Lovers for a Day Page 10

  ‘You’re beautiful. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. You must believe me that I couldn’t bear it there without you any more.’

  ‘I believe you. What are we going to do now?’ she asked. ‘Do you think they’re serving breakfast yet?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ And he was startled by the thought that he would soon have to abandon this close, airless room.

  ‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t bring it up to us,’ she said. ‘Call them and tell them we want our breakfast here.’

  He lifted the receiver and waited for someone to reply.

  ‘I’ll have ham,’ she said. ‘Ham and eggs and tea. I love tea, I could drink it all day long.’

  ‘It’s dead.’ There was no point fooling themselves. They were trapped. No trick with a borrowed identity card was going to help him. They were outside the door waiting for him to emerge.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘We’ll go downstairs. What shall I put on?’

  ‘Nothing. I like you best when you’ve got nothing on.’

  ‘Do you think I ought to have breakfast in the nude? Or are you going to bring me breakfast in bed? Will you go down and fetch it?’

  He nodded and stepped over to the window. It was already dawn. There were several buses waiting at the bus station. Below, almost indiscernible from five floors up, a man on crutches hurried about on a narrow strip of grass. A ball flew towards him from some unseen opponent around the corner. The man on crutches hobbled over and kicked the ball. He observed the game, watching the ball fly back and forth - watching his imminent fate.

  ‘What can you see there?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Although he sensed that he was to see him again, he couldn’t yet work out how and where it might happen.

  ‘Is that your hunchback?’ she said, looking over his shoulder.

  He shrugged and stretched out on the bed. The paper game lay on the table. Where’s your soul to go?

  ‘He’s fallen over,’ she called from the window. ‘He slipped as he tried to kick the ball. It’s only a young lad. That fellow wasn’t a young lad, was he?’

  ‘Do you love me?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. At this moment I’m hungry. How am I supposed to think about whether I love you when I’m thinking about ham and eggs?’

  ‘Come over here. I want you.’

  ‘Let’s go and eat instead.’

  ‘Afterwards. They’re not open yet anyway’

  ‘We can buy a roll at a shop.’

  ‘Afterwards.’

  ‘You’re crazy. You always want to make love and never want to eat!’ She knelt at the side of the bed and placed her lips on his. She let herself be kissed. ‘That’s why I love you: because you’re crazy. And now come on!’

  He could feel the apprehension sneaking up on him. Where will I run to? But so long as he was here, so long as he was with her, so long as he could hear her breath and cling to her body, he remained, he was still alive and had one certainty: her. He could touch her, feel her closeness, and that awoke in him a sense of blissfulness and peace. He put his arms around her and drew her to him, kissing her, his lips weary and dry. I love you. Don’t leave me! Stay with me!

  She made love with him in silence and that made him even more uneasy. ‘Just a little while longer,’ he whispered, ‘and then we’ll go.’

  When he next awoke the room was bathed in light, although he was sure he’d slept only a few minutes. She was in the bathroom again. In the corridor footsteps went back and forth. Men’s, women’s, maybe even children’s footsteps. A medley of footsteps. He sat down and looked out of the sealed window.

  ‘Is he there?’ she asked from behind him.

  ‘No, he isn’t, sweetheart.’ He looked at her. She was already half dressed. No, she’ll leave. He had no one to hold on to any more.

  ‘Are we going to eat?’ she asked. ‘They must be open by now. It can’t be far off midday. I’ll have soup. I’ll eat two servings of soup and three rolls. Will they have fresh rolls?’

  ‘Don’t get dressed yet, darling!’

  ‘We have to go now. I’ve got to be home this afternoon. You don’t have to drive me if you don’t feel like it. I’ll thumb a lift.’

  ‘I’ll drop you home. I want to. I want to be with you.’

  ‘You’re tired and I’m hungry.’ She sat down next to him. She kissed him. ‘Come on, my pet. We’ll leave the things here and come back here for a little afterwards!’

  He didn’t move. Nor did the time. He stood motionless in the blue hotel room. The blue cell. The sun bobbed out of the mist and its rays heated the hot air even more.

  ‘Have you got something to read here?’

  ‘No, only magazines.’

  ‘Read to me. Read me something.’

  ‘They’re specialized journals.’

  ‘That’s fine. They’ll take your mind off things, at least.’ ‘They’re English.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You can translate them for me, can’t you?’

  He got up and opened his case. The suitcase and the things in it were from over there – where she was absent, but so was fear. Then he leaned over her. Her lips were tightly pursed and her eyes half closed. He looked for a moment at that unfamiliar face. ‘“From ancient times”,’ he translated, ‘”doctors were interested in the construction of the human skeleton. They noticed that bone had different characteristics from all other tissue …

  ‘What sort of bones do cripples have?’ she asked.

  ‘That all depends. Do you really want me to explain it?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ she grinned at him. ‘Really and at length …’

  He remained silent. Love was the only thing they ever talked about together. There was no point in reading aloud to her. He closed the journal and tossed it on to the floor.

  ‘Come on. We will be coming back, after all.’

  He put his arms around her.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she said crossly.

  ‘Don’t you love me any more?’

