Hotel andromeda, p.2
Hotel Andromeda, page 2
Their indigence is an indigence
That is an indigence of the light,
A stellar pallor that hangs on the threads.
Little by little, the poverty
Of autumnal space becomes
A look, a few words spoken.
Each person completely touches us
With what he is and as he is,
In the stale grandeur of annihilation.
– Yes, she says. I like that. The unaccomplished, the finally human.
He repeats:
– Their indigence is an indigence that is an indigence of the light, a stellar pallor that hangs on the threads.
They are silent, listening again to the poem.
– Indigence? she asks.
– Poverty, he says. Need.
– That’s rather what it sounded like, she says. And the title?
– One of Stevens’ jokes, he says.
– I’m not sure I can work it out.
– Lebensweisheit, he says, means knowledge of life, wisdom. Spielerei means playing.
– And the whole thing?
– Work it out.
– Playing at wisdom?
– Something like that.
– Pompous German philosophers?
– That too.
She reads the poem to herself.
She says:
– I like it.
– It’s your man, he says. One of the unaccomplished, the finally human. Native of a dwindled sphere. That’s what he looks like to me, at any rate, sitting there on his chair under the quince tree with the sun on his face.
– And in the room?
– Even more in the room.
She ponders.
She says:
– Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all that can be said of him. And yet there’s something missing. It’s too fine. A modern icon. Or perhaps it’s just that it works in poetry but not in the messy prose of life. The prose that has to take into account the seconds ticking by on the face of the watch, the physical ailments of age, the tug of memories and of all the failed dreams and ambitions. This is an old man who’s lost everything. Who’s just waiting for the end. I sense a terror there. Although I grant you there’s something else. Perhaps a kind of grandeur. I don’t know.
He says:
– I’m talking about the photos you’ve just shown me. You’re bringing all you know about him and his life to bear on them and I’m not sure it’s helping you.
– Maybe, she says. But it’s the photos that haunt me. If only I knew how to deal with them. But I don’t. And they won’t let me go. I sometimes think I embarked on the book simply to understand what they mean to me, and yet at every stage I fall back from it in impotent rage, feeling they are an indictment of what I’m doing. I can’t do anything with them and I can’t let them go.
– That only means you haven’t finished the book, he says.
– You think so?
– Sure, he says.
– Why sure?
He shrugs.
– You really think so?
– Come here, he says.
– What?
– Come here.
– What for?
– Come and sit on my lap.
– What for?
– Oh for Christ’s sake, Helena, he says. You don’t want me to spell it out?
– I don’t have time, she says. I have my book to write.
– Just for a moment.
– Don’t be a bore, Tom, she says.
He shrugs his shoulders. – Never mind, he says. Another time.
She gets up.
– Thanks for the coffee, she says.
– My pleasure, he says.
He listens to her footsteps on the basement stairs outside the window and then on the steps of the house; he hears her insert her key into the lock of the front door, her footsteps in the hall, her insertion of the key into her own door, and finally her footsteps, muffled by the carpet, over his head.
An Unexpected Phone Call
The phone rings. She picks it up.
– Helena?
A male voice. She does not recognise it.
It repeats:
– Helena?
– Who is it? she asks.
– Is this Helena?
– Yes. Who is it please?
– Ah, he says. I am a friend of Alice. She give me your number.
– Alice?
– I am a friend.
– A friend of Alice’s?
– She give me your number.
– When? she says. Where?
– She said you can put me up.
– Me?
– She said.
– Alice said I could put you up?
– Yes.
– I see.
There is a silence at the other end.
Finally she says: – For how long?
– She said.
– Yes but for how long?
– How long?
She waits.
– Two-three days, he says at last.
She asks:
– You’re from there?
– Pardon me?
– You’ve come from Grozny?
– I just arrive.
– I see.
He waits.
Finally he says: – Please you can put me up?
– You haven’t anywhere to stay?
– She said.
– Not to me.
– Pardon me?
– She didn’t say anything to me.
He is silent.
She asks:
– She gave you my number?
– Yes, he says.
The phone goes dead. She puts down the receiver, waits.
It rings again.
She picks it up. She says:
– Yes?
He asks:
– You can put me up?
She waits.
– She said, the man says again.
– Where are you?
– The aeroport.
– Heathrow?
– Yes.
