The collected stories Page 21

  i might be able to do something for you - get you a concession, reduced rates, that sort of thing,' said Ernie.

  'Really?' Ernie had never made an offer like that before; and the most Leo had allowed Ernie at the bank was jumping the queue on Saturday mornings at the end of the month. 'As a matter of fact 1 was also thinking of going to Prague, but it costs a bit extra.'

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

  'I could fix it for you/ said Ernie. 'There's a connecting flight to Prague from Athens. Have you booked?'

  'No,' said Leo.

  'Write down the places you want to go on a piece of paper. Leave it to me. I'll take care of it.'

  Then Leo remembered what Ernie had said on Sunday. He was going to mention it. But it seemed so obvious: the favor in return.

  'What are you drinking?' asked Leo.

  'I'm all right,' said Ernie. He looked into his glass and said, 'You remember what I asked you yesterday?'

  'The favor?'

  'That's right,' said Ernie, and tried to chuckle. 'Well, the other day I was trying to think who was my best friend. I thought of Charlie and Agnes, Alan, the boys at the airport. And you know what? I couldn't think of one that I could rely on.'

  'Money?' asked Leo. He felt sure it was not, but said it to help Ernie along.

  'No. I don't have much, but that's the thing, see? This is the one thing money won't buy.'

  'You've got me in suspense,' said Leo.

  'It's my divorce,' said Ernie. He put his glass down, and with his hands empty he seemed to become conscious of their trembling. He picked them up and made fists and began to rub his eyes, speaking tiredly as he did so: 'I've been seeing lawyers about it, and they all say it's hopeless. There are only two legal grounds for divorce here in Tanganyika.' A long-time resident, Ernie always used the country's colonial name. 'Nonconsummation and adultery, just like UK. And since I've got two kids I can't very well say I never poked my wife, can I?' He laughed briefly and took his fists from his eyes, which were now very red. 'So that leaves me with adultery.'

  'It happens in the best of families,' said Leo.

  'Sure,' said Ernie, 'but did you ever think how hard it is to prove? The lawyers tell me that I have to supply the name of the chap and of course his address. Then I have to give the number of times and the places where I think it happened. If I can't give the details my divorce is up the spout.' Ernie shook his head. 'God, I haven't had a good night's sleep in ages.'

  'Amy's no help, I suppose.'

  'Useless,' said Ernie. 'Absolutely useless. I send a check every

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  bloody month and she never thanks me. She's only written a couple of times. She wants a tape recorder, she wants a camera. I don't know what she does with the money - a hundred quid goes a long way in India.' In a resigned tone Ernie said, 'But she always took me for granted, you know.'

  'Well, who do you think it was that -' Leo stopped deliberately, but Ernie simply watched Leo's eyes and showed no inclination to speak. 'That, um, committed adultery with her?'

  'That's just it!' Ernie said. 'She didn't. That's only the grounds.'

  'Oh, the grounds,' said Leo. 'But in order to get your divorce here you've got to prove she went off with someone, isn't that right?'

  'I could go to Mexico. Divorces are easy there - mental cruelty, incompatibility, lots of vague stuff,' said Ernie. 'But I can't spare the time.'

  'It really is hopeless,' said Leo. 'Funny, I thought Amy was playing around.'

  'She wasn't,' said Ernie, seemingly offended by what Leo had said. 'I'm no fool. We weren't suited to each other - I knew that before we got married. But she went on about how she'd kill herself if I wouldn't have her. That sort of thing. We got married and that was a mistake, but no one made a monkey out of me, not even when my marriage was breaking up.'

  The image suggested a great ship foundering in a boiling sea; but marriage was a flimsy agreement, its only drama was its legality, the image was arrogant. It was the male pride, thought Leo: Ernie denying his cast-off wife's adultery. Her sin was his humiliation. He wanted it all ways.

  'Maybe,' said Leo, 'she'll divorce you. After all, you were playing around, weren't you?'

  'I found a woman I loved,' said Ernie. His sincerity reproached Leo.

  'It's still adultery,' said Leo quickly, trying to cover his embarrassment. 'Amy can divorce you for it, can't she?'

