The South (10 page)

Long nights in the Pyrenees. Darkness fell at four in the deep days of winter. They lit candles and stoked up the fire in the kitchen. She tried to learn Catalan from Miguel. She tried to imitate the guttural clipped accent he used when he spoke Catalan. At first she spoke it as a joke, using just the phrases she knew, trying to put nouns and verbs together to form sentences. When she went for the milk every day down in the village she talked to the peasants in Catalan, but had immense difficulty understanding anything they said.

Slowly it became a language they used between themselves, not replacing Spanish which they still spoke when it was vital that what they said was understood. Slowly it became like the record player on the shelf in the kitchen or the fierce cold of
winter, slowly it became another pattern in the fabric they had woven for themselves.

Money too became part of the pattern. It left London and her mother’s bank account on the first day of every third month to arrive in the bank in Tremp some time afterwards, usually a week, sometimes more and once, to their consternation, it did not arrive for a month. Money came too from Miguel’s gallery in Barcelona, but not much. They lived on her mother’s money. One month in every three they lived well, buying cheeses and cured meat in bulk, vats of wine, cognac, chocolate, American cigarettes. When this ran out they were back to rice and lentils until the money came again.

Jordi Gil brought them what materials they needed. He always came in a car with a roof rack to take down some paintings to sell in Barcelona. Miguel worked hard before Jordi Gil’s visits. He became interested in mirrors and tried to paint a reflected world, scenes turned upside down, or events distorted in a false mirror. Katherine did not like them, but Gil seemed to think they would sell. Gil would only spend a few hours at the house and then make the long journey back to Barcelona. Katherine made him stay for lunch, put good wine on the table and a strong fire in the grate.

Katherine had placed her own work against the walls of the front room, unframed. There were five or six large paintings of the felling of the trees and many smaller ones, including studies and drawings. She did not want Miguel in the room when Jordi Gil looked at her work, she was nervous about it; Miguel had paid little attention to her painting and she didn’t want him to witness any comment on it now.

She waited until the lunch was finished that day and Miguel’s new paintings had been examined and were being bundled together. She whispered to Jordi Gil that she had
something she wanted him to look at, but she didn’t want Miguel to know. She made him think that they were paintings by Miguel.

She instructed him to tell Miguel he needed a breath of air, he was going for a short walk. Miguel was down in the long room at the end of the house and did not notice them going into the front room. Jordi Gil looked at the paintings. He picked up one of the smaller ones and examined it carefully. She had not signed it. He closed the door behind them and looked at the bigger ones. He did not speak to her. He kept moving from painting to painting. He said that he liked them, rubbed his head and smiled.

They walked back down to the long room where Miguel was battling with paper and twine. Jordi Gil told him that he had signed up a new artist. Miguel smiled and looked puzzled. Jordi Gil took him down to look at Katherine’s paintings. She waited in the kitchen.

He took the work to Barcelona and Michael Graves saw some of it hanging in the gallery and wrote to her. Some of it was sold. Michael Graves found a poster and print shop that had just opened in Barcelona; he told her the prices were high but advised her to use the gallery money to buy reproductions. She told Jordi Gil to allow Michael Graves a certain amount of money. Day after day long cardboard telescope-shaped containers came with the jeep that collected the milk from the village. He sent her van Gogh’s
Self Portrait
and his painting of Arles at night; he sent her Rembrandt’s painting of an
Old Man
and Titian’s painting of
A Young Man With A Glove
; he sent her Picasso’s blue paintings. He sent her posters of new exhibitions in Paris—Braque, Kandinsky, Paul Klee, which had been on sale in Barcelona. She plastered the walls with the reproductions.

She felt an urge to acquire things, pieces of furniture, these
reproductions, new records. She felt an urge to anchor herself in this house in the mountains.

