Read Online Altered States by Anita Brookner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Brookner
Ads: Link
up Sybil’s letter and left the office for Paddington Street.
The day had passed in a dream; I could hardly remember how it had passed or what it had contained. Most of what it had contained was speculation, yet in the street that speculation had turned once more to dreaming. I almost wanted to postpone this meeting so that I could continue to enjoy my fantasy undisturbed. And yet when I pressed Sarah’s doorbell I had no hesitation in assuming that she would answer it, although for once I should have preferred her not to. This was to change, of course, as events and expectations themselves changed. Within seconds, as it seemed, she stood facing me, her white face startling in the half light of the hallway She looked abstracted, though not thoughtful; her abstraction issued directly from her habitual self-absorption, yet had nothing self-indulgent about it. I was struck with the thought that I had misjudged her, that she was not as light-minded as her careless manner and habits would suggest. If I were to sum up my impressions as we stood on either side of the door it was that she was a serious person who was in flight from seriousness, who sought frivolity, insouciance as an escape from whatever occasionally dulled her eye or drained her colour. As she stood staring at me, as if she had no idea how I came to be there, or on what pretext, she seemed to be having some difficulty with herself, pushed herheavy hair away from her forehead with an old woman’s gesture, and swayed from one foot to the other like an actress warming up in the wings. When she said, ‘You’d better come in,’ her voice was almost resigned.
I was appalled but hardly surprised by the confusion in the flat, a confusion too long established to be temporary. In fact it seemed like a bivouac, as though inhabited by squatters, yet what furniture there was—a pale leather sofa, a gilt-framed mirror propped against a wall—seemed opulent and slightly inappropriate. The floor space of the small sitting-room was covered with the writhing flexes of two telephones, one of which was ringing as I entered. It would not, I knew, be answered, nor was it. A large stock of old copies of
The Times
and the
Financial Times
obscured the seat of the rather pretty reproduction Louis XV chair to which I was vaguely directed, but I remained standing, as did Sarah. She wore a loose flowered dress and her feet were bare. Again it seemed difficult to capture her attention, although we were the only two people in the room.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she said suddenly, as if coming out of a dream.
‘Later, perhaps. I’ve come because I had a letter from your mother, which I think you should know about.’
‘I doubt it. She writes to me too, you know.’
‘She seems to think you shouldn’t have sold the house without telling her.’ Put like that Sybil’s case seemed unanswerable.
‘Well, I did. If she’d wanted to keep it she shouldn’t have pushed off and left. Not that I wasn’t pleased to see her go.’
‘But did you tell her what you intended to do?’
She shrugged. ‘I told her when I’d done it. That seemed more to the point.’
‘She seems to think I should have known about this. Ithink she’s got it into her head that I masterminded the whole thing.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you. Her head’s always been stuffed with conspiracy theories. That’s why she was so impossible to live with. One of us had to go. I’m only glad it was her. She’s probably mad, anyway. Who in their right mind would volunteer to live in an old folks’ home?’
‘I understood they had their own flat,’ I said.
‘But it’s one of those horrible outfits with a warden, for when you fall out of bed and break your hip.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen it all right. Sinister. Beautiful country house, or must have been once, inhabited by people on Zimmer frames. They’re all right, the two of them. They’ve got what they wanted, though why
The day had passed in a dream; I could hardly remember how it had passed or what it had contained. Most of what it had contained was speculation, yet in the street that speculation had turned once more to dreaming. I almost wanted to postpone this meeting so that I could continue to enjoy my fantasy undisturbed. And yet when I pressed Sarah’s doorbell I had no hesitation in assuming that she would answer it, although for once I should have preferred her not to. This was to change, of course, as events and expectations themselves changed. Within seconds, as it seemed, she stood facing me, her white face startling in the half light of the hallway She looked abstracted, though not thoughtful; her abstraction issued directly from her habitual self-absorption, yet had nothing self-indulgent about it. I was struck with the thought that I had misjudged her, that she was not as light-minded as her careless manner and habits would suggest. If I were to sum up my impressions as we stood on either side of the door it was that she was a serious person who was in flight from seriousness, who sought frivolity, insouciance as an escape from whatever occasionally dulled her eye or drained her colour. As she stood staring at me, as if she had no idea how I came to be there, or on what pretext, she seemed to be having some difficulty with herself, pushed herheavy hair away from her forehead with an old woman’s gesture, and swayed from one foot to the other like an actress warming up in the wings. When she said, ‘You’d better come in,’ her voice was almost resigned.
I was appalled but hardly surprised by the confusion in the flat, a confusion too long established to be temporary. In fact it seemed like a bivouac, as though inhabited by squatters, yet what furniture there was—a pale leather sofa, a gilt-framed mirror propped against a wall—seemed opulent and slightly inappropriate. The floor space of the small sitting-room was covered with the writhing flexes of two telephones, one of which was ringing as I entered. It would not, I knew, be answered, nor was it. A large stock of old copies of
The Times
and the
Financial Times
obscured the seat of the rather pretty reproduction Louis XV chair to which I was vaguely directed, but I remained standing, as did Sarah. She wore a loose flowered dress and her feet were bare. Again it seemed difficult to capture her attention, although we were the only two people in the room.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she said suddenly, as if coming out of a dream.
‘Later, perhaps. I’ve come because I had a letter from your mother, which I think you should know about.’
‘I doubt it. She writes to me too, you know.’
‘She seems to think you shouldn’t have sold the house without telling her.’ Put like that Sybil’s case seemed unanswerable.
‘Well, I did. If she’d wanted to keep it she shouldn’t have pushed off and left. Not that I wasn’t pleased to see her go.’
‘But did you tell her what you intended to do?’
She shrugged. ‘I told her when I’d done it. That seemed more to the point.’
‘She seems to think I should have known about this. Ithink she’s got it into her head that I masterminded the whole thing.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you. Her head’s always been stuffed with conspiracy theories. That’s why she was so impossible to live with. One of us had to go. I’m only glad it was her. She’s probably mad, anyway. Who in their right mind would volunteer to live in an old folks’ home?’
‘I understood they had their own flat,’ I said.
‘But it’s one of those horrible outfits with a warden, for when you fall out of bed and break your hip.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen it all right. Sinister. Beautiful country house, or must have been once, inhabited by people on Zimmer frames. They’re all right, the two of them. They’ve got what they wanted, though why
Similar Books