– You’ve just arrived?
– Yes.
– And Alice told you I could put you up?
– Yes.
– I see.
He waits.
– It’s not very convenient, she says. I work at home. There isn’t much room here.
He waits.
She asks:
– You don’t have anywhere else to stay?
– No.
– All right, she says. Do you know how to get here?
– Give me address, he says. I will tell taxi.
– You have a pen?
– Give me, he says.
When she has done so he says:
– All right. I will tell taxi.
– You might be better off taking the tube, she says.
– Pardon me?
– It might be easier to take the underground at this time of day.
– No problem, he says.
– It’s flat two, she says. Ring and I’ll let you in.
– No problem, he says.
The Arrival of the Man from Grozny
The buzzer sounds.
She goes out into the entrance and opens the front door.
– Helena?
She stands, looking at him.
– Please, he says. You have money for taxi?
– I thought you were taking the tube?
– Please. He is waiting.
– You don’t have money?
– No English money.
– Why didn’t you change at the airport?
He stands there, his shoulder bag slung round his neck.
– How much? she says.
– Twenty-six pounds.
– Why didn’t you take the underground?
– I don’t have money.
– Why didn’t you change at Heathrow?
– I give you back, he says, standing there.
– Wait, she says.
When she returns he hasn’t moved. She thrusts the money into his hand. She says:
– Make sure he gives you back the change.
He runs down the steps, his shoulder bag flapping.
She waits.
When he returns he is carrying a smart new suitcase with wheels.
– You brought the change? she says.
He hands it to her.
– Come inside, she says. The front door shuts by itself.
She stands aside to let him enter the flat, closes the door.
– I’ll show you where you’re sleeping, she says.
She leads the way down the corridor.
– There’s not much room, she says. Perhaps Alice explained.
– No problem, he says.
– Perhaps you thought I lived in a palace? With hordes of servants?
She holds the door open and stands aside for him to enter.
– Pardon me? he says.
He edges past her into the tiny room.
– She could have asked me first.
He is silent.
– It doesn’t surprise me, though, she says.
He puts his shoulder bag down on the bed.
– I have a message, he says.
– From Alice?
– Yes.
– A letter?
– No.
– It was too much to hope for, she says.
– Pardon me?
They stand side by side in the narrow room.
– The message, she says. What is it?
– She says to tell you she thinks of you the whole time.
– The whole time?
– Yes.
– Remarkable, she says.
– Pardon me? he says.
She sits down on the bed. He stands next to her, the shiny new suitcase beside him.
– That’s funny, she says.
– Funny?
– You know my sister?
– Pardon me?
– You know Alice?
– Of course.
– Do you think she thinks about me the whole time?
He stands. He looks very tired.
– Well? she says, looking up at him. Do you?
– Pardon me?
– As someone who knows her, would you say she was thinking about me the whole time? Would you?
– I don’t know, he says.
– But that was the message?
– Yes.
– What would you guess?
He stands, one hand on the shoulder-bag.
– When you go back, she says. You are going back?
– Maybe, he says.
– Well, if you do, when you do, will you give her a message from me?
– No problem, he says.
– Will you tell her I think about her the whole time too?
He stands, swaying slightly.
– You won’t forget?
– No problem, he says.
– But you’re not sure you’re going back?
– No.
– Well, she says, if you do, remember to tell her that I think about her the whole time too.
He waits, swaying slightly in the narrow room.
– I’ll get you some towels, she says, standing up.
When she returns he hasn’t moved. She puts the towels down on the bed. – The bathroom’s next door, she says. Sleep as long as you like. I won’t wake you.
– Thank you, he says.
She goes out, closing the door behind her.
A Walk Along the Towpath
Under some of the road bridges that line the towpath you have to walk in single file. Under one or two you even have to stoop.
– I was here in 1988, he says, as they resume their walk side by side.
– You were working?
– No. Student.
– What were you studying?
– Only language student, he says.
– You were doing a language course?
– Yes.
– Where did you stay?
– Cromwell Road. A big house. But the rooms were very small. So small. The ceilings were very high but the rooms were very small. Like that you know they have been cut from bigger rooms.
She glances at her watch.
– In my profession, he says, you become used to live rough. But what I do not like is…how you say?… I do not like when everything shouts at you that people are trying to make so much money as they can from you.