At night Katherine and Miguel got into the bed like children and tried to fend off the cold by huddling together, holding onto each other for warmth under a huge mound of blankets. After a while desire began to ooze between them, another form of heat, and slowly they would make love in the dark room, with the candle out and the blankets undisturbed. They were ravenous for each other.

She asked Miguel if he was happy and he said that he was. He told her he dreamed of being able to live here after the war. He never imagined that they would lose the war. In the early days of the war, they took over a print shop in Lerida and he made posters there, everyone knew things would change, he said, but no one believed they would end. Finally, he told her, they were betrayed by everybody, not just by the fascists, but by the Catalan nationalists and the communists. He fought the war for her again and what had happened became clearer. It seemed so far away from them now: the excitement, the new world that he believed in and wanted to make. The words he used were difficult for her: she did not understand fully when he talked about
freedom, anarchy, revolution.
He had experienced something that she could only imagine. Once or twice, she felt that she would like to have known him then.

She never knew the mountains as he did. He could always find a pathway that she had not noticed. He walked for miles every day with no purpose in mind. Once or twice he showed her where he had hidden after the war, small cabins and ruined houses.

He came back one day earlier than usual; he surprised her in the kitchen where she was washing potatoes. He brought her down to the big window in the long room to look out.
It was the first snow; they would be snowed in for a month at least, the snow would lie on the ground for three months. He held her around the waist as she looked out. The memory of this day became as fixed as the rock all around: the memory of watching the first snow and the expectation of being there together, closed in, immune, ready for any happiness that came their way.

DUBLIN: 1955

The Royal Hibernian Hotel, Dawson Street, Dublin. The early morning. From the window she could see Leinster House, where the new Parliament sat, from where Ireland regulated its own affairs. From the window too she could see the grey sky hanging over Dublin, promising rain. For two weeks the sky had been like this, darkening slowly in the late morning or the early afternoon. In the hours between three and five the rain came; for over a week now she had spent the day listlessly watching it, watching the rain pelt down on Molesworth Street.

Whenever it brightened she went out and walked up to Saint Stephen’s Green; sometimes the grey clouds parted to allow glimpses of a summer evening. Each time she moved from the hotel she searched faces in the street at random for a hint of recognition; for one instant she was absolutely sure she must know each face she encountered, and was almost ready to cry out, to say something. It did not feel like a foreign country, but a world she had known at some time in the past, but could not now reconstruct fully or recollect completely: a world peopled by relatives, ancestors, friends, peopled by faces she was just one step from being able to name or associate with some event.

The buildings on Grafton Street were much lower than she had remembered. But the faces, each face as it came
towards her, struck a chord. She stared at people and they stared back. She was desperate.

The letter to Tom lay on the mantelpiece in the room. She had sealed the envelope and was grateful that she could not re-read the letter she had written him almost ten days before. But it was brief and to the point.
I am in Dublin. I want to see you about certain matters and will wait here until I do so. Kindly contact me.
She picked up the phone and rang down to reception.

“Could I please have my breakfast up here? Yes, and there’s a letter I want posted—could you arrange that for me? It’s rather urgent. Thank you.” She went back to the window and stood watching the grey morning. The letter lay on the mantelpiece; she could tear it up, pay her bill and leave without seeing him. Her courage could fail her and it was simply a matter of courage; in any case, she had no reason to face him other than to extract what she wanted. There was no sentimentality in her calculations, she could do without him.

The maid came with the breakfast tray and left it on the table.

“I called down to say that I had a letter to post,” she said. “It’s there on the mantelpiece. It’s very urgent.”

“It’ll be sent out immediately,” the woman said.

“Now?” she asked.

“If you like the porter can take it down to the GPO this instant.”

“Yes, I would be very grateful.”

There was still time to go to the phone to cancel the letter, to tell them not to send it, to decide to wait for a day or two. And when she didn’t ring down, when she had finished her breakfast and was fully dressed, she knew she had better be ready for him, that it was only a matter of days now before she would be blamed and accused, and would have no answer or excuse, when there would be no forgiveness.

