Night and day, p.9
Night & Day, page 9
In that moment she’d known she was going to be married to a frog, forever and ever more, and she wouldn’t be happy, but at least she needn’t ever be frightened. Because why would anyone be frightened of a frog? She felt the slightest stirrings of affection for him—not love, of course not, but something more tolerant, something that wasn’t contempt.
She was under no illusions she was any sort of catch, either. That was why she’d suffered the indignity of watching as her younger sisters were married before her—and all to men with charm, and all to men with necks. She could only imagine the relief her parents must have felt when Froggy came a-courting! “But don’t you see the way her teeth jut out?” her father might have said, fairly. Her mother chipping in, “They make her face bulge out in weird directions, like a rodent’s!” But he’d agreed to marry her anyway—she had sufficed—and he had money, and some hope of a title, and he was the right side of fifty-four, she could certainly have done worse. But what an ugly couple we must make! she’d thought as the vicar pronounced them man and wife, and she’d leaned in for that first kiss, her buck teeth grazing at him all lipless and dry. The frog and the rat. What dreadful creatures, how dismaying!
That had been a month ago, maybe six weeks. She had lost interest in counting the days. Ever since they had been travelling—there had been trains, and two different ships, and now they were in a carriage, and though the window was open she couldn’t seem to catch the breeze, the horses were going too slow, and it was miserably hot. She had no way to amuse herself. Looking across at her husband and considering the ways he looked like a frog could only distract her for so long. And then, it seemed to her without warning, the carriage came to a stop.
“Here we are, my dear. Here we are at last.” He hadn’t spoken to her for nearly three days. She’d have thought he was sulking, but there didn’t seem to be any aggression to it, he had simply run out of things to say. But now he was talking again, and yes, even smiling, and there was a little gruff warmth to both. “I hope,” he said, “that you’ll be happy here.”
He helped her down from the carriage. He had taken such pains to not so much as brush against her in the cramped interior that the touch of his skin now felt curious. Before her was another hotel, there had been so many of them. White marble, grand windows, pillars—too many pillars for practical use, surely. The lawns were vast and neat and so green, in spite of the stifling heat they were kept as watered as any garden in Kent or Surrey. And a Union Jack was flying from the flagpole. She didn’t know which country they were in by now—still, no matter where they rested the night, there the Union Jack would fly, and whatever the colour of their skin all the staff spoke impeccable English. Three such staff were scurrying towards them now, picking up their luggage. Behind, walking with measured poise, a figure she supposed to be the manager.
It had been a long honeymoon, and she didn’t know how much longer it was supposed to continue. Was this new hotel their destination, or just another stop along the way?
In his black dress suit she was surprised the heat didn’t make the manager buckle over, but he withstood it quite admirably. “Welcome, Colonel. Madam. We hope you have had a pleasant journey.”
Her husband nodded at this. “Is the hotel busy?”
“The hotel is always busy, sir, even out of season. But I shall see to it that you are not disturbed. There are some Italians in residence, but I have had them placed in another wing. The bridal suite is prepared. May I show you the way? And may I congratulate you. Your wife, sir, is quite the peach.”
She didn’t know quite how to react to this. Was it impertinence, or foreign courtesy? She looked at her husband for guidance, and it was clear he didn’t know how to react, either. He just grunted, and nodded again, and so she decided it would be best to smile. The manager echoed her smile, displayed how many teeth he had. Then he turned on his heel, and began to march away. They followed him.
“The gardens are not at their finest at the moment,” the manager explained. “You would need to stay until the spring. But there are jacarandas and bougainvillea, and you can pick the avocados right off the tree. Everywhere you can smell the jasmine. You are, naturally, invited to explore the gardens at your leisure, but do be aware that the grounds are vast and some of the wilder areas on the estate periphery may require caution.” She took a sniff and thought that she could smell the jasmine, but she couldn’t be sure—the manager was wearing a scent, it could well have been that. He led their way into the hotel, presenting it to them with pride as if he were not merely in employ but he himself owned the place. The veranda upon which evening tea was served, the restaurant that seemed ablaze with crystal glass and polished silver. A smoking room for the men, a billiard room for the men, a reading room that could be enjoyed by women if accompanied. Up the central staircase as grand as any she had seen on her travels, and then from the first-floor landing up another staircase that was grander still and made the first staircase paltry in comparison. “The bridal suite,” said the manager, “is at the top of this third staircase here, exclusive to your own use,” and it was the grandest staircase of them all.
As staff unpacked the luggage, the manager took her and the frog out onto the balcony, and prepared some tea. As he poured, there was the sound of a shriek from the gardens beneath them. She thought at first it was a baby—then the shriek came again, louder this time, and it was clearly feral, the cry of a wild animal.
“What is that?” she said.
“It is nothing to be worried about, madam,” said the manager smoothly. “My men are dealing with it. I hope you enjoy the tea. In this wet heat some travellers are tempted to drink iced liquids. It is a mistake. It is better to let the body adjust with something mild and temperate, as we hope, sir, as we hope, madam, you shall find your stay at the hotel always mild and only temperate.”