  ‘You’re crazy and I’m hungry.’

  Dust swirled in the beam of sunlight. He felt the urge to go and look out the window at the patch of grass. But he resisted it.

  ‘You don’t love me either,’ she said. ‘You’re just scared. You’ve been scared ever since you entered this room. You’re scared of every footstep outside the door, you’re scared of being left here on your own. You’re longing for some certainty. Jesus,’ she burst out, ‘what are you doing here with me? Why didn’t you stay over there and find yourself some nice, faithful woman?’ She stood up.

  He reached out and tried to draw her to him.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted, scratching at his chest. Her nails gouged out long bloody furrows.

  ‘Darling, don’t leave me now!’ He watched her dress. The scratches stung. He felt his own blood running down his chest.

  He switched on the radio – at last there was some music. He wasn’t aware of it, only of his tiredness and the hunger that filled his body with inertia. He was aware of his inertia and uncertainty. What will happen next? I’ll close my eyes and stay lying here. I’ll have a sleep. Towards evening I’ll get up and have something to drink. One has to drink, at least. He was aware of his thirst. He got up and went to the bathroom and drank two glasses of hot water, one after the other.

  She sat in front of the mirror combing her hair. ‘What sort of hair did she have, the one who was here?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Did you torture her with hunger, too?’

  ‘No, things were different in those days.’

  ‘Things are always different. Why are you lying down again? You don’t mean to stay here, do you?’

  He broke into a sweat. He shouldn’t have drunk so much water. But it didn’t matter. He tried to listen carefully to the sounds from the corridor and from outside, but the music drowned out everything else.

  ‘What are you scared of, in fact?’ she asked. ‘Did you ki
ll someone over there?’

  ‘Maybe people who kill are better off than people who don’t.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ She was beautiful once more.

  Blood trickled from the scratches on his chest. He thought he heard some footsteps, close by. Then someone seized the door handle. He started to panic. ‘Could you switch that radio off for a moment?’

  His eyes were glued to the door handle. It didn’t move. Maybe they won’t come, while she’s here. ‘Do you love me a bit?’

  ‘At this moment I’m hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Will you leave without me?’

  She took him by the hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  As if there was any point eating. He listened for footsteps in the corridor. One step, another and then a strange knocking sound. One step, another and then the knock. ‘Can you hear?’ he asked and held his breath.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here any more!’ She let go of his hand.

  Someone had stopped in front of the door and was quietly sliding a key into the lock.

  She turned towards him and a look a horror came on her face.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I’ll protect you.’

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ she noticed. ‘How come you’re bleeding?’

  She leaned towards him and kissed his chest.

  He felt her lips suck at his chest, he felt her cool fingertips and he felt his bleeding slow. ‘My darling,’ he whispered. He knew they were touching each other for the last time. This was the last time he would say those words to her. She was leaving. She didn’t need his protection or his love. She didn’t need his return or his sacrifice. She was leaving like the rest, like everything. It was impossible to hold on to things, it was impossible to return. Nothing could be returned, that was the only certainty, the chilling, depressing certainty that everything would pass, including this moment and this anxiety. He could calmly close his eyes. And peace really began to envelop him and he was deaf even to the thumping of strangers’ fists on the door. He sank into the bed.

  They came in. There were two of them. The first was the desk clerk, now dressed in blue overalls, the second was a young man with bright ginger hair, who walked with a stick. In his left hand he carried a large travelling bag.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ said the first of the men. ‘What’s up with you? You should have vacated the room ages ago.’

  She stood up and hastily wiped her mouth. With the other hand she pulled up the covers to hide her lover’s nakedness. ‘We were sleeping, that’s all. He’s still asleep,’ she said and walked quickly past the two men and out of the door, as if she were ashamed that they had found her still there. The desk clerk went over to the bed. ‘Wakey, wakey Mr Kaska!’ Then he turned to the ginger-haired young man. ‘Christ, did you get a look at her?’ and he smacked his lips softly.

  The ginger-haired man put his walking stick and his bag down on the armchair. Then his eye fell on the folded paper game. ‘Heaven, hell, paradise.’ He spoke the words tenderly. ‘Paradise,’ he repeated and he glanced out of the open door, as if in hope of catching another glimpse of her.

  (1969)

  HONEYMOON

  1

  The road wound upwards with hairpin bends.

  The girl sat pressed to his shoulder. Smaller and more finely built, she was almost hidden by him.

  He drove with one hand, his other arm round the girl. Over that year he had become used to driving in that mildly uncomfortable one-handed fashion and the two of them had travelled like that across half of Europe, the German autobahns, the oddly deserted road between Chalons and Meaux lined with maple trees that seemed to have been gnawed by the wind (maybe they weren’t even maples; it had been a misty night) and the wild mountain range of Olympus between Kozani and Tyrnavos, and amazingly, the whole time, even after endless hours of driving, he had always been aware of her, the touch of her hand or the trembling of her body, and would kiss her sometimes as they drove along – they would kiss while tearing along countless instantly forgotten roads and make love in that car on deserted country tracks at night, or in the middle of the day, when the sun beat down on her pale, not particularly beautiful face, while a Greek shepherd slowly passed on a lazy donkey. And now again they were approaching one of their destinations that was not really a destination, the roofs of a little town peeking out from behind the tops of coloured trees, looking almost like a stage backdrop in the light of the setting sun.

