John McGahern - The Collected Stories

‘That makes a pair of you, then,’ and went on to say that she wanted a life of her own, preferably with him, but if not — without him. She had enough of to-ing and fro-ing, of what she called his Hamlet act. This time he would have to make up his mind, one way or the other. He countered by saying that it wasn’t possible to discuss it over the phone and arranged to call at her flat at eight. As she waited for him in the blue woollen dress, she determined to have that life of her own. The two sentences The word Oysters was chalked on the wagon that carried Chekhov’s body to Moscow for burial. The coffin was carried in the oyster wagon because of the fierce heat of early July echoed like a revenant in her mind and would not be still.

There was snow on Arvo Meri’s coat and fur hat when he came and he carried a sheaf of yellow roses. Once she saw the flowers she knew nothing would change. She laid them across a sheepskin that covered a large trunk at the foot of the bed without removing their wrapping.

‘Well?’

‘I’m so sorry about this morning, Eva …’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she stopped him, ‘but I do want to know what you propose to do.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said guiltily. ‘You know I can’t get a divorce.’

‘I don’t care about a divorce.’

‘But what else is there to do?’

‘I can take a larger flat than this. We can start to live together,’ she said, and he put his head in his hands.

‘Even though there’s nothing left between us she still depends on the relationship. If I was to move out completely she’d just go to pieces.’

‘That’s not my problem.’

‘Can’t we wait a little longer?’

‘More than two years seems long enough to me. You go to Moscow by going to Moscow. If you wait until all the conditions are right you can wait your whole life.’

‘I’ve booked a table at the Mannerheim. Why don’t we talk it over there?’

‘Why not?’ She shrugged with bright sarcasm, and lifted the yellow roses from the sheepskin. ‘I ask you for a life and you offer me yellow roses and a dinner at the Mannerheim,’ but he did not answer and started to dial for a taxi. She let the roses drop idly down on the sheepskin and pulled on her fur coat and boots and sealskin cap.

Charcoal was blazing in two braziers on tall iron stems on either side of the entrance to the Mannerheim. They hadn’t spoken during the taxi drive and she remarked as she got out, ‘They must have some important personage tonight.’ As the lift went up, she felt a sinking as in an aeroplane take-off. A uniformed attendant took their furs and they had a drink in the bar across from the restaurant while they gave their order to the waiter. The restaurant was half empty: three older couples and a very large embassy party. They knew it was an embassy party because of a circle of toy flags that stood in the centre of the table. Through the uncurtained glass they could see out over the lights of the city to the darkness that covered the frozen harbour and sea. He had drunk a number of vodkas by the time the main course came, and she was too tense to eat as she nibbled at the shrimp in the avocado and sipped at the red wine.

‘You don’t mind me drinking? I have a need of vodka tonight.’

‘Of course not … but it won’t be any use.’

‘Why?’ He looked at her.

‘When I was pregnant you took me to the Mannerheim and said, “I don’t know what to do. It’s not the right time yet. That is all I know,” and drank vodka. You were silent for hours, except every now and then you’d say, “All I’m certain of is that it’s not the right time yet for us to have a child.” I had some hard thinking to do when I left the Mannerheim that night. And when I arranged for and had the abortion without telling you, and rang you after coming out of the clinic, you said the whole week had been like walking round under a dark cloud, but that I had made you so happy now. I was so understanding. One day we’d have a child when everything was right. And you came that evening with yellow roses and took me to the Mannerheim and later we danced all night at that place on the shore.’

She spoke very slowly. He didn’t want to listen, but he didn’t know what to say to stop her, and he ordered more vodka.

‘And now when we spend three days in a row together your wife rings up and calls me a whore. You bring me yellow roses and take me to the Mannerheim. The vodka won’t do any good …’

‘But what are we to do?’

‘I’ve given my answer. I’ll take a larger flat. We’ll live together as two people, from now on.’

‘But can’t we wait till after the elections?’

‘No. It’s always been “wait”. And there will always be something to wait for. They say there’s no good time to die either. That it’s as difficult to leave at seventy as at twenty. So why not now?’

‘But I love you, Eva.’

‘If you loved me enough you’d come and live with me,’ and he went silent. He had more vodka, and as they were leaving she noticed the attendant’s look of disapproval as he swayed into the lift. The tall braziers had been taken in, and as they waited while the doorman hailed a taxi he asked, ‘Can I come back with you tonight?’ ‘Why not? If you want,’ she laughed in a voice that made him afraid. He was violently ill when he got to the flat and fell at once into a drugged sleep sprawled across the bed. She looked at him a moment with what she knew was the dangerous egotism of the maternal instinct before she made up a bed on the carpet and switched off the lights. He woke early with a raging thirst and she got him a glass of water. ‘Was I sick last night?’ ‘Yes, but don’t worry, in the bathroom.’ ‘Why didn’t you sleep in the bed?’ ‘I’d have to wake you, the way you were in bed.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ‘Why don’t you come in now?’ ‘All right.’ She rose from the blankets on the floor. The night conversation seemed to her like dialogue from a play that had run too long, and the acting had gone stale. He drew her towards him in the bed, more, she knew, to try to escape through pleasure from the pain of the hangover than from desire. She grew impatient with his tired fumbling and pulled him on top of her, provoking him with her own body till he came. Afterwards they both slept. She shook her head later when he asked her, ‘When will we meet?’ ‘It’s no use.’ ‘But I love you.’ She still shook her head. ‘I’m fond of you but you can’t give me what I want.’ As he moved to speak she stopped him, ‘No. I can’t wait. I have work I want to do.’ ‘Is it that damned Chekhov’s body?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘It’ll never come to anything,’ he said in hatred. ‘I don’t care, but I intend to try.’ ‘You’re nothing but a selfish bitch.’ ‘I am selfish and I want you to go now.’

That morning there were several calls for her during rehearsals but she had left strict instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed, and when she got home that evening she took the phone off the hook.

She was surprised during the following days how little she yearned for him, it was as if a weight had lifted. She felt an affection for him that she felt for the part of her life she had passed with him, but she saw clearly that it was for her own life and not for his that she yearned. She would go on alone, and when he demanded to see her she met him with a calm that was indifference which roused him to fury. She had not built a life with him, she had built nothing: but out of these sentences The word Oysters was chalked on the wagon that carried Chekhov’s body to Moscow for burial. The coffin was carried in the oyster wagon because of the fierce heat of early July she would build, and for that she had to be alone. She would leave this city that had so much of her past life, the theatre where she had worked so long. She would leave them like a pair of galoshes in the porch, and go indoors. She rang rich friends: was their offer of the house in Spain still open? It was. They only used it in July. They would be delighted to loan it to her. She went and offered her resignation to the old manager.