Making Things Better Read online

  He could of course defer the whole plan indefinitely. There were a dozen excuses available to him. He could plead the unseasonably cold weather, although in fact it was growing appreciably warmer. He could plead the necessity of finalizing business arrangements, though in fact he had none. But he owed explanations to no one, for the world had proved itself indifferent. The letters had perhaps been imprudent, the one to Bernard Simmonds slightly too valedictory. That might arouse suspicions in that eminently sensible mind. The letter to Josie he dismissed as irrelevant; she would disregard it, as she had disregarded most of his outpourings. Fanny was mistress of her own plans and would not be likely to defer to his. There was however the question of the flat. He had entrusted this problem to Sophie, who would be more prompt, might produce a solution in a matter of weeks, if not days. But he doubted that he would accept any of the candidates she might propose, and even if they were all suitable he could prevaricate. In truth he no longer wanted a stranger in his flat, which once again asserted its right to be inalienably his. He could simply say that he had changed his mind. This would annoy her, but she was used to being annoyed by him. Once again the prospect of his unchanging days exerted an appeal. Yet the profile of that curious illumination he had had, of himself undergoing change, of bringing about change for its own sake, had a kind of inevitability. It had come to him in the guise of a solution, and although he knew that there were in fact no ideal solutions he still retained a memory of that exhilaration, that almost aesthetic exhilaration that had brought his fantasy so near to a conclusion, or, if not a conclusion, to the beauty of enactment. He might have been writing a book, the book of his own life, or of someone infinitely more decisive. He had had a sense of being his own hero: this was the plot he would have devised. At the same time he doubted whether he were brave enough to be that hero. He knew himself to be lacking in heroic qualities. Even the sensible aspects of the plan no longer appealed. It was his right to take his own hesitations into consideration. The further sense of failure would be his own business, mercifully invisible to the rest of the world.

  A knock on the door brought him back to present-day reality, to three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, with an unaccustomed sun pouring through his windows. He had a guest, or if not a guest, a caller. On the landing stood Sophie Clay with a young man by her side.

  ‘Why, Sophie,’ he said. ‘You’re home early.’

  ‘It’s about the flat. I thought this was more important. This is Matt Henderson. He’s looking for a place, and he’s going to New York next week, so he’s in a bit of a hurry . . .’

  ‘Come in, come in. Is it too early for tea?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t want tea,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but I do. And anyway there’s quite a bit to discuss. Come in, Mr Henderson. Do sit down. You’re off to New York next week, I gather. Then you must want to get things settled. Though I have to warn you that there might be some delay on my part. My plans are not quite mature.’

  Mr Henderson, who had not said a word, leaving his life in Sophie’s hands, entered the living-room with a polite and amiable smile, having ushered Sophie in before him. His unusually striking face had no doubt let this smile speak for him on all formal occasions. ‘I hope this isn’t too much of an intrusion,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you’re American.’

  ‘Half. My mother is American, my father English. I grew up here and in the States. And I work here mostly, though I do go home quite a lot. This looks great.’ He cast around pleasantly, expressing no undue anxiety that Herz might not fit in with his plans. His fine head, framed in dark curling hair, was no doubt the reason why Sophie had lent herself so promptly to the project. And the carelessly impressive lines of the body spoke for themselves. Sophie, Herz noted, had not taken her eyes off him, and the look she had given Herz, as they had both stood on the landing, had been meaningful, so meaningful that Herz had detected a plea. She had set her sights on this Henderson, who seemed quite impervious to her concentrated gaze, but Herz saw that if not yet in love with him she had him in mind for a future partner. Herz could see his attraction for her, not yet hers for him. Here was a young man who would need no help from the gods: his impressive looks, and his politely detached manner would achieve his ends, whatever they might be. He was, as yet, Hippolytus to any woman’s Phaedra, untouched by female calculations, able to proceed innocently on his own unawakened path. He must be conscious of his good fortune in possessing such attributes, sufficiently well-bred to ignore them. No doubt he too made his own arrangements. Knowing that he had the means to implement them would no doubt explain his relaxed self-assurance.

  Not so in Sophie’s case. Herz saw with some amusement, but also with some sadness, that this man, now looking closely at what he saw around him, had affected Sophie, had indeed altered her, reduced her to a supplicant. How else could she explain the almost pointed looks she exchanged with Herz, as if admitting him to her intentions? Whatever difficulty she had ever had in expressing her feelings—and Herz saw that this must always have been the case—her eyes on this occasion spoke for her. Her obdurate little face was as closed as ever, but he detected tension in her posture. He regretted, as much for himself as for her, this loss of autonomy, hoping that she was woman enough to denounce it. This he doubted. Men were better fitted for this exercise than women. And Sophie, whose own emotions seemed so unavailable, would experience any undue tenderness on her part as a fall from grace. As indeed it was. Mr Henderson’s attention was claimed entirely by the flat, his eyes expertly ranging into corners, his mien agreeable. When he passed her he touched her arm with kind camaraderie. Herz mentally sighed. This was the way to conquer a woman, not by appeals, not even by attack, but by sheer indifference. Herz found himself unable to address the young man by his Christian name, some acknowledgement surely that respect on his part was due to both beauty and self-possession. There was no doubt that if he so wished he would move in straight away.

