The Love Object Read online

  Argoroba hung from the trees like blackened banana skins. The men picked them in the early morning and packed them in sacks for winter fodder. In the barn where these sacks were stored there was a smell of decay. And an old olive press. In the linen room next door a pleasant smell of linen. The servants used too much bleach. Clothes lost their sharpness of colour after one wash. She used to sit in one or other of these rooms and read. She went to the library for a book. He was in one of the Regency chairs that was covered with ticking. As on a throne. One chair was real and one a copy but she could never tell them apart. ‘I saw you yesterday, and you nearly went under,’ he said. ‘I still have several lessons to go,’ she said, and went as she intended, but without the book that she had come to fetch.

  His daughter by his third marriage had an eighteen-inch waist. On her first evening she wore a white trouser suit. She held the legs out and the small pleats when opened were like a concertina. At table she sat next to her father and gazed at him with appropriate awe. He told a story of a dangerous leopard hunt. They had lobster as a special treat. The lobster tails, curving from one place setting to the next, reached far more cordially than the conversation. She tried to remember something she had read that day. She found that by memorizing things she could amuse them at table.

  ‘The gorilla resorts to eating, drinking or scratching to by-pass anxiety,’ she said later. They all laughed.

  ‘You don’t say,’ he said, with a sneer. It occurred to her that if she were to become too confident he would not want that either. Or else he had said it to reassure his daughter.

  There were moments when she felt confident. She knew in her mind the movements she was required to make in order to pass through the water. She could not do them but she knew what she was supposed to do. She worked her hands under the table, trying to make deeper and deeper forays into the atmosphere. No one caught her at it. The word plankton would not leave go of her. She saw dense masses of it, green and serpentine, enfeebling her fingers. She could almost taste it.

  His last wife had stitched a backgammon board in green and red. Very beautiful it was. The fat woman played with him after dinner. They carried on the game from one evening to the next. They played very contentedly. The woman wore a different arrangement of rings at each sitting and he never failed to admire, and compliment her on them. To those not endowed with beauty he was particularly charming.

  Her curling tongs fused the entire electricity system. People rushed out of their bedrooms to know what had happened. He did not show his anger but she felt it. Next morning they had to send a telegram to summon an electrician. In the telegram office two men sat, one folding the blue pieces of paper, one applying gum with a narrow brush and laying thin borders of white over the blue and pressing down with his hands. On the white strips the name and address had already been printed. The motor-cycle was indoors, to protect the tyres from the sun, or in case it might be stolen. The men took turns when a telegram had to be delivered. She saved one or other of them a journey because a telegram from a departed guest arrived while she was waiting. It simply said ‘Thanks, Harry.’ Guests invariably forgot something and in their thank-you letters mentioned what they had forgotten. She presumed that some of the hats stacked into one another and laid on the stone ledge were hats forgotten or thrown away. She had grown quite attached to a green one that had lost its ribbons.

  The instructor asked to be brought to the souvenir shop. He bought a glass ornament and a collar for his dog. On the way back a man at the petrol station gave one of the children a bird. They put it in the chapel. Made a nest for it. The servant threw it nest and all into the wastepaper basket. That night at supper the talk was of nothing else. He remembered his fish story and he told it to the new people who had come, how one morning he had to abandon his harpoon because the lines got tangled, and next day, when he went back, he found that the shark had retreated into the cave and had two great lumps of rock in his mouth, where obviously he had bitten to free himself. That incident had a profound effect on him.

  ‘Is the boat named after your mother?’ she asked of his daughter. Her mother’s name was Beth and the boat was called Miss Beth. ‘He never said,’ the daughter replied. She always disappeared after lunch. It must have been to accommodate them. Despite the heat they made a point of going to his room. And made a point of inventiveness. She tried a strong green stalk, to excite him, marvelling at it, comparing him and it. He watched. He could not endure such competition. With her head upside down and close to the tiled floor she saw all the oils and ointments on his bathroom ledge and tried reading their labels backwards. Do I like all this love-making? she asked herself. She had to admit that possibly she did not, that it went on too long, that it was involvement she sought, involvement and threat.