– Greed, she says.
– Yes, he says. Greed.
– We should go back, she says. I have work to do.
– You write books about artists?
– Yes. Sort of.
– Alice says.
– Alice despises what I do, she says.
– Pardon me?
– She spits at what I do.
– No no, he protests. She always speak of you with respect.
– Really?
– Of course.
– She’s never read any of my books.
– Of course, he says again.
– What do you mean of course? she says.
– She show me.
– She showed you my books?
– Of course.
– You amaze me, she says. I send them to her but I always thought she threw them away as soon as she got them, if she ever got them.
– She show me, he says. She say you are much respected in England.
– She’s never taken the trouble to acknowledge any of them, she says. Let alone read them and tell me what she thinks.
They walk shoulder to shoulder along the narrow towpath.
– How many read your books? he asks.
She laughs.
– Why you laugh? he asks.
– You want to know?
– Of course.
– Twenty-five, she says.
– Twenty-five thousand?
– No, she says. Twenty-five.
– I do not believe, he says.
– Honest.
– I do not believe.
– Perhaps a bit more, she says. Let’s say fifty.
They reach another bridge and he lets her go first. When they are side by side he says again:
– Why you write such books?
She laughs.
– Why?
– It’s a good question, she says. Probably because they are the only books I know how to write. Or perhaps they’re the only books I want to write. Or perhaps that’s the same thing.
– And how you live? he asks.
– Oh that, she says. That’s another story.
They walk.
– Our parents left us both enough to get by. You could say I was cursed with a small private income.
They walk.
– How many books you have written? he asks.
– A fair number.
– Pardon me?
– Quite a few.
– How many?
– Less than twenty-five, she says, laughing.
– Which one you like best?
She laughs again.
– Why you laugh? he asks.
– I don’t know, she says. I never asked myself that question.
He walks at her shoulder.
– Perhaps a book about a French painter called Bonnard, she says.
– Ah, Bonnard, he says.
– You’ve heard of him?
– Who has not heard?
They walk.
– I like his modesty, she says. His quietness. Though his art is hardly modest. It’s quite ambitious really. But mysterious.
– Why?
– You’ll have to read my book to find out, she says.
– You have at home?
– I expect so, yes.
– Then I will read.
– I doubt if you’ll have the time, she says.
– I have time, he says.
They walk.
– I thought you were only here for a day or two, she says.
– Yes, he says. I have to see some people.
– About work?
– Yes.
– Papers?
– Papers. Agencies. Who will give me work.
– You’re going back to Chechnya?
– That is not possible at the moment.
– Why?
– It is not possible.
– They threw you out?
– It is not possible.
– What did you do that they didn’t like?
– With all these regimes you cannot say. They give you your papers. They put the stamping on it all correct. And then suddenly: Out.
– You did something you shouldn’t have?
– I speak to people.
– People you shouldn’t have spoken to?
– People. You know?
They walk.
– And I take photos.
– They didn’t like that?
– No.
– But I thought that was your job? I thought you were there as a photographer?
– Yes.
– But they only wanted photographs of the things they wanted photographed? Is that it?
– Yes.
They walk.
– I want you to tell me what it’s like, she says. I want you to tell me exactly what Alice is doing. How she lives. What her day consists of. All that. But not now. Right?
– Pardon me?
– I’m going to go up to the road here, she says. If you want to go on you’ll find your own way back. I’ve given you the A to Z.
– I go back also, he says.
– I don’t want to talk, she says. I want to think about my book.
– I also have to think, he says.
– Actually, she says, I’d rather you didn’t walk back with me. All right?
– No problem, he says.
– You’ve got the keys I gave you?
– Yes.
– I’ll see you later then, she says.
– No problem, he says.
Nom de Plume or Nom de Guerre?
– Make me a coffee, she says, throwing herself into a chair.
– Give me a kiss, he says.
– Please, Tom, she says. Just make me a coffee.
– Not till you give me a kiss.
– Don’t be tiresome, she says.
He busies himself with the coffee.
– You’ve seen my new houseguest? she asks.
– You have a new houseguest?
– I thought you’d have noticed.
– Who is it?
– A Czech journalist from Grozny.
– Grozny? A friend of Alice’s?
– That’s what he says.
He puts the pot of coffee down on the table in front of her and sits down opposite.
