Quite a leap to make, from the word D-O-G in a notebook to life after death. A wild surmise. He could be wrong. More than likely he is wrong. But whether he is wrong or right, whether what in the most hesitant of spirits he calls the other side is truth or delusion, the first epithet that occurs to him, typed out letter by letter behind his eyelids by the celestial typewriter, is puny. If dying turns out to be nothing but a trick that might as well be a trick with words, if death is a mere hiccup in time after which life goes on as before, why all the fuss? Is one allowed to refuse it – refuse this deathlessness, this puny fate? I want my old life back, the one that came to an end on Magill Road.
He is exhausted, his mind is reeling, he has merely to close his eyes and he will sink into sleep. But he does not want to be lying here inert and exposed when the Costello woman comes back. He has begun to be aware of a certain quality about her, vulpine rather than canine, that has nothing to do with her appearance but that makes him nervous and that he does not trust at all. He can all too easily imagine her prowling from room to room in the dark, sniffing, on the hunt.
He is still sitting in the armchair when he is lightly shaken. Before him stands not the vulpine Mrs Costello but Marijana Jokic, the woman with the red head-scarf who is in some way (he cannot for the moment remember how, his mind is too befuddled) the root or source or font of all these complications.
'Mr Rayment, you OK?'
'Marijana! Yes, of course. Of course I am OK.' But that is not the truth. He is not OK. His mouth tastes foul, his back is stiff, and he hates being surprised. 'What time is it?'
Marijana ignores the question. She sets down an envelope on the coffee table beside him. 'Your cheque,' she says. 'He say give it back, we don't accept money. My husband. He say he don't accept other man's money.'
Money. Drago. Another universe of discourse. He must collect his wits. 'And what about Drago himself?' he says. 'What about Drago's education?'
'Drago can go to school like before, he don't need boarding school, my husband say.'
The child Ljuba fingers her mother's skirt absent-mindedly, sucking on her thumb. Behind her the Costello woman glides discreetly into the room. Was she here in the flat while he was sleeping?
'Would you like me to speak to your husband?' he says.
Vigorously Marijana shakes her head. She could not imagine anything worse, more stupid.
'Well, let's give some thought to what to do next. Perhaps Mrs Costello has a word of advice to offer.'
'Hello Ljuba,' says Elizabeth Costello, 'I'm a friend of your mother's, you can call me Elizabeth or Aunt Elizabeth. Sorry to hear of your problem, Marijana, but I am new on the scene, I don't think I should interfere.'
You interfere all the time, he thinks venomously. Why are you here if not to interfere?
With a sigh that is almost a cry, Marijana throws herself down on the sofa. She shields her eyes; the tears are coming now. The child takes up her post beside her.
'Such good boy,' she says. 'Such good boy.' Sobs overtake her. 'He want to go so much!'
In another world, a world in which he was young and whole and his breath sweet, he would gather Marijana in his arms, kiss away her tears. Forgive me, forgive me, he would say. I have been unfaithful to you, I don't know why! It happened only once and will never happen again! Admit me to your heart and I will take care of you, I swear, until the day I die!
The child's dark eyes bore into him. What have you done to my mother? she seems to say. It's all your fault!
And indeed it is his fault. Those dark eyes see into his heart, see his secret desire, see that in his innermost this first glimpse of a rift between man and wife makes him exult, not grieve. Forgive me too! he says mutely, looking straight into the child's eyes. I mean no harm, I am in the grip of a force beyond me!
'We have plenty of time,' he says in his most sober voice. 'There is still a week before applications close for next year. I will guarantee the school fees; I will get my solicitor to write a letter guaranteeing them, then it will not seem so personal. Speak to your husband again, once he has calmed down. I am sure you will be able to bring him around, you and Drago together.'
Marijana shrugs hopelessly. She says something to the child that he does not understand; the child trots out of the room and comes back with a handful of tissues. Noisily Marijana blows her nose. Tears, mucus, snot: the less romantic side of sorrow, the underside. Like the underside of sex: stains, smells.
Is she aware of what happened here, on the very sofa where she sits? Can she sense it?
'Or,' he continues, 'if it has become a matter of honour, if your husband finds it impossible to accept a loan from another man, perhaps Mrs Costello can be persuaded to write the cheque, acting as an intermediary in this good cause.'
It is the first time he has put the Costello woman on the spot. He feels a surge of mean triumph.
Mrs Costello shakes her head. 'I do not believe I can interfere,' she says. 'In addition there are certain practical difficulties, which I prefer not to go into.'
'Such as?' he says.
'Which I prefer not to go into,' she repeats.
'I don't see any practical difficulties at all,' he says. 'I write a cheque to you and you write a cheque to the school. Nothing could be simpler. If you will not do that, if you refuse to, as you put it, interfere, then just go away. Go away and leave us alone.'
He hopes that his tartness will fluster her. But she is not flustered at all. 'Leave you alone?' she says softly, so softly that he can barely hear. 'If I left you alone' – her eyes flicker to Marijana – 'if I left you both alone, what would become of you?'
Marijana gets up, blows her nose again, stows the tissue in her sleeve. 'We must go,' she says decisively.
'Help me up, Marijana,' he says. 'Please.'
On the landing, out of earshot of the Costello woman, she faces him. ' Elizabeth – she is good friend?'
'Good? No, I don't think so. Not a good friend, not a close friend. I had never laid eyes on her until quite recently. Not a friend at all, in fact. Elizabeth is a professional writer. She writes novels, romances. At present she is hunting around for characters to put in a book she is planning. She seems to be pinning her hopes on me. On you too, at a remove. But I do not fit. That is why she is pestering me. Trying to make me fit.'
She is trying to take over my life. That is what he would like to say. But it seems unfair to be making an appeal to Marijana in her present state. Save me.
Marijana gives him a faint smile. Though the tears are gone, her eyes are still red, her nose puffy. The bright light from the skylight shows her up cruelly, her skin coarse without make-up, her teeth discoloured. Who is this woman, he thinks, to whom I yearn to give myself? A mystery, all a mystery. He takes her hand. 'I will stand by you,' he says. 'I will help you, I promise. I will help Drago.'
'Mama!' whines the child.
Marijana extracts her hand. 'We must go,' she says, and is gone.
SEVENTEEN
'I AM HAVING visitors,' he announces to the Costello woman. 'It won't be your kind of evening, I'm afraid. You may want to make other arrangements.'
'Of course. I'm glad to see you getting back into the social whirl. Let me think… What shall I do? Maybe I will go to the cinema. Is there anything worth seeing, do you know?'