  They swapped dreams. It was her idea. He was first. Everyone was careful to humour him. He said in a dream a dog was lost and his grief was great. He seemed to want to say more but didn’t, or couldn’t. Repeated the same thing in fact. When it came to her turn she told a different dream from the one she had meant to tell. A short, uninvolved little dream.

  In the night she heard a guest sob. In the morning the same guest wore a flame dressing-gown and praised the marmalade which she ate sparingly.

  She asked for the number of lessons to be increased. She had three a day and she did not go on the boat with the others. Between lessons she would walk along the shore. The pine trunks were white as if a lathe had been put to them. The winds of winter the lathe. In winter they would move; to catch up with friends, business meetings, art exhibitions, to buy presents, to shop. He hated suitcases, he liked clothes to be waiting wherever he went, and they were. She saw a wardrobe with his winter clothes neatly stacked, she saw his frieze cloak with the black astrakhan collar and she experienced such a longing for that impossible season, that impossible city, and his bulk inside the cloak as they set out in the cold to go to a theatre. Walking along the shore she did the swimming movements in her head. It had got into all her thinking. Invaded her dreams. Atrocious dreams about her mother, father, and one where lion cubs surrounded her as she lay on a hammock. The cubs were waiting to pounce the second she moved. The hammock of course was unsteady. Each time she wakened from one of those dreams she felt certain that her cries were the repeated cries of infancy, and it was then she helped herself to the figs she had brought up. He put a handkerchief, folded like a letter, before her plate at table. On opening she found some sprays of fresh mint, wide-leafed and cold. He had obviously put it in the refrigerator first. She smelt it and passed it round. Then on impulse she got up to kiss him and on her journey back nearly bumped into the servant with a tureen of soup, so excited was she.

  Her instructor was her friend. ‘We’re winning, we’re winning,’ he said. He walked from dawn onwards, walked the hills and saw the earth with dew on it. He wore a handkerchief on his head that he knotted over the ears, but as he approached the’ house he removed this head-dress. She met him on one of these morning walks. As it got nearer the time she could neither sleep nor make love. ‘We’re winning, we’re winning.’ He always said it no matter where they met.

  They set out to buy finger bowls. In the glass factory there were thin boys with very white skin who secured pieces of glass with pokers and thrust them into the stoves. The whole place smelt of wood. There was chopped wood in piles, in corners. Circular holes were cut along the top of the wall between the square grated windows. The roof was high and yet the place was a furnace. Five kittens with tails like rats lay bunched immobile in a heap. A boy, having washed himself in one of the available buckets of water, took the kittens one by one and dipped them in. She took it to be an act of kindness. Later he bore a hot blue bubble at the end of a poker and laid it before her. As the flame subsided it became mauve, and as it cooled more it was almost colourless. It had the shape of a sea serpent and an unnaturally long tail. Its colour and its finished appearance was an accident, but the gift was clearly intentioned. There was no
thing she could do but smile. As they were leaving she saw him wait, near the motor-car, and as she got in, she waved, wanly. That night they had asparagus which is why they went to the trouble to get finger bowls. These were blue with small bubbles throughout, and though the bubbles may have been a defect, they gave to the thick glass an illusion of frost.

  There was a new dog, a mongrel, in whom he took no interest. He said the servants got new dogs simply because he allotted money for that. But as they were not willing to feed more than one animal, the previous year’s dog was either murdered or put out on the mountain. All these dogs were of the same breed, part wolf; she wondered if when left on the mountain they reverted to being wolves. He said solemnly to the table at large that he would never allow himself to become attached to another dog. She said to him directly, ‘Is it possible to know beforehand?’ He said, ‘Yes.’ She could see that she had irritated him.

