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Authors: Muriel Spark
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encouraged by the success of his general report, had, in Lina’s short absence in the kitchen, assembled the next part of his story to mind, in closely remembered detail which he arranged for the best possible effect. He wanted simultaneously to make Lina jealous and to impress her with his masculinity in having managed to have a love-affair in the midst of all his busy time in London; and he wanted also to reassure her that the woman, capitalist bourgeoise as she was, left-wing as she claimed to be, was not remotely to be thought of seriously by an intellectual Bulgarian like himself.
‘Her name,’ said Lina, with an air of first things first.
‘Deborah,’ he said.
‘How old?’
‘About thirty-eight, with two children, one ten the other thirteen, both girls, sulky and ugly.’
‘Deborah is ugly?’
‘Maybe she is now. I haven’t seen her for three weeks. She had a tough face and a lanky figure. No make-up and she didn’t comb her hair very much, maybe twice a week. Occupation, journalist, very spiteful in her writing. The house was a terrible mess, especially the bedroom. It was a pretty house in itself, very expensive, but Deborah let everything go, maybe years ago, as she let her husband go. She trails around with long skirts and droopy shoulders all day. She drinks and she takes a little drugs. Not much to sleep with, but it was an experience, a love-affair for the time being; you can’t get much in London.’
‘Rich?’ said Lina.
‘Oh, yes. Of course she thought she was poor. She always complained about money. But she had money from the husband and maybe that money was really for the children, but she lived off it. When there was someone she didn’t like, she would try to make money out of them. It seemed so, all the time. First, the husband, and then when she needed money badly she would write an article against someone in the public eye, attacking them for the best parts of their work, people like sculptors or writers: she would pick out the best of their work and make it out to be the worst, or maybe she would attack a man for his car, or a woman for her clothes, all the time pretending to be the social conscience of her age. The articles made her a lot of money as she told me she made a private joke of them. Bernard Shaw used to do it, she said, and built up his reputation by attacking the reputations already made. There is no such thing as objective judgment in London. Deborah lives how she likes; she can order in the carpenter to build cupboards in her house whenever she likes; there were eight rooms for three people, herself and the girls. She called herself left-wing, nearly communist. It’s very, very funny, Lina. You have to go there to realise how it is.’
‘Why did you go with Deborah if you despised her?’
‘I didn’t despise her. I just saw she didn’t know what she was doing or saying. She was generous, sometimes. I couldn’t afford to buy her many presents, only little things like one flower, one dahlia on a stem, which she loved. She let me do some cooking in her kitchen and she bought in the food. Then sometimes we went out for a meal and paid each our own share, but sometimes she paid for us both.’
‘And the poor daughters?’
‘Hateful. Rude and horrible. I think Deborah could see they were terrible and secretly didn’t like them, either. She gave them money to go out and eat pizzas or English sandwiches at mealtimes, and they had money for the cinema. It was always money in the hands of those girls, a dreadful upbringing. One of them called me “that bloody Pole” in my own presence. Deborah merely said “Bulgarian”, and left it at that.’
Serge went on about Deborah and some of her friends in London, late into the evening. ‘Will you write to her?’ Lina asked. ‘Well, no, I don’t think so,’ said Serge, ‘and yet, maybe later on I’ll write a note. It depends how I feel later on. And then, you know, Deborah might be useful.’
‘She might be
‘Her name,’ said Lina, with an air of first things first.
‘Deborah,’ he said.
‘How old?’
‘About thirty-eight, with two children, one ten the other thirteen, both girls, sulky and ugly.’
‘Deborah is ugly?’
‘Maybe she is now. I haven’t seen her for three weeks. She had a tough face and a lanky figure. No make-up and she didn’t comb her hair very much, maybe twice a week. Occupation, journalist, very spiteful in her writing. The house was a terrible mess, especially the bedroom. It was a pretty house in itself, very expensive, but Deborah let everything go, maybe years ago, as she let her husband go. She trails around with long skirts and droopy shoulders all day. She drinks and she takes a little drugs. Not much to sleep with, but it was an experience, a love-affair for the time being; you can’t get much in London.’
‘Rich?’ said Lina.
‘Oh, yes. Of course she thought she was poor. She always complained about money. But she had money from the husband and maybe that money was really for the children, but she lived off it. When there was someone she didn’t like, she would try to make money out of them. It seemed so, all the time. First, the husband, and then when she needed money badly she would write an article against someone in the public eye, attacking them for the best parts of their work, people like sculptors or writers: she would pick out the best of their work and make it out to be the worst, or maybe she would attack a man for his car, or a woman for her clothes, all the time pretending to be the social conscience of her age. The articles made her a lot of money as she told me she made a private joke of them. Bernard Shaw used to do it, she said, and built up his reputation by attacking the reputations already made. There is no such thing as objective judgment in London. Deborah lives how she likes; she can order in the carpenter to build cupboards in her house whenever she likes; there were eight rooms for three people, herself and the girls. She called herself left-wing, nearly communist. It’s very, very funny, Lina. You have to go there to realise how it is.’
‘Why did you go with Deborah if you despised her?’
‘I didn’t despise her. I just saw she didn’t know what she was doing or saying. She was generous, sometimes. I couldn’t afford to buy her many presents, only little things like one flower, one dahlia on a stem, which she loved. She let me do some cooking in her kitchen and she bought in the food. Then sometimes we went out for a meal and paid each our own share, but sometimes she paid for us both.’
‘And the poor daughters?’
‘Hateful. Rude and horrible. I think Deborah could see they were terrible and secretly didn’t like them, either. She gave them money to go out and eat pizzas or English sandwiches at mealtimes, and they had money for the cinema. It was always money in the hands of those girls, a dreadful upbringing. One of them called me “that bloody Pole” in my own presence. Deborah merely said “Bulgarian”, and left it at that.’
Serge went on about Deborah and some of her friends in London, late into the evening. ‘Will you write to her?’ Lina asked. ‘Well, no, I don’t think so,’ said Serge, ‘and yet, maybe later on I’ll write a note. It depends how I feel later on. And then, you know, Deborah might be useful.’
‘She might be
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