Jonathan Buckley - The Great Concert of the Night

‘Speaking as a buttoned-up sort—,’ I began.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Samantha interrupted. ‘And Imogen was not seventeen.’

‘She was not,’ I conceded.

She gave me a long look, then asked: ‘So how is she?’

For a moment I thought I would lie. But I answered: ‘Not good. Not good at all.’ I told her what was happening.

Samantha cried, and put a hand on mine. For an hour we talked; for that hour we were almost remarried.

Imogen’s mother phoned on the Thursday night, to tell me that Saturday would be the end. When I arrived, Imogen was asleep; the rain on the glass was even louder than her breathing. Her face was the colour of bone; her head lay on the thin web of her hair. She stirred, and her mother whispered: ‘David is here.’ With a movement only of her eyes, she looked at me. A smile formed slowly. ‘Hello,’ she said. She turned a hand towards me; it felt as fragile as a fern. Clenching her eyelids, she said: ‘This is horrible, isn’t it?’ The rain became quieter, but did not stop. She slept again. The dawn light began to seep into the room, insipid and ghastly. When Imogen awoke, she moved her head, slightly, to see the lightening sky. She spoke my name; it came out of her mouth as a sigh. She looked at me, through the death-mask of her face. It was a long look, and strong, as if, after great hardships, the end of an expedition had been achieved, and we were seeing together the fabled ruins; the effort had cost us everything, but we had succeeded, just the two of us. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Versa,’ she answered. I held her hand. Her eyelids convulsed and her mouth opened, in astonishment at the pain. Then she said, quietly: ‘That’s enough. Close the door.’ Her mother and Jonathan were at the window, looking out, side by side. At that phrase – ‘Close the door’ – her mother turned, as if this were the signal to commence the procedure. She moved to my side and put her hand under my elbow to remove me, with the greatest gentleness. She walked to the door with me, and stepped out. Facing me, she clenched her jaw to stop the trembling, and drew a breath, and embraced me, quickly, sharply. She said nothing, and went back to her daughter. She closed the door softly, as one would close the door of a sleeping infant’s room.

Five cigarettes a day was Imogen’s mother’s allowance to herself; on the basis of something she alleged that Christiaan Barnard had once said, she had decided that this number was well below the threshold of safety. ‘I have a very strong heart. And it’s my only vice,’ she informed me, after the meal. Dissuasion was futile. Having recovered once from cancer, she now regarded herself as indestructible, Imogen said. We were in bed, in the room that had been prepared for me; Imogen’s male companions were always given a room at three or four doors’ remove from hers. Her mother had received me graciously, but I had no matrimonial potential: I was her daughter’s latest whim – not uninteresting, but certainly of no durability. When Imogen was talking about Devotion her mother’s gaze, at times, suggested that what she was hearing was an account of an extended holiday, rather than of her daughter’s professional life; she was waiting for her real life to begin.

Once, I now remember, I was with Samantha and Val when a young man approached us. The day was mild, but he was wearing a heavy jacket and a pullover; the jacket, once pale blue, was black with grease, as were his jeans; his hair was a rank fur. He cupped a hand and held it towards Val and Samantha; as I recall, he said nothing; he had given his speech to half a dozen tables, and it had made no difference. Val dug into her bag and fiddled in it. She dropped the coin into the grimy hand like a pill into water. I was no better: my donation was larger but not large, and I passed it over with a cringing smile of compassion, eyes averted.

‘Poor boy,’ said Val, when he had gone. We issued a collective sigh. ‘But what can you do?’ she asked the air. We agreed that there was nothing to be done.

He crossed to the other side of the road, where a young woman was waiting for him. Lard-coloured flesh showed through holes in her jeans; her dreadlocks were like lengths of rusted wire wool. She was tiny, and was shivering.

This must have some bearing on the offer to William.

It is utter insanity to take in this person as a lodger, Emma tells me. I know virtually nothing about him. ‘He could be a thief. He could be dangerous. For all you know, he has mental problems.’ Most of the people who are sleeping rough have serious mental problems, she states. I don’t think William is dangerous, I answer; but just to be on the safe side I could ask him. ‘He’s upstairs at the moment,’ I tell her. ‘Probably helping himself to my socks.’ Emma snaps: ‘Don’t try to be funny, David.’ She instructs me to tell him that he can stay for a specific period of time and not a day longer; I should draw up a contract, right away. Not once does she use William’s name. ‘For an intelligent man, you can really be an idiot,’ she concludes.

While helping with the preparation for the meal – if there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few years, he says, it’s how to peel vegetables quickly – William asks if any of Imogen’s films are in my collection. I take out Les tendres plaintes and Mon amie Claire, the only ones I could watch in company. We manage ten minutes of Les tendres plaintes – ‘This guy is a total arsehole,’ William pronounces – before fast-forwarding to the scenes in which Imogen appears. There’s too much talking, and the sound of the harpsichord is a horrible noise. ‘What’s the point of playing it?’ William wonders; it’s like using candles instead of lightbulbs, or writing with a goose quill instead of using a laptop. With Mon amie Claire he has a little more patience, principally because there is considerably more of Imogen in it. He watches her episodes closely, as if learning from a classroom video. ‘She’s brilliant,’ he tells me. Once Claire has left the film, we abandon it.

On first viewing, Mon amie Claire did not greatly engage me either, and I have watched the film from beginning to end only once since then. But I have watched one scene many times. Danielle has taken Claire to the best restaurant in town. The decor is counterfeit Belle Époque, with huge mirrors and lots of gilt-effect mouldings and mahogany-coloured woodwork and scarlet plush. The menus are bound in thick leather, like precious manuscripts. Before sitting down, Claire notices the threadbare fabric of her seat. Almost fifteen years have passed since Danielle spent a summer month with Claire’s family in London. For Danielle, the reunion is going well, though life has dealt her friend a considerably better hand than the one she herself has been given to play with. By the time the two women reach the restaurant, we know about the success of Claire’s business. We have seen pictures of the photogenic kids and husband, and the enviable house. Danielle has been less lucky. She believes that life is chiefly a matter of luck; we understand that Claire has already diagnosed this as one of Danielle’s limitations. Promotions that should have been Danielle’s have been awarded to less deserving candidates. Her daughters are uncontrollable. Her health is less than excellent. (We have observed that the exercise machine in the garage has done little service.) Her husband, Michel, a decent man, has become dull. In the bedroom nothing much is happening any more, as Danielle confided within an hour of her friend’s arrival. But Michel is a reliable man, she says, unaware, of course, that Michel has taken an immediate fancy to the svelte and successful Claire. While studying the menu, Danielle relates Michel’s latest setback at the workplace. The waiter arrives; at Danielle’s request, he explicates some of the menu’s more ambitious dishes. While Danielle interrogates him about the wines, Claire looks out of the window. Night is falling on the charmless street. A woman walks slowly past, with a fat dog on a sequinned lead. Claire’s reflection is sketched lightly on the glass. This is the moment – the ten seconds in which Claire gazes out of the window of this mediocre restaurant. We see that she is bored, and wishes that she were elsewhere; we see her guilt at finding Danielle so tiresome; we see compassion for hopeless Danielle, and an instant of self-questioning; and we know that she will not abandon her erstwhile friend – she will do something for her; she will rescue her from her grubby little husband. ‘Let’s have the Savennières,’ Claire interrupts, having – we realise – heard every word of Danielle’s conversation with the waiter, despite seeming to be lost in thought.