Read Online A Private View by Anita Brookner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Brookner
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unhappy with that?’
‘I would be if it were happening to me.’
‘I could tell you a bit more about it if you’re interested. Even give you a trial session. On an introductory basis, of course. Are you going in?’ she questioned, apparently amazed at this state of affairs. ‘You’re not going to bed though, surely? If not, I don’t mind watching television withyou for a bit. You get the really grungy programmes round about midnight. They’re the ones I really enjoy. And they’re American. Howard and I knew a lot of people in the entertainment business.’
He put his key in the lock of his own door and said, ‘I think I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind. I
am
a little tired now. I only got back from France this morning. Goodnight, Katy. Thank you for a pleasant evening.’
Although he was by this time in his own hallway she lingered, watching him. All at once he felt tired of her, inimical to her, as if she were a threat, as if she might destroy his peace of mind, the desperately calm and comfortable life he had fashioned for himself, if she had a mind to. He retained enough self-possession to wish her, once again, a pleasant goodnight, once again to thank her for an enjoyable evening. If he overdid it it was because he was unsettled, and mildly ashamed of himself.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But remember, if you want to kick a few ideas around, or even share your thoughts, you know where I am.’
He noticed, even in his tired state, that she had not thanked him, had not expressed appreciation for the evening. This was how women behaved now, he told himself. He had little experience of the phenomenon, being cast in an ancient and no doubt false mould of politeness, of smiles and acknowledgments, and dutifully expressed deference towards the masculine gift of largesse. He also noticed that she was utterly unmarked by the evening’s excesses. At least, they felt like excesses to him; to her they must seem little more than an interlude. Inside his flat he knew both alarm and relief, as if he had been caught out in some deception.Intellectually, he knew, the evening had been indefensible; at certain moments he had been secretly derisive not only of the girl but of himself. Such an evening could not have taken place if Putnam were still alive, or, if it had taken place, would have been put into context by Putnam’s commentary. Putnam had served this useful function, among so many others. He knew that he was not being quite honest with himself: he had been stimulated by the sight of the girl’s appetites (for there had been more than one in evidence) and intrigued by her, as if she were a puzzle sent to beguile him in these bewildering days of leisure, this life so free of incident and adventure. He wanted, he thought, to study her further; that surely was allowed. In bed, in the blessed dark, he thought, she is young! All that this implied, all the longing, all the hurt, all the frustrations of his own youth came flooding back as he remembered her flushed cheeks, her decorated eyes. These were the last images that tempted him before he slid into sleep, her cheeks, her eyes, and her gleaming mouth closing on a morsel of nourishment, her scarlet fingertips guiding it steadily towards extinction.
4
A MAZING GRACE’, DRONING OUT OF THE RADIO by his bed, alerted him to the fact that it was Sunday. He sat up cautiously: not too bad. On the other hand not quite as good as usual, which was only to be expected after his intake of the previous evening. He looked back on the occasion with amazement: what on earth had possessed him to arrange it? At least he had refused to prolong it; that was one thing saved. But perhaps this too was cause for concern, that he had turned down an opportunity to do what any other man would have done, and by his very action, or lack of it, had confirmed his status as cautiously respectable bachelor, near celibate, and hopeless recluse.
The incident worried him, not, he thought, because
‘I would be if it were happening to me.’
‘I could tell you a bit more about it if you’re interested. Even give you a trial session. On an introductory basis, of course. Are you going in?’ she questioned, apparently amazed at this state of affairs. ‘You’re not going to bed though, surely? If not, I don’t mind watching television withyou for a bit. You get the really grungy programmes round about midnight. They’re the ones I really enjoy. And they’re American. Howard and I knew a lot of people in the entertainment business.’
He put his key in the lock of his own door and said, ‘I think I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind. I
am
a little tired now. I only got back from France this morning. Goodnight, Katy. Thank you for a pleasant evening.’
Although he was by this time in his own hallway she lingered, watching him. All at once he felt tired of her, inimical to her, as if she were a threat, as if she might destroy his peace of mind, the desperately calm and comfortable life he had fashioned for himself, if she had a mind to. He retained enough self-possession to wish her, once again, a pleasant goodnight, once again to thank her for an enjoyable evening. If he overdid it it was because he was unsettled, and mildly ashamed of himself.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But remember, if you want to kick a few ideas around, or even share your thoughts, you know where I am.’
He noticed, even in his tired state, that she had not thanked him, had not expressed appreciation for the evening. This was how women behaved now, he told himself. He had little experience of the phenomenon, being cast in an ancient and no doubt false mould of politeness, of smiles and acknowledgments, and dutifully expressed deference towards the masculine gift of largesse. He also noticed that she was utterly unmarked by the evening’s excesses. At least, they felt like excesses to him; to her they must seem little more than an interlude. Inside his flat he knew both alarm and relief, as if he had been caught out in some deception.Intellectually, he knew, the evening had been indefensible; at certain moments he had been secretly derisive not only of the girl but of himself. Such an evening could not have taken place if Putnam were still alive, or, if it had taken place, would have been put into context by Putnam’s commentary. Putnam had served this useful function, among so many others. He knew that he was not being quite honest with himself: he had been stimulated by the sight of the girl’s appetites (for there had been more than one in evidence) and intrigued by her, as if she were a puzzle sent to beguile him in these bewildering days of leisure, this life so free of incident and adventure. He wanted, he thought, to study her further; that surely was allowed. In bed, in the blessed dark, he thought, she is young! All that this implied, all the longing, all the hurt, all the frustrations of his own youth came flooding back as he remembered her flushed cheeks, her decorated eyes. These were the last images that tempted him before he slid into sleep, her cheeks, her eyes, and her gleaming mouth closing on a morsel of nourishment, her scarlet fingertips guiding it steadily towards extinction.
4
A MAZING GRACE’, DRONING OUT OF THE RADIO by his bed, alerted him to the fact that it was Sunday. He sat up cautiously: not too bad. On the other hand not quite as good as usual, which was only to be expected after his intake of the previous evening. He looked back on the occasion with amazement: what on earth had possessed him to arrange it? At least he had refused to prolong it; that was one thing saved. But perhaps this too was cause for concern, that he had turned down an opportunity to do what any other man would have done, and by his very action, or lack of it, had confirmed his status as cautiously respectable bachelor, near celibate, and hopeless recluse.
The incident worried him, not, he thought, because
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