  ‘I think I will make tea, if you don’t mind. Do look round, Mr Henderson. As I said, my plans are still rather shapeless. I had intended to leave in the near future, but in fact there may be one or two impediments, quite a considerable delay, in fact. That might not suit you.’

  ‘Tea would be great,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘I’ll be in New York for the best part of a month, anyway. And I wouldn’t want to rush you. I think Sophie told you that I’m looking for a permanent address? If I found the right thing—and I think this may be it—I’d be prepared to wait.’

  ‘I see. So you think this might be suitable?’

  ‘Sure. Good location, good communications, and so on. Is there a garage?’

  ‘No,’ said Herz, hoping that this would deter him. ‘But we are quite near the Underground. Baker Street and Marble Arch are within walking distance.’

  ‘I could give you a lift in the mornings,’ intercepted Sophie, a slight flush now apparent on her normally colourless cheeks.

  ‘Do you work together?’ enquired Herz.

  ‘We met through work. We’re both in the City. Sophie works in my firm, but only from time to time.’

  ‘Ah. Short-term contracts.’

  ‘Exactly. She knew I was looking for a place, and she mentioned that there might be something going in her building . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herz, tired. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  He was almost won over, not by the young man’s amiable lack of persistence but by his conviction that his needs would be met. So must he have proceeded throughout his life. The large sum of money he mentioned brought Herz out of his trance. ‘The flat is not for sale,’ he said severely. ‘Although it may become for sale eventually. I had in mind an absence of a month or two. But as I said I may be gone for longer, even for good. That rather depends on another person. No doubt this makes the proposition less attractive for you.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I like the place. I’d be prepared to fit in with your plans.’

  ‘I’ll need references, of course.’
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br />   ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sophie will tell me when you return from New York. We can talk again then.’ But Sophie, whose eyes were fixed on the large hand lifting the teacup, murmured only abstractedly, ‘Of course.’ Herz felt for her an unwelcome pity. So she too was destined to be a victim. The thought gave him no pleasure.

  They parted on mutually complimentary terms. Herz shut his front door with a sense of relief, though the flat felt strangely quiet. It was not the quiet of his solitary days, but a quiet that signified the departure of youth. To his surprise he had enjoyed their visit, though it had disastrous implications for himself. He saw that they were entitled to make demands, to be fully conscious of their own advantages, to pay only halfhearted attention to those who stood in their way. What impressed him was their physical ease, a faculty of which he had long lost sight. How could their assurance let them down? Though the decision was theoretically his, Herz found himself in danger of being disregarded. What were his plans in comparison with theirs?

  Later that evening the telephone rang. ‘I’ve got Matt here,’ said Sophie. ‘Would you like to join us for a drink?’ A kind of mutual sympathy seemed to have sprung up between them, for which Herz was grateful. The fact that he seemed to be aware of her feelings had predisposed Sophie in his favour. The fact that no acknowledgement had been made was acceptable to her mute way of conducting her affairs. He felt protective, as he always should have done, and he suspected that she sensed this as well. He sighed. It was a role the old were forced to play, sometimes against their will. Nevertheless he accepted the invitation with something like alacrity. He was, in spite of himself, genuinely interested. Who would win, vanquish the other? He was entitled to take some pleasure in the spectacle. He brushed his hair, armed himself with a clean handkerchief, as if he were leaving for the theatre. His own role would be as a member of the audience. Their youth had seen to that.

  He seemed to have arrived just before the interval, for during his very real absence something extraordinary had taken place. Though the expressions of mutual accord were offered, and indeed received, these lacked commitment on the young man’s part. The look he gave Herz was abstracted, almost haggard, the gaze he returned to Sophie markedly less so. Herz watched, fascinated, as this wordless exchange took place. Mr Henderson, it seemed, had been woken from his neutralizing affability. From the look of dawning astonishment in his eyes, from the momentary abandon in Sophie’s answering smile, Herz knew that this was a sacred moment, the descent of the gods, perhaps. He had been present at this strange conjunction, which rarely affects two people simultaneously. When it does the future is irrelevant. His future as well, Herz reflected. Whatever discussions would now take place would be dazed, abstracted. He was moved, as he could not fail to be. Earthy practical considerations were swept aside. Tactfully he signalled his departure to Sophie, who acknowledged it with an almost languorous smile, such as he had never seen before on her face. It was an act of the purest discretion to leave them alone together. What happened next needed no witnesses, for the outcome, as their almost ritualized expressions denoted, was not for his eyes, not for anyone’s. Love, once again, asserted its exclusivity, its so triumphant right to possession. Herz was relieved that he had left so discreetly, glad that he had not shown undue interest. His own thoughts would be entertained in the appropriately sylvan setting of the public garden, thus promoted to classical glade or grove. He was also relieved that his own plans had been halted by an unexpected delay, that no further mention had been made of references. The beauty made manifest in their recognition of each other, and of the significance of the moment, was its own recommendation. No further acknowledgement would be required.