  ‘So you’ve gone and got married on me,’ he said, and it didn’t sound like a rebuke, more like a recollection of her state, simply a sentence intended to break the silence for a moment.

  ‘I’ve gone and got married on you,’ she repeated. ‘But I’m on my honeymoon with you,’ and she opened wide her fishlike eyes as she always did when she declared something that was beyond doubt. ‘This is my honeymoon, because I’ve just got married, and yours because you’re with me!’

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded, slightly amazed.

  ‘I couldn’t have married you, could I?’ she said, nudging him with her shoulder. ‘Or could I?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he admitted.

  ‘With you I can just go on a honeymoon.’

  ‘We’ve been on lots of honeymoons,’ he said.

  ‘You think we’ve already been on lots of honeymoons, then?’ she asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter though,’ he added quickly. ‘This is the first time you’ve actually been married. This time it’s a real honeymoon,’ he said, playing along, and then braked, turning the wheel with his free hand, and drove past a baroque fountain before pulling up in front of a house that might once have been gothic.

  ‘It’s not a particularly luxurious building for a wedding night,’ he observed. Overshadowing the square was a tall hill topped by a crumbling castle.

  ‘It’s not a particularly luxurious building,’ she said as they walked through the gateway and she looked up at the whitewashed stone vaulting.

  In the bar room stood an enormous Italian jukebox – the only noticeable thing there apart from the brightly painted gothic ceiling. Sixteen paper roses bloomed in sixteen identical vases on sixteen tables laid for dinner. Only the table adjacent to the bar broke the pattern – long and brown, without a tablecloth. Around it were seated four men and a woman. The men, one of whom was in uniform, were drinking beer.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. He knew he was going to eat and drink slowly, for as long as possible, to delay to the utmost the moment she was also waiting for.

  She looked around the room as if trying to choose which of the identical tables suited her best. Then she said, ‘Shouldn’t we have a wedding feast if we’re on our honeymoon?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said, still playing along. ‘But didn’t you have a wedding feast last week?’

  ‘No, why should I have had a wedding feast last week?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘I thought you did,’ he said, puzzled. ‘After all, you did get married last week.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me at the time,’ she said. ‘But there’s no suitable table here.’

  ‘They’re all equally suitable,’ he countered. ‘We could ask them to bring a different tablecloth and different flowers, if they have them.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but where will we put the guests?’

  ‘Guests?’

  ‘There have to be guests at a wedding feast,’ she said. ‘Or don’t you want to have the wedding feast here?’

  ‘But we don’t know anyone here,’ he pointed out feebly.

  ‘They don’t have to be people we know. The people at that table, for instance. Maybe they’d act as guests if we invited them.’

  ‘Okay. How many guests do you want to have at your wedding feast?’

  ‘Five,’ she answered without hesitation, as if she had made her mind up long ago. ‘You’re not cross, are you?’

  ‘No, why should I be cross?’

  ‘I bet you had a wedding feast too,’ she said. �
��Didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t remember any more.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘It was sixteen years ago,’ he calculated. ‘I was younger than you are now.’

  He called the waiter and tried to explain to him what he wanted, while looking at the big table. Three of the men were ordinary country bumpkins. Their tanned, unshaven faces, now ruddy from drink, were the sort he was never able to recall even minutes after seeing them, even though he did not have a particularly bad memory for faces. The soldier was dark-haired and thin almost to the point of gauntness, with pale cheeks. There were bluish bags under his watery eyes. He was almost too reminiscent of that guy – the one who was now actually her husband. In fact he was reminiscent of all her lovers, to judge from her stories and the crumpled photos she always carried around in her handbag.

  Sitting alongside the soldier was a girl whose hair had been recently permed by the local hairdresser. She looked like a sheep that had been given eye make-up and artificial lashes.

  He watched the waiter lean over the long table. Then, as if on command, the five heads turned as one towards their table. The strangers’ gaze immediately settled on her face and remained there.

  He felt her touch his hand.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I love you for having come on this honeymoon with me. For the wedding feast we’re going to have. And for inviting them all. Look, they’re coming over. Don’t they look funny!’

  The five of them rose from the big table and the soldier fastened his belt with a click. They approached rather hesitantly, wearing the requisite festive grins of guests coming to join the wedding party at table. He noticed that one of the old gaffers had a bluish lump under his right ear (he would forget his face but he would never forget his ear) and the girl had a fine golden chain around her bare neck.

  2

  The stale greasiness of the cutlet and the taste of the bad wine rose in his throat. That long car journey and now this endless evening in a room which screamed of boredom. He felt totally exhausted.

  The three locals – the witnesses to their fake wedding – were endeavouring to pay for the cutlet and the wine with their lives; at least their lives offered in words. The one with the lump under his ear had spent eight years in various prisons, and the other two complemented his account as if they had gone through it all with him themselves.