tried to push past, but he grabbed my arm.

‘Let me go!’ I said.

No screams, no snarls, just a simple, curt command, but it was as though out of the skies a crown and regal robes had descended upon me. Without a word he let go. When I drove off he was still standing in the doorway, dumbstruck.

So easy! I exulted. So easy! Why didn’t I do it before?

What puzzles me about that moment — which was in fact one of the key moments of my life — what puzzled me then and continues to puzzle me to the present day, is the following. Even if some force within me — let us call it the unconscious, to make things easier, though I have my reservations about the classical unconscious — had held me back from checking under the bed — had held me back precisely in order to precipitate this marital crisis — why on earth did Maria leave the incriminating item lying there — Maria who was definitely not part of my unconscious, Maria whose job it was to clean, to clean up, to clean things away? Did Maria deliberately overlook the condom? Did she draw herself up, when she saw it, and say to herself, This is going too far! Either I defend the sanctity of the marriage bed or I become complicit in an outrageous affair!

Sometimes I imagine flying back to South Africa, the new, longed-for, democratic South Africa, with the sole purpose of seeking out Maria, if she is still alive, and having it out with her, getting an answer to that vexing question.

Well, I was certainly not running off to join the him of Mark’s jealous rage, but where exactly was I heading? For I had no friends in Cape Town, none who were not Mark’s in the first place and mine only in the second.

There was an establishment I had spotted while driving through Wynberg, a rambling old mansion with a sign outside: Canterbury Hotel / Residential / Full or part board / Weekly and monthly rates . I decided to try the Canterbury.

Yes, said the woman at the desk, there happened to be a room available, would I want it for a week or for a longer term? A week, I said, in the first place.

The room in question — be patient, this is not irrelevant — was on the ground floor. It was spacious, with a neat little bathroom en suite and a compact refrigerator and French doors giving onto a shady, vine-covered veranda. ‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘And your baggage?’ said the woman.

‘My baggage will be coming,’ I said, and she understood. I am sure I was not the first runaway wife to pitch up on the doorstep of the Canterbury. I am sure they enjoyed quite a traffic in pissed-off spouses. And a nice little bonus to be made from the ones who paid for a week, spent a night, then, repentant or exhausted or homesick, checked out the next morning.

Well, I was not repentant and I was certainly not homesick. I was quite ready to make the Canterbury my home until the burden of child-care led Mark to sue for peace.

There was a rigmarole about security that I barely followed — keys for doors, keys for gates — plus rules for parking, rules for visitors, rules for this, rules for that. I would not be having visitors, I informed the woman.

That evening I dined in the lugubrious salle à manger of the Canterbury and had a first glimpse of my fellow residents, who seemed to come straight out of William Trevor or Muriel Spark. But no doubt I appeared much the same to them: another flushed escapee from a sour marriage. I went to bed early and slept well.

I had thought I would enjoy my newfound solitude. I drove in to the city, did some shopping, saw an exhibition at the National Gallery, had lunch in the Gardens. But the second evening, alone in my room after a wretched meal of wilted salad and poached sole with béchamel sauce, I was suddenly overcome with loneliness and, worse than loneliness, self-pity. From the public telephone in the lobby I called John and, in murmurs (the receptionist was eavesdropping), told him of my situation.

‘Would you like me to come by?’ he said. ‘We could go to a late movie.’

‘Yes,’ I said; ‘yes, yes, yes.’

I repeat as emphatically as I can, I did not run away from my husband and child in order to be with John. It was not that kind of affair. In fact, it was hardly an affair at all, more of a friendship, an extramarital friendship with a sexual component whose importance, at least on my side, was symbolic rather than substantial. Sleeping with John was my way of retaining my self-respect. I hope you understand that.

Nevertheless, nevertheless , within minutes of his arrival at the Canterbury he and I were in bed, and — what is more — our lovemaking was, for once, something truly to write home about. I even shed tears at its conclusion. ‘I don’t know why I am crying,’ I sobbed, ‘I am so happy.’

‘It is because you didn’t get any sleep last night,’ he said, thinking he needed to console me. ‘It is because you are overwrought.’

I stared at him. Because you are overwrought : he really seemed to believe that. It quite took my breath away, how stupid he could be, how insensitive. Yet in his wrongheaded way perhaps he was right. For my day of freedom had been coloured by a memory that kept creeping back, the memory of that humiliating face-off with Mark, which had left me feeling more like a spanked child than an erring spouse. Save for that, I would probably not have telephoned John, and would therefore not be in bed with him. So yes: I was upset, and why not? My world had been turned upside down.

There was another source too for my uneasiness, even harder to confront: shame at having been found out. Because really, if you regarded the situation with a cold eye, I, with my sordid little tit-for-tat affair in Constantiaberg, was behaving no better than Mark, with his sordid little liaison in Durban.

The fact was, I had come to some kind of moral limit. The fit of euphoria at leaving home had evaporated; my sense of outrage was seeping away; as for the solitary life, its allure was fading fast. Yet how could I repair the damage other than by returning to Mark with my tail between my legs, suing for peace, and resuming my duties as chastened wife and mother? And in the midst of all that confusion of spirit, this piercingly sweet lovemaking! What was my body trying to tell me? That when one’s defences are down, the gateways to pleasure open up? That the marital bed is a bad place to commit adultery, hotels are better? What John felt I had no idea, he was never a forthcoming person; but for myself I knew without a doubt that the half hour I had just been through would endure as a landmark in my erotic life. Which it has. To this day. Why else would I still be talking about it?

[Silence.]

I’m glad I told you that story. Now I feel less guilty about the Schubert business.

[Silence.]

Anyway, I fell asleep in John’s arms. When I awoke it was dark and I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was. Chrissie , I thought — I have completely forgotten to feed Chrissie! I even groped for the light switch — in the wrong place — before it all came back to me. I was alone (no trace of John); it was six in the morning.

From the lobby I called Mark. ‘Hello, it’s me,’ I said in my most neutral, most pacific voice. ‘Sorry to call so early, but how is Chrissie?’

For his part, Mark was in no mood for conciliation. ‘Where are you?’ he demanded.

‘I’m phoning from Wynberg,’ I said. ‘I have moved into a hotel. I thought we should take a break from each other until things cool down. How is Chrissie? What are your plans for the week? Are you going to be in Durban?’