  Their obvious enchantment—quite literally, as if they had been put under a spell—threw his own proposed merger, his marriage of convenience, into unwelcome relief. What he had witnessed had been the mystic moment before desire had taken hold and released their movements, and yet it was desire, or a knowledge of desire, that was imprinted in their wide-open eyes, in the colour that had crept into their cheeks and lips. This was the stuff of myth, of legend; it seemed almost possible to think not of Cupid, but of Pan, of Apollo, who favoured ravishment and turned reluctant partners into trees. Yet there had been no cruelty in their gaze; they were too humbled by this apparent compulsion either to question it or to take it further. Their dramatic conjunction was, if anything, a cause for wonder, an understanding that it could take place in ordinary circumstances, between quite ordinary people, all calculations of the outcome, or even the next move, quite absent. The world would reclaim them at some point, but for one extraordinary interval each had known the other as if some ideal were being enacted. It was even possible for onlookers to be drawn into the drama of the moment, and in the following moment to feel bereft, deprived of that glimpse of another dimension, and all too sadly understanding their own unregenerate because earthbound condition.

  On returning to his own flat he had the impression that a film of dust overlay his belongings. This too was metaphorical, since Ted Bishop had cleaned everything only two days previously. As a place of safety it had served its purpose and now appeared illusory. It would be taken over by somebody else, while his own absurd merger would go ahead. It seemed appropriate to think in terms of merger, of appropriation, business terms which had nothing to do with his own modest preoccupations. The moment of felicity which he had witnessed made even his fantasies seem tedious, for without some benevolent supernatural agency how could his own life be rewarded? It was impossible not to be moved by what had taken place, that charged look . . . It had been brought about involuntarily; that was the beauty of it. Even the knowledge that it would eventually descend to the level of the banal, the everyday, made no appreciable difference. By comparison his proposed flight to Nyon and to Fanny, though it had once made eminent sense, seemed ludicrous. It had made sense because he had not put it to the test, had not translated it into the process of lived life, had seen it continuing into a not yet problematic eternity. He thought of Fanny’s letter, of her complaints. He had no doubt that these would be renewed. And how would he fare as a witness to her dissatisfaction? For he did not doubt that he would be cast in a supporting role. His next task would be to convince her of the necessity of returning to Bonn to settle her affairs. And yet, still, there might be a longed-for dignity in the proposed arrangement. He thought with pity and contempt of the excitement he had experienced in watching and waiting for Sophie Clay. It had been possible to be in love even at that remove, and now he knew that life without love would be a desert, and moreover a desert that would reclaim him for its own, bringing the past back into the present, even into the future, and with it the dead whose absence he almost envied.

  When the telephone rang he assumed that it was Fanny, even felt a sense of relief that she was responding to his letter with plans of her own, but it was Bernard Simmonds, his voice tired and a little tetchy.

  ‘Julius? I got your letter, but I think we should meet to discuss matters further. It seems to me that you have been a touch precipitate.’

  ‘It seems to me that way too. I appear to have let the flat.’

  ‘You haven’t signed anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure . . .’

  ‘Bernard. Can we meet? I think I need some advice with this.’

  ‘Of course. I take it that you don’t want to come to the office?’

  ‘No. Have dinner with me at the usual place.’ He waited while a diary was being consulted, then agreed to the Tuesday of the following week. Fanny receded into the distance. If he were fortunate she would take an age to make up her mind, giving him one last chance to make up his own.

  16

  Bernard’s advice had been terse but cogent: insist on a monthly agreement, to be terminated, if necessary, at short notice. Having delivered himself of this verdict he attacked his ravioli in a zestful manner which Herz found disquieting. His mind was not really attuned to this inte
rview. The morning had brought a postcard from Bad Homburg. The message, in Fanny’s butterfly hand, had read, ‘Enjoying a brief respite from my troubles. Letter follows.’ From this he gathered that she was in funds, was looking forward to a successful outcome to her lawsuit, and had forgotten him altogether.

  This left him with the obligation—it was no less—to repair to the Beau Rivage for at least a month, probably on his own, in order to satisfy Mr Henderson’s ever polite but pressing enquiries about the future of the flat, which, Herz reflected, had somehow passed out of his ownership. If he vacated it, even for the shortest period of time, it was less in his own interest, rather more in that of Mr Henderson, for whom he felt an absurd sympathy. The young man, whom he met frequently on the stairs or on Sophie’s landing, appeared flushed with love and determination, but still clear-headed enough to pursue his own plans.

  Herz felt as tenderly for him as he would have done for a child proceeding unsupervised into a busy road, not because he was in love, but because he so obviously thought that he had all aspects of the situation under control. He would have liked to take him on one side to explain to him the difficulties that lay ahead. Look at my case, he would have said: a mistaken early love for a woman I find I no longer care for has led me into a sequence of muddled intentions for which there seems to be no resolution. A memory of early euphoria, or even very real euphoria, seems to have condemned me to a form of exile. And in your case that same euphoria, of which I had proof, may fade; your initial conjunction may break down into a conflict of interests. Sophie is no innocent maiden waiting in her bower, whereas you, I think, are rather more unprotected.