They sipped at the tea. She found it somewhat tart, but not unpleasant. Another shriek from the garden startled them, her husband even spilled his tea slightly. “How much longer is that to go on?”
The manager sighed. “It is a dismaying creature, sir.” He shook his head with a sad smile, as if that in itself was explanation enough. “But I repeat, the matter is in hand, and I have my best man attending to it, and I am fully confident that it will be dead by nightfall.”
“Is it dangerous?” she asked. And she couldn’t help it, she felt a gentle thrill of excitement.
“Not in the normal way, madam,” the manager said. “The dismaying creature is a cowardly thing. It will hide out there, in the bushes and in the scrub, and it will scream. It will scream for all it is worth. The only way one can stop the screaming, I am afraid, is to hunt it down, and to kill it, and to cut off its head, and to drink its blood. But I have an expert tracker on-site as a matter of course, and he knows the ways of the dismaying creature, and how to beat it to its lair.”
As if on cue, there came the scream again, and it was louder still, and this time it seemed more protracted, she wondered it didn’t run out of breath. “As soon as you can, please,” her husband said. “I don’t like the noise of it, frankly. So long as it’s quiet by sundown. I don’t fancy trying to sleep through that racket.”
“Oh, there will be no sundown until the creature is found,” said the manager. “Our legends say that in its dismay the creature eats the very darkness whole. Or that it screams so much that darkness hides itself from the world and refuses to come out.”
“What rot.”
“Rot as you say, sir. But one thing is quite certain. The sun will not set until the creature is killed. The day will go on and on and on and on, and the night will never come.”
“Mumbo jumbo! Ha! You’ll tell us you worship the wretched thing next!”
The manager did his best to mask his offence. “Sir, I am at heart a proper English Christian man. We are not savages here. But I tell you the truth. We have not found that creature yet, and it has been sixty hours of daylight. But I’m sure I shall soon have news it has been hunted down. Please enjoy your tea. If you require more, we drink upon the veranda.”
And then they were on their own again, and it was as if the room had lost a little bit of oxygen. He turned to her, and opened his mouth, and he cleared his throat. And she wondered what he was going to say—make a comment upon the luxury of the hotel, perhaps, or the quality of the tea? Or the curiously strident screams of the creature outside, they seemed more urgent now, not in pain, but in desperation that was somehow worse than pain, as if it were imperative that something should understand what it had to say and yet nobody could, nobody could in the whole wide world, and what would that feel like, how appalling would that be, how cruel, forced to be screaming out your entire self to a world that didn’t have the wit to care? No, he wasn’t going to comment on that, but he was going to say something, she could practically see the words bubble up his throat. “I think I should try to impregnate you again.” He looked dolefully at the bed, and then back at her, as if hoping she would refuse.
But of course she couldn’t. “If that’s what you think you should do.”
“I haven’t, since last Thursday. Not tried it in the light before, perhaps that would help. We could get it out of the way, then enjoy the evening.”
“Very well.”
She got undressed, and took position upon the bed. The sheets felt soft and clean and, for the moment, cool. Her husband undressed, too. He took off his trousers, and the smooth rolls of flesh around his midriff that had been held fast were set loose. He seemed to glisten—his undershirt was damp with sweat, his underwear damp, his socks damp. He at least took off the underwear, dried it cursorily with the back of his hand. And his member just lay there between the legs, heat drunk and shrunken. It looked as if it would never stir again. It looked dead. And then, as ever, her husband produced his usual magic. He gritted his teeth tight, he looked away from her, he looked away into some special private place. And then he began to hum the national anthem. In spite of herself she watched in fascination as the member began to stir and swell with pride, and as he raised his hand to his temple in salute his entire manhood heard the call of duty and hoisted itself to attention.
And now erect, he gave her a boyish smile of triumph, which rather spoiled the effect of a colonel on parade—but made her like him more regardless.
He lay on top of her, spread-eagled. It seemed to her, not for the first time, that this was not going to work—their bodies simply didn’t fit. They were two different species of creature entirely, they weren’t designed to be plugged together like this. She would have tried to help guide him in, or at least towards the right general direction, but there wasn’t room for her rat paws to find purchase beneath his amphibian bulk—and besides, whenever she appeared to offer him any help, he grunted at her irritably, as if this were something a man should achieve on his own without reinforcements. He found a particular angle he wanted to thrust at, and she let him get on with it, no matter the strategy didn’t work, he wasn’t going to change his plan of campaign now—and his damp socks kicked against her thighs a bit, and his damp undershirt chafed at her breasts, but otherwise it wasn’t all that uncomfortable, not really. Just think of him as a frog, she thought. No one can be frightened of a silly old frog. She closed her eyes tight. She wondered whether she might even be able to doze off. She knew, intuitively, that this would be impolite.
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. On the balcony, climbing upon the table where the tea had been set.
It was not a creature she had ever seen before. About the size of a weasel, maybe, or a large domestic cat. It was covered in dark brown fur. Nosing around the teacups, giving the contents a sniff.
