‘It’s strange to think of you in Bombay.’
‘I thought I mightn’t return. I thought I’d maybe stay on with my mother. But there’s nothing much in England now.’
‘I’m fond of England.’
‘I thought you might be.’ She coughed again, and took her medicine from her handbag and poured a little into her whisky. She drank a mouthful of the mixture, and then apologized, saying she wasn’t being very ladylike. Such behaviour would be frowned upon in the Club.
‘You should wear a cardigan with that cough.’ He gestured at the barman and ordered further drinks.
‘I’ll be drunk,’ she said, giggling.
He felt he’d been right to be curious. Her story was strange. He imagined the Indian women of the Club speaking English with her nasal intonation, twisting their lips to form the distorted sounds, dropping ‘h’s’ because it was the thing to do. He imagined her in the bungalow, with her elderly husband who wasn’t rich, and his relations and his business manager. It was a sour little fairy-story, a tale of Cinderella and a prince who wasn’t a prince, and the carriage turned into an ice-cold pumpkin. Uneasiness overtook his curiosity, and he wondered again why she had come to Isfahan.
‘Let’s have dinner now,’ he suggested in a slightly hasty voice.
But Mrs Azann, looking at him with her sumptuous eyes, said she couldn’t eat a thing.
He would be married, she speculated. There was pain in the lines of his face, even though he smiled a lot and seemed lighthearted. She wondered if he’d once had a serious illness. When he’d brought her into his bedroom she wondered as they sat there if he was going to make a pass at her. But she knew a bit about people making passes, and he didn’t seem the type. He was too attractive to have to make a pass. His manners were too elegant; he was too nice.
‘I’ll watch you having dinner,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind in the least watching you if you’re hungry. I couldn’t deprive you of your dinner.’
‘Well, I am rather hungry.’
His mouth curved when he said things like that, because of his smile. She wondered if he could be an architect. From the moment she’d had the idea of coming to Isfahan she’d known that it wasn’t just an idea. She believed in destiny and always had.
They went to the restaurant, which was huge and luxurious like everywhere else in the hotel, dimly lit, with oil lamps on each table. She liked the way he explained to the waiters that she didn’t wish to eat anything. For himself, he ordered a chicken kebab and salad.
‘You’d like some wine?’ he suggested, smiling in the same way. ‘Persian wine’s very pleasant.’
‘I’d love a glass.’
He ordered the wine. She said:
‘Do you always travel alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re married?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And your wife’s a home bird?’
‘Yes.’
She imagined him in a house in a village, near Midhurst possibly, or Sevenoaks. She imagined his wife, a capable woman, good in the garden and on committees. She saw his wife quite clearly, a little on the heavy side but nice, cutting sweet-peas.
‘You’ve told me nothing about yourself,’ she said.
‘There’s very little to tell. I’m afraid I haven’t a story like yours.’
‘Why are you in Isfahan?’
‘On holiday.’
‘Is it always on your own?’
‘I like being on my own. I like hotels. I like looking at people and walking about.’
‘You’re like me. You like travel.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I imagine you in a village house, in the Home Counties somewhere.’
‘That’s clever of you.’
‘I can clearly see your wife.’ She described the woman she could clearly see, without mentioning about her being on the heavy side. He nodded. She had second sight, he said with his smile.
‘People have said I’m a little psychic. I’m glad I met you.’
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Stories like yours are rare enough.’
‘It’s all true. Every word.’
‘Oh, I know it is.’
‘Are you an architect?’
‘You’re quite remarkable,’ he said.
He finished his meal and between them they finished the wine. They had coffee and then she asked if he would kindly order more. The Swiss party had left the restaurant, and so had the German couple and their friends. Other diners had been and gone. The Texans were leaving just as Mrs Azann suggested more coffee. No other table was occupied.
‘Of course,’ he said.
He wished she’d go now. They had killed an evening together. Not for a long time would he forget either her ugly voice or her beautiful eyes. Nor would he easily forget the fairy-story that had gone sour on her. But that was that: the evening was over now.
The waiter brought their coffee, seeming greatly fatigued by the chore.
‘D’you think,’ she said, ‘we should have another drink? D’you think they have cigarettes here?’
He had brandy and she more whisky. The waiter brought her American cigarettes.
‘I don’t really want to go back to Bombay,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘I’d like to stay in Isfahan for ever.’
‘You’d be very bored. There’s no club. No social life of any kind for an English person, I should think.’
‘I do like a little social life.’ She smiled at him, broadening her sensuous mouth. ‘My father was a counter-hand,’ she said. ‘In a co-op. You wouldn’t think it, would you?’
‘Not at all,’ he lied.
‘It’s my little secret. If I told the women in the Club that, or my husband’s mother or his aunt, they’d have a fit. I’ve never even told my husband. Only my mother and I share that secret.’
‘I see.’
‘And now you.’
‘Secrets are safe with strangers.