  He came three times and afterwards coughed badly. She sat with him and stroked his back, but when the coughing took command he moved her away. He leaned forward holding a pillow to his mouth. She saw a film of his lungs, orange shapes with insets of dark that boded ill. She wanted to do some simple domestic thing like give him milk and honey but he sent her away. Going back along the terrace she could hear the birds. The birds were busy with their song. She met the fat woman. ‘You have been derouted,’ the woman said, ‘and so have I.’ And they bowed mockingly.

  An archaeologist had been on a dig where a wooden temple was discovered. ‘Tell me about your temple,’ she said.

  ‘I would say it’s 400 B.C.,’ he said, nothing more. Dry, dry.

  A boy who called himself Jasper and wore mauve shirts received letters under the name of John. The letters were arranged on the hall table, each person’s under a separate stone. Her mother wrote to say they were anxiously awaiting the good news. She said she hoped they would get engaged first but admitted that she was quite prepared to be told that the marriage had actually taken place. She knew how unpredictable he was. Her mother managed a poultry farm in England and was a compulsive eater.

  Young people came to ask if Clay Sickle was staying at the house. They were in rags, but it looked as if they were rags worn on purpose and for effect. Their shoes were bits of motor-tyre held up with string. They all got out of the car though the question could have been asked by any one of them. He was on his way back from the pool and after two minute’s conversation he invited them for supper. He throve on new people. That night they were the ones in the limelight – the three unkempt boys and the long-haired girl. The girl had very striking eyes which she fixed on one man and then another. She was determined to compromise one of them. The boys described their holiday, being broke, the trouble they had with the car which was owned by a hire purchase firm in London. After dinner an incident occurred. The girl followed one of the men into the bathroom. ‘Want to see what you’ve got there,’ she said and insisted upon watching while the man peed. She said they would do any kind of fucking he wanted. She said he would be a slob not to try. It was too late to send them away, because earlier on they’d been invited to spend the night and beds were put up, down in the linen room. The girl was the last to go over there. She started a song ‘All around his cock he wears a tri-coloured rash-eo’, and she went on yelling it as she crossed the courtyard and went down the steps, brandishing a bottle.

  In the morning, she determined to swim by herself. It was not that she mistrusted her instructor but the time was getting closer, and she was desperate. As she went to the pool one of the youths appeared in borrowed white shorts, eating a banana. She greeted him with faltering gaiety. He said it was fun to be out before the others. He had a big head with closely cropped hair, a short neck, and a very large nose.

  ‘Beaches are where I most want to be, where it all began,’ he said. She thought he was referring to Creation and upon hearing such a thing he laughed, profanely. ‘Let’s suppose there’s a bunch of kids and you’re all horsing around with a ball and all your sensory dimensions are working …’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘A hard on …’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Now the ball goes into the sea and I follow and she follows me and takes the ball from my hand and a dense rain of energy, call it love, from me to her and vice versa, reciprocity in other words …’

  Sententious idiot. She thought, Why do people like that have to be kept under his roof? Where is his judgement, where? She walked back to the house, furious at having to miss her chance to swim.

  Dear Mother: It’s not that kind of relationship. Being unmarried instals me as positively as being married and neither instals me with any certainty. It is a beautiful house but staying here is quite a strain. You could easily get filleted. Friends do it to friends. The food is good. Others cook it but I am responsible for each day’s menu. Shopping takes hours. The shops have a special smell that is impossible to describe. They are all dark so that the foodstuffs won’t perish. An old woman goes along the street in a cart selling fish. She has a very penetrating cry. It is like the commencement of a song. There are always six or seven little girls with her, they all have pierced ears, and wear fine gold sleepers. Flies swarm round the cart even when it is upright in the square. Living off scraps and fish scales, I expect. We do not buy from her, we go to the harbour and buy directly from the fishermen. The guests – all but one woman – eat small portions. You would hate it. All platinum people. They have a canny sense of self-preservation; they know how much to eat, how much to drink, how far to go; you would think they invented somebody like Shakespeare so proprietary are they about his talent. They are not fools – not by any means. There is a chessboard of ivory and it is so large it stands on the floor. Seats of the right height are stationed round it.