She held her breath. She didn’t want to disturb it. Which was ridiculous because her husband was grunting and gasping and his thrusts were now causing the bed to squeak. She knew somehow that the creature didn’t care about any of that, it was all just noise and comedy—but if she so much as coughed it would take fright and scamper away.
It seemed to approve of what it discovered in the teacup. And out of its mouth extended a tongue, ever outwards, four, five, six inches. The tongue was soon longer than its own body, how could that be? She supposed it must be curled up inside it in a loop. It licked at one of the cups, and then without needing to change position, extended the tongue even farther so it reached the cup on the other side of the table, as well.
And then it froze. It had seen her. It turned its head directly towards her.
And she could see that between its black, inquisitive little eyes—eyes that were now staring right at her—there was a curved horn. No fur on it. Just bone. It looked sharp. It looked like ivory.
Still it stared. As if daring her to challenge it. Daring her to bring it to the attention of the frog pumping away on top of her.
She held its gaze the best that she could.
And then it gave her a wink. Deliberately so—it tilted its head, closed one eye slowly. There was something coy about it, too, almost salacious. And she thought, Is this impertinence? Or some foreign courtesy?
Then it turned its attention back to the tea. It tucked its horn into the teapot handle, swung the whole pot over its head, and poured the remaining dregs down its throat.
It was like a circus act, and she thought it was showing off to her, look at me, allez-oop! She wanted to give it a round of applause.
“Nearly, nearly,” her husband muttered, “don’t give in now,” and then she heard him hum the national anthem once more and something jammed against her thigh twitched and stiffened.
The tea was all drunk now, every last drop. The creature lowered the teapot back to the table, gently, gently. It didn’t make a sound. There was nothing left for it to feed on. But it was in no hurry to leave. It sat on the table squarely, its paws raised in what looked like greeting, gazing at her without fear. She dared give it a smile. She hoped it understood.
And it was then that a new scream came from the garden. The loudest yet—and this time there was pain to it because what else could that be? Something so full of misery and despair—“Damn it!” shouted her husband—the creature took fright, it was off the table, off the balcony—“Damn it all to hell!” Her husband was pulling away, and she could hear a dull sucking sound as their bodies came apart, and now he was storming around the suite, his belly wobbling from side to side and his member wholly spent. She had never seen him angry before. She hadn’t even known he was capable of anger.
“It’s difficult enough!” he panted. “Doing it in the dark. Where I can’t see you. Doing it in the quiet. Where I can’t hear. I’m just a man, aren’t I? I’m just a man, it’s difficult enough!” And he slammed his fist down upon the table, and all the empty crockery jumped to attention. “I need the dark,” he said, more quietly. “I need the quiet. I need the creature dead.”
He said nothing more to her. He pulled on his clothes, folded up the sweaty mass of him, and stuffed it inside his trousers and his tunic. And then he left the room.
She lay there on the bed for a little while. But it wasn’t comfortable any longer. The sheets were askew and the mattress was wet. She got up. She dressed. She went onto the balcony. She stared out at the garden, into the unrelenting daylight of it all. Once in a while she heard a shriek, but no trace of any creature could be seen.
* * *
She stayed in the room alone for several hours, she did not know how long. She would at times think to sleep, but the light was too bright, and it seemed to be getting even brighter—and even if she drowsed she would be interrupted by new shrieks from the dismaying creature outside. She realised she didn’t mind the shrieks. They felt to her like a sort of conversation, she only wished she knew what to shriek back in return—she’d have been on the balcony shrieking away to it in solidarity. She didn’t even mind the light—it burned away beneath her eyelids and it hurt, but it was a hurt she could adapt to.
There was a knock at the door. Guarded, polite. She wondered if her husband had come back to apologise. She wondered if he were the sort of man who did apologise.
It was not her husband.
“I’m afraid the colonel isn’t here.”
The hotel manager nodded. “The colonel is in the smoking room, madam. He has been there for quite some time, and is of a mind to stay there a while longer.”
“Well, then.”
“I hope I might enlist your help to persuade him otherwise? He has been drinking and is in some distemper.”
“I barely know my husband, and I am quite sure whatever his distemper, I have very little power to influence it one way or another.”
“He has punched an Italian. It is no great matter, but even so, there is a level of decorum we expect.”
“Won’t you come in?” she said. “If there must be talk of my husband’s decorum, I would sooner it were not in a corridor.”
“I had better not, madam. Your husband is not present.”
“Quite so, my husband is in the smoking room. Please. Come in.”
The manager bowed his head, and entered. She smelled his scent once more. Was it jasmine? No, something stronger. She walked out onto the balcony, took a seat. He followed, studiously refusing to look at the dishevelled state of the bed, and sat down opposite her.
“I suppose,” she said, “I should apologise for my husband’s behaviour, but the truth is, I don’t feel remotely responsible for it. Isn’t that awful?”
“There is no apology necessary. The heat, the light. Even when you live here, it is not something you ever quite get used to. It brings out high emotions in men. Even sometimes madness.”
“How do you manage it?” she asked. How can you live like this? He looked so cool, his skin was so cool. Not a trace of sweat upon it.
