The Other Side of Silence

I wanted nothing to do with it all, of course. What did it matter to me what this Burgess fellow had said about the British SIS on the tape? I’d never cared much for the English. In two wars against Germany I’d seen how they were capable of fighting to the last American. And yet in spite of my commendable moral stance on the subject of Harold Hennig, there was a part of me that wanted to see this vile man brought down, and for good. I liked the old man and I think he liked me. If I could help him defeat a blackmailer like Hennig then that would be some kind of payback for what he’d done to Irmela and, in a smaller way, to me.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Maugham. But I’ll be happy to partner you in this rubber. That’s the least I can do. But in return you can do me a favor and say hello to a lady friend of mine who’s keen to meet you. She’s a writer, too.”

“All right. I’ll be glad to. If she’s a friend of yours.”

“So, tomorrow, when Hebel gives me the tape, I’ll bring it straight here to the villa and you can listen to it and decide what to do then. And if you think I can still be of service to you-well, let’s wait until tomorrow, shall we?”

After telling my story I got back in the car and went away with a hole inside me where before a heart and stomach had once been coexisting. That’s the thing about the past; it never quite belongs as much to the past as you think it does. I hadn’t thought about Irmela or her unborn child in a long time, but I still bitterly regretted their passing. The idea that I could have talked about them both with impunity now seemed risible. Time hadn’t healed anything, and I think people who say time makes things better really don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. For me, it was an inoperable tumor that I’d managed to ignore for more than a decade; but the tumor was still there. Probably it was going to stay with me until I died.

You could say I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and perhaps I was also a little drunk because instead of driving straight home I somehow found myself ignoring the lobster pot where I lived and heading out of town and up the hill toward Anne French’s villa. I told myself that if you spend enough time around homosexuals, you begin to feel the need to redress the balance with the company of a congenial woman. It’s not much of an excuse for what I was doing but I couldn’t think of a better one.

I stopped in front of the gate posts, lit a cigarette, and stared along the drive at the house. The lights in her bedroom were on and for a moment I just sat there, imagining Anne in bed and wondering if I was about to make a stupid mistake and spoil everything between us. What would a woman like her want with a man who owned as pitifully little as I? Apart from bridge lessons.

I almost turned around and drove away. Instead I drove slowly up the drive and stopped the engine. Discretion might be the better part of valor, but it has no business between men and women on a warm summer’s night on the French Riviera. I hoped I wouldn’t offend her, but being drunk I was willing to take that risk. So I opened the car door, stepped out, and cocked an ear. Coming from the guesthouse was the sound of a large radio and someone trying vainly to tune it to a more reliable frequency. A few moments later the radio was turned off, the door opened, and Anne came outside wearing just a short, almost see-through cotton nightdress. It was a very warm evening. The cicadas showed their appreciation of her cleavage and shapely legs with an extra loud click of their abdomens. I certainly felt like giving my own abdomen a bit of action, too.

“Oh, I’m glad it’s you,” she said. “I thought it might be the gardener.”

“At this time of night?”

“Lately he’s been giving me a funny look.”

“Maybe you should let him water the flower beds.”

“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind.”

“The heat we’ve been having? He’s in the wrong job.”

“Did you come here to mow my lawn, or just to talk?”

“Talk, I guess.”

“So, what’s your story?”

“I’m all out of stories tonight. Fact is, Anne, I’m feeling just a bit sad.”

“And you thought I might cheer you up, is that it?”

“Something like that. I know it’s a bit late.”

“Too late for bridge, I’d have thought.”

“I’m sorry, but I just wanted to see you.”

“Don’t apologize. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling a little sad myself.” She paused. “I was listening to the BBC World Service news on the shortwave. And now that I have I wish I hadn’t. Apparently the Egyptians have nationalized the Suez Canal and closed it to all Israeli shipping.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, for one thing, it means the price of oil is going to go up. But I think it also means there’s going to be a war.”

“When we haven’t finished paying for the last one? I doubt that.”