William Trevor: Collected Stories

‘You organized that badly, Mr Mileson.’

‘I organized nothing. I know the rules of these places. I repeated them to you. You gave me no chance to organize.’

‘A chop and an egg or something. Da Tanka at least could have got us soup.’

In 1931 Mr Mileson had committed fornication with the maid in his parents’ house. It was the only occasion, and he was glad that adultery was not expected of him with Mrs da Tanka. In it she would be more experienced than he, and he did not relish the implication. The grill-room was lush and vulgar. ‘This seems your kind of place,’ Mr Mileson repeated rudely.

‘At least it is warm. And the lights don’t glare. Why not order some wine?’

Her husband must remain innocent. He was a person of importance, in the public eye. Mr Mileson’s friend had repeated it, the friend who knew Mrs da Tanka’s solicitor. All expenses paid, the friend had said, and a little fee as well. Nowadays Mr Mileson could do with little fees. And though at the time he had rejected the suggestion downright, he had later seen that friend – acquaintance really – in the pub he went to at half past twelve on Sundays, and had agreed to take part in the drama. It wasn’t just the little fee; there was something rather like prestige in the thing; his name as co-respondent – now there was something you’d never have guessed! The hotel bill to find its way to Mrs da Tanka’s husband, who would pass it to his solicitor. Breakfast in bed, and remember the face of the maid who brought it. Pass the time of day with her, and make sure she remembered yours. Oh very nice, the man in the pub said, very nice Mrs da Tanka was – or so he was led to believe. He batted his eyes at Mr Mileson; but Mr Mileson said it didn’t matter, surely, about Mrs da Tanka’s niceness. He knew his duties: there was nothing personal about them. He’d do it himself, the man in the pub explained, only he’d never be able to keep his hands off an attractive middle-aged woman. That was the trouble about finding someone for the job.

‘I’ve had a hard life,’ Mrs da Tanka confided. ‘Tonight I need your sympathy, Mr Mileson. Tell me I have your sympathy.’ Her face and neck had reddened: chirpiness was breaking through.

In the house, in a cupboard beneath the stairs, he had kept his gardening boots. Big, heavy army boots, once his father’s. He had worn them at weekends, poking about in the garden.

‘The lease came to an end two years ago,’ he told Mrs da Tanka. ‘There I was with all that stuff, all my gardening tools, and the furniture and bric-à-brac of three generations to dispose of. I can tell you it wasn’t easy to know what to throw away.’

‘Mr Mileson, I don’t like that waiter.’

Mr Mileson cut his steak with care: a three-cornered piece, neat and succulent. He loaded mushroom and mustard on it, added a sliver of potato and carried the lot to his mouth. He masticated and drank some wine.

‘Do you know the waiter?’

Mrs da Tanka laughed unpleasantly; like ice cracking. ‘Why should I know the waiter? I do not generally know waiters. Do you know the waiter?’

‘I ask because you claim to dislike him.’

‘May I not dislike him without an intimate knowledge of the man?’

‘You may do as you please. It struck me as a premature decision, that is all.’

‘What decision? What is premature? What are you talking about? Are you drunk?’

‘The decision to dislike the waiter I thought to be premature. I do not know about being drunk. Probably I am a little. One has to keep one’s spirits up.’

‘Have you ever thought of wearing an eye-patch, Mr Mileson? I think it would suit you. You need distinction. Have you led an empty life? You give the impression of an empty life.’

‘My life has been as many other lives. Empty of some things, full of others. I am in possession of all my sight, though. My eyes are real. Neither is a pretence. I see no call for an eye-patch.’

‘It strikes me you see no call for anything. You have never lived, Mr Mileson.’

‘I do not understand that.’

‘Order us more wine.’

Mr Mileson indicated with his hand and the waiter approached. ‘Some other waiter, please,’ Mrs da Tanka cried. ‘May we be served by another waiter?’

‘Madam?’ said the waiter.

‘We do not take to you. Will you send another man to our table?’

‘I am the only waiter on duty, madam.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Mr Mileson.

‘It’s not quite all right. I will not have this man at our table, opening and dispensing wine.’

‘Then we must go without.’

‘I am the only waiter on duty, madam.’

‘There are other employees of the hotel. Send us a porter or the girl at the reception.’

‘It is not their duty, madam –’

‘Oh nonsense, nonsense. Bring us the wine, man, and have no more to-do.’

Unruffled, the waiter moved away. Mrs da Tanka hummed a popular tune.

‘Are you married, Mr Mileson? Have you in the past been married?’

‘No, never married.’

‘I have been married twice. I am married now. I am throwing the dice for the last time. God knows how I shall find myself. You are helping to shape my destiny. What a fuss that waiter made about the wine!’

‘That is a little unfair. It was you, you know –’

‘Behave like a gentleman, can’t you? Be on my side since you are with me. Why must you turn on me? Have I harmed you?’

‘No, no. I was merely establishing the truth.’

‘Here is the man again with the wine. He is like a bird. Do you think he has wings strapped down beneath his waiter’s clothes? You are like a bird,’ she repeated, examining the waiter’s face. ‘Has some fowl played a part in your ancestry?’

‘I think not, madam.’

‘Though you cannot be sure. How can you be sure? How can you say you think not when you know nothing about it?’

The waiter poured the wine in silence. He was not embarrassed, Mr Mileson noted; not even angry.

‘Bring coffee,’ Mrs da Tanka said.

‘Madam.’

‘How servile waiters are! How I hate servility, Mr Mileson! I could not marry a servile man. I could not marry that waiter, not for all the tea in China.’

‘I did not imagine you could. The waiter does not seem your sort.’

‘He is your sort. You like him, I think. Shall I leave you to converse with him?’

‘Really! What would I say to him? I know nothing about the waiter except what he is in a professional sense. I do not wish to know. It is not my habit to go about consorting with waiters after they have waited on me.’

‘I am not to know that. I am not to know what your sort is, or what your personal and private habits are. How could I know? We have only just met.’

‘You are clouding the issue.’

‘You are as pompous as da Tanka. Da Tanka would say issue and clouding.’

‘What your husband would say is no concern of mine.’

‘You are meant to be my lover, Mr Mileson. Can’t you act it a bit? My husband must concern you dearly. You must wish to tear him limb from limb. Do you wish it?’

‘I have never met the man. I know nothing of him.’

‘Well then, pretend. Pretend for the waiter’s sake. Say something violent in the waiter’s hearing. Break an oath. Blaspheme. Bang your fist on the table.’

‘I was not told I should have to behave like that. It is against my nature.’

‘What is your nature?’

‘I’m shy and self-effacing.’

‘You are an enemy to me. I don’t understand your sort. You have not got on in the world. You take on commissions like this. Where is your self-respect?’

‘Elsewhere in my character.’

‘You have no personality.’

‘That is a cliché. It means nothing.’