  Far back – in my most distant childhood, Mother – I remember your nightly cough, it was a lament really and I hated it. At the time I had no idea that I hated it, which goes to show how unreliable feelings are. We do not know what we feel at the time and that is very perplexing. Forgive me for mentioning the cough, it is simply that I think it is high time we spoke our minds on all matters. But don’t worry. You are centuries ahead of the people here. In a nut shell they brand you as idiot if you are harmless. There are jungle laws which you never taught me; you couldn’t, you never knew them. Ah well!

  I will bring you a present. Probably something suede. He says the needlework here is appalling and that things fall to pieces, but you can always have it re-made. We had some nice china jelly moulds when I was young. Whatever happened to them? Love.

  Like the letter to the doctor it was not posted. She didn’t tear it up or anything, it just lay in an envelope and she omitted to post it one day to the next. This new tendency disturbed her. This habit of postponing everything. It was as if something vital had first to be gone through. She blamed the swimming.

  The day the pool was emptied she missed her three lessons. She could hear the men scrubbing and from time to time she walked down and stood over them as if her presence could hurry the proceedings and make the water flow in, in one miracle burst. He saw how she fretted, he said they should have had two pools built. He asked her to come with them on the boat. The books and the sun-oil were as she had last seen them. The cliffs as intriguing as ever. ‘Hello cliff, can I fall off you?’ She waved merrily. In a small harbour they saw another millionaire with his girl. They were alone, without even a crew. And for some reason it went straight to her heart. At dinner the men took bets as to who the girl was. They commented on her prettiness though they had hardly seen her. The water filling into the pool sounded like a stream from a faraway hill. He said it would be full by morning.

  Other houses had beautiful objects but theirs was in the best taste. The thing she liked most was the dull brass chandelier, from Portugal. In the evenings when it was lit the cones of light tapered towards the rafters and she thought of wood smoke and the wings of birds endlessly fluttering. Votive. To please her he had a fi
re lit in a far-off room simply to have the smell of wood smoke in the air.

  The watercress soup that was to be a speciality tasted like salt water. Nobody blamed her but afterwards she sat at table and wondered how it had gone wrong. She felt defeated. On request he brought another bottle of red wine but asked if she was sure she ought to have more. She thought, He does not understand the workings of my mind. But then, neither did she. She was drunk. She held the glass out. Watching the meniscus, letting it tilt from side to side, she wondered how drunk she would be when she stood up. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what interests you?’ It was the first blunt question she had ever put to him.

  ‘Why, everything,’ he said.

  ‘But deep down,’ she said.

  ‘Discovery,’ he said, and walked away.

  But not self-discovery, she thought, not that.

  A neurologist got drunk and played jazz on the chapel organ. He said he could not resist it, there were so many things to press. The organ was stiff from not being used.

  She retired early. Next day she was due to swim for them. She thought he would come to visit her. If he did they would lie in one another’s arms and talk. She would knead his poor worn scrotum and ask questions about the world beneath the sea where he delved each day, ask about those depths and if there were flowers of some sort down there, and in the telling he would be bound to tell her about himself. She kept wishing for the organ player to fall asleep. She knew he would not come until each guest had retired because he was strangely reticent about his loving.

  But the playing went on. If anything the player gathered strength and momentum. When at last he did fall asleep she opened the shutters. The terrace lights were all on. The night breathlessly still. Across the fields came the lap from the sea and then the sound of a sheep bell tentative and intercepted. Even a sheep recognized the dead of night. The light-house worked faithfully as a heart beat. The dog lay in the chair, asleep, but with his ears raised. On other chairs were sweaters and books and towels, the remains of the day’s activities. She watched and she waited. He did not come. She lamented that she could not go to him on the night she needed him most.