She regretted now that she had not specified how he should contact her. He could arrive unannounced at the hotel. As the day went by, she tried to imagine what he would do when he got her letter, how he would react. She began to think of him. It was five years since she had left, it would be exactly five in September. He would be fifty-three now, fifteen years older than she, he would not have changed much except that he might be balder, stockier.

She had lunch in her room with wine and a gin afterwards to make her sleep. Her dreams in the afternoon were vivid and close to her; they left their mark on what remained of the day.

She imagined Tom quiet, determined, composed. She saw him opening the letter in the evening when his day’s work was done, when he had washed, shaved and changed into a tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers, after a dinner which he would have eaten mostly in silence.

Richard would be there now, fifteen years old, settling into his father’s ways, and there would mostly be silence between them but no strain. Her name would not have been mentioned between them in five years.

Tom would wait for a day or two before responding; he would leave her time. He was careful, cautious, judicious. She didn’t want time; she was ready to face him. He would not use the telephone or send a telegram; he cared too much for his privacy and these offered no privacy. He would write; she awaited a letter. Hers had been posted on Monday and his reply arrived on Friday. It was short and curt as her own had been.
Will see you at hotel, Monday 5 pm.
That was all.

She saw him as soon as he came into the lounge. His hair was greyer than before, but that was the only change. She had bought new clothes in the morning and had been to a hairdresser which had helped her feel ready for him. She stood up.

“How long have you been in Dublin?” he asked immediately.

“I’ve been here for two weeks. How are you?” She held out her hand.

“I thought the date on your letter was a mistake.” He held her hand for a moment, then let go.

“Yes, I didn’t send it for a while after I wrote it.”

“Do sit down,” he said. She sat with her back to the wall, he sat opposite her.

“I had business to do, so it was easy for me to come,” he said.

“I hoped you would have come anyway.” She smiled.

“Your mother wrote to tell me you are living in a house in the mountains without water and electricity. Is that true?”

“My mother interferes.”

“I want to know how you are living.”

“Did my mother not put all that in her letter?”

“Her letter was almost as brief as yours. She wrote that you had been living in the mountains without water or electricity and she wished me to know that you had her backing in anything you now wanted to do. She made it sound as though there was something specific you wanted to do.”

“There is.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you in a moment. I want a drink and I want to know about Richard.” Tom went to the bar and she wrapped her arms around herself as though some awful cold had come down into the wide, rich room of the hotel.

“This is very difficult,” he said when he came back, “it’s very difficult to talk here.”

“Do you want to move?”

“Where to? I can’t think of anywhere.”

“Tell me about Richard,” she said.

“He’s been at Saint Columba’s now for three years. He’s only got two years more.”

“What will he do then?”

“There’s always plenty to do at home but he’s been in Scotland staying with his cousins every summer now and I think he’ll go to a college there for a few years.”

“What sort of college?” She tried to picture Scotland and the dreary cousins.

“Oh, where he’ll learn about agriculture and farming so that when he takes over he’ll know what to do. He knows the farm pretty well.”

“Tom, I want to sell my part of the farm. That’s what I’m here for.”

“It doesn’t belong to you,” he said quickly, “you can’t sell it.” He seemed instantly angry.

“It was mine before we married, it’s mine now. I want to sell it, Tom.” She could feel the blood reddening her face.

“I wouldn’t have come to meet you if I’d known you were going to want something like this.”

“I need the money. I have a different life now and I want to sell. You have your own farm. I’m going to sell whether you like it or not.”

“You have no rights. The farm belongs to me, both farms belong to me, and Richard will get both of them. You will sell nothing.”

“It’s my farm.”

“Go to a solicitor then and find out. You have no right to sell, the property is mine, go and check it. I don’t mind what embarrassment you cause me. I have sat so many nights thinking about you.” His voice had quietened. She had never heard him talk like this before—she found it difficult to believe him.