  'She's up in the clouds,' said Ernie. 'She's in that ashram. You know what they do there? They pray, sort of, and meditate, silly things like that. Besides, she's got her money coming every month. They all have in these ashrams - they're all rich or divorced there. They don't care; they go around barefoot and write poems. No, she'll never divorce me. I'll have to divorce her, and if I don't do

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

  it soon Margo's going to have a bastard in five months' time. A bastard with no passport,' Ernie said bitterly.

  'But how do you expect to-' Again Ernie did not speak. He waited for Leo to finish. 'You can't divorce her. You haven't got any grounds. It's impossible, you said so yourself.'

  'No, I didn't,' said Ernie.

  Leo laughed. 'Yes, you did!'

  'It's possible,' said Ernie slowly, 'but it's illegal. Did you ever hear of connivance?'

  'I suppose conniving is what we're doing now,' said Leo.

  'Not yet,' said Ernie. 'Have another drink?' Leo said yes, and Ernie went on. 'Amy never committed adultery with anyone and you know it. She wouldn't know where to begin. But if I say she did and can prove it, I can get the divorce - providing she agrees to the whole business.'

  'You mean, concoct a story about a boy friend she had?'

  'They call them corespondents.'

  'So you have to find a corespondent.'

  'That's the favor I was going to ask you,' said Ernie, and he said it with the same sincerity that had picked at Leo's shame earlier -that reproachful sentence, 'I found a woman I loved.'

  'Me?' said Leo, but couldn't laugh. In a very thin voice he said, 'I only met her once.'

  'Twice,' said Ernie. He took out a worn pocket diary and fingered the pages.

  Leo remembered the first time. He was new in the country, and, having met Ernie casually in the Rex, Ernie had invited him home for a last drink. Amy had made a show of surprise, so wooden and deliberate that the word theatrical occurred to Leo; and then she used halting sarcasm: 'At least you could have given me a ring and let me know you were bringing someone.'

  Ernie, much to Leo's discomfort, turned his back on his wife.

  Leo said, 'I'm terribly sorry if I'm intruding.'

  'It's not you,' Amy had said, 'it's him.'

  It was clear they were not getting on well, and Leo thought: if a man was kind to her she would take him as a lover. Amy left the room. She came back without the ribbon in her hair; her hair was long and alive with the electricity the comb had left in it. She was charming to Leo, got him a drink, lit his cigarette, sat beside

  SINNING WITH ANNIE

  him and said, 'Have you got pots and pots of money?' when Leo told her he worked at the National and Grindlays.

  'No, I'm just a clerk on the foreign exchange side, though I started out on fixed deposits. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to save enough money so that I can resign in a few years and go back to university.'

  'I was at Exeter,' Amy said. Her reply was pleasing: she was one of the few people who had not said, 'At your age?' when he mentioned going back to university. 'I did art history, but I read fiction most of the time.'

  'I read a lot of novels,' said Leo. 'I'm very fond of-'

  'I haven't read a book since -' Here Amy looked at Ernie. 'Since I met you.'

  'Well, children must take up a great deal of your time,' said Leo.

  'Not here,' she said. 'We've got slaves - ayahs. They do everything, washing, cooking . . . the children are devoted to them. I've plenty of time. But no . . . interest. Are you married?'

  Leo shook his head
.

  'God, how I envy you.' Amy closed her eyes and seemed to relax, and Leo took a good look at her. She was pale, small boned, blonde as a Swede, with a sharp lean nose and breasts which were probably small - it was hard to tell: she was wearing a loose shirt, one of Ernie's perhaps, and the breasts were only suggestions at the pockets. But she had a lovely fragile face, and with her eyes closed Leo could imagine her head on a pillow.

  'You could do a little art history here,' Leo said.

  'Bongo drums,' said Amy contemptuously. 'India - that's where the art is. Have you ever been to India, Leo?'

  'No.' When had he told her his name? 'But I've always wanted to go.'

  'Indians are fabulous creatures - very catlike, I always think, very gentle and smooth,' she said, stroking her forearm as she spoke. 'Erotic sculpture on temples. Yes! On holy temples! Fantastic things. They worship the lingam, you see. You wouldn't believe what they get up to,' she said, her eyes flashing. 'Look at poor Ernest - he's blushingV

  'I am not blushing,' said Ernie. Tve heard all this rubbish before. Here, Leo, you want to have a look at those temples? There they are.' He pointed to a shelf of large books, boxed editions; art books, Leo knew, even from across the room.

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

  Leo stayed late, talking mostly to Amy ('My aunt was a character,' Amy said at one point, 'I once saw her lose her temper and down a whiskey, then smash her glass into the fireplace . . .'). After twelve Ernie drove Leo back to The Palms. In the car Leo said, 'I like your wife. She's very intelligent.'

  'We're getting a divorce,' said Ernie.

  It was a statement to which the only tactful response was silence. And Leo knew as Ernie said it that he would have nothing to do with Amy. A married lover, it was said, was a convenient if temporary pleasure; but a woman on the verge of divorce was a terrible risk, a man-eater.

  Apparently there was a second meeting - Ernie swore it was so, it was marked in his pocket diary - but Leo could not recall it. His interest in Amy died with the news of the divorce. He could remember being a bit sorry, because he had never made love to a married woman, and now his courage failed him. The next time Leo saw Ernie in the Rex, Ernie was with Margo. Leo knew that he could not be friends with both wife and lover. His friendships had to be Ernie's or there would be misunderstandings. And Leo felt mild relief, as if something cloudy and uncertain in his life had disappeared, when Amy went to India. It was a surprising feeling: he barely knew the woman.

  '. . . happens all the time,' Ernie was saying. Used to giving orders at the airport and unfamiliar with persuading people to do things, Ernie got excited and distracted telling Leo his idea. He began by saying that he considered it a big favor, but later in the evening he said in a wheedling tone that there was no risk; it was a small thing really, if Leo could see it in its proper perspective. 'Look at the paper. Every Thursday they give the court proceedings, and, Christ, they're practically all divorces - even in a little dump like Tanganyika.'

  Ernie took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. The bar had filled up with seamen who stood, like Ernie, with one foot on the brass rail, glancing around. The regulars were at tables, drinking slowly or not at all, and looking up and commenting when people left or entered through the swinging doors of the bar.

  'It's a strange request,' Leo said finally. 'I don't know what to do.'

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  There's no one else I can turn to,' said Ernie.

  'So it really isn't such a small matter, is it?'

  Tor me, no. It's a life-or-death business for me. But you - God, it's nothing.'

  'It's a lie, though.'

  'Oh, yes, I know that,' said Ernie. 'There's no getting around that.'

  'And a lie is serious, especially in a legal matter. It's perjury. The whole thing could backfire. I could lose my job at the bank.'

  'It won't backfire, I swear.'

  'Everyone knows we're friends. They'll know we made it up.'

  'That's just it. These divorces, look at them. Who is it that's always named as the third party - it's friends every single time! How else would the wife meet the bloke? The women here don't get out much. The only men they meet are the friends of their husbands. That's how it happens-'

  'You mentioned the court proceedings in the paper,' said Leo. 'I read the paper every day and I've never noticed them, but what bothers me is that other people here probably read them all the time. It would be just like my manager, Farnsworth, to see something like that. If he did I'd be finished.'

  'Nothing to worry about,' said Ernie, becoming eager again. 'Don't give that a thought. The editor of the Standard is an old pal of mine. I could ask him not to print our names. He'd do it, I know he would. He's a very old friend. I've known him for years.'

  'Then why don't you name him as corespondent?' said Leo. But he was sorry as soon as he said it.

  'Leo, for God's sake!' Ernie said helplessly. 'Don't you see I can't? You're my last hope. If you refuse me, I'm stuck - Margo says she'll go away. She'll leave me.' Ernie began to sigh softly. 'Everyone lets me down, Amy, Margo, my kids - those kids mean a lot to me. You don't have any kids. You don't know what it's like to be away from them. It kills me. Leo, I cry when I think of them - I'm not ashamed, I do.' Ernie looked mournfully at Leo and said, 'If you did this for me, you can't imagine what I'd do for you. I'd do anything-' Ernie put his hand on Leo's wrist: the fingers were wet and Leo felt disgust, felt his arm turn clammy as Ernie said, 'Just name it - anything-'

  'Stop,' said Leo, and drew away. 'I don't want to make a deal with you,' he said. But he said it to convince himself, because at

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

  the source of Leo's disgust was the thought that he could have had anything he named; and what was most sinister to him was that he was tempted to ask. But he said: 'First put it to Amy. See if she'll agree to it. I take it Margo already agrees. Then - this is crucial - make sure that nothing appears in the Standard. Get a definite promise from the editor. If Amy agrees and nothing gets into print, I'll be satisfied.'

  Ernie beamed. 'We're halfway there! Amy's already said yes.'

  'What? But how did you know I'd agree?'

  'I didn't.' Ernie grinned. 'I just said that I was going to ask you. Here's her letter. I think she means business.' Ernie took out a wrinkled aerogram with a pink stamp printed on it. He showed it to Leo, smoothing it on the bar. The handwriting was large, willful, done with a felt marking pen: / suppose it will happen eventually, so it might as well be your way. Better with Leo than others I could name -he's a nice boy. There was no signature. Leo folded the aerogram and before he handed it back to Ernie he looked at the unusual return address: Amy/Ashram/Kolhapur.

  The following Sunday at lunch Ernie was exuberant; he sat a few feet away from the table and held his beer mug on his knee; he laughed loudly and often. He said that he had seen the editor of the Standard and got the promise from him; and the lawyer, who was an Indian, knew of the connivance and was drawing up the papers. It was all set.

  'Have a beer,' said Ernie. 'You're not drinking, Leo. Cheer up!'

  'I've stopped drinking,' said Leo. He hadn't, but the lie was necessary: he wanted nothing from Ernie. On his way to the toilet Leo paid for his own meal. He said he had a headache and went back to The Palms. He did not want Ernie to think that the favor, which already he regretted, could be repaid so easily, or at all. He withdrew into spiteful lassitude and stopped seeing Ernie altogether.

  Some weeks after that lunch he was visited by the Indian lawyer, whose name was Chandra and who drove out to The Palms and said softly, 'Are you alone?' and then 'I've come to deliver a subpoena.'

  That was ominous; it gave Leo a fright, but Chandra said, 'Not to worry - it's just a formality,' and stayed for tea. They talked, and as they did, Leo thought: Here is a good man; he would never

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  ask of me what Ernie did. And Leo wished that he had met Chandra instead of Ernie.
/>   Walking to Chandra's car, Leo asked, 'Did you know Amy?'

  Eagerly Chandra said, 'Yes - oh, she was a fine person. She knew a great deal about Indian art - very interested in Indian culture. A graduate, did you know? I was hoping Ernie would try to patch things up - but-'

  'He wasn't interested,' said Leo.

  'I should not say this,' said Chandra. 'But he did not deserve her.'

  'You're right,' said Leo. And he startled the Indian by saying, 'He's a selfish bastard.'

  Chandra looked warily at Leo and then said good-bye.

  He's wondering how I can say that, thought Leo. But the betrayal was not Leo's - it was Ernie's. Ernie's lie had changed Leo and made him restless. He slept badly and had disturbing dreams. In a dream he watched his mother snarling at Ernie and saying, 'What have you done to our Leo?' Ernie had replied by sticking his tongue out at the old lady.

  A month after he agreed to act as corespondent he admitted his hatred of Ernie to himself. Leo found himself falling into conversations with bank customers who knew Ernie; Leo made a point of calling Ernie a shit, and he encouraged the customers to agree with him. He saw each of Ernie's enemies - there were quite a number, Leo realized - as his own friends.

  Amy as well. He thought of her in ramshackle India with her two children, living from day to day, in a silent ashram, in retreat from the world. It seemed a kind of destitution that he had connived with Ernie in forcing upon her. How she must hate me, he thought. But Amy did not know that his part in the conspiracy had ruined his friendship with Ernie and Margo. Amy didn't know that in his agreeing to the favor he had accepted the blame and had had to construct the adultery in his mind in order to convince himself of his blame. That preoccupation had begun to obsess and arouse him, almost as if it had all been true and he was looking back at a recent half-completed passion which had confused rather than exhausted his feelings.

  On an impulse he wrote to her. It was late in the morning, just after coffee, and there were no customers in the bank because it was raining very hard. He felt lonely, but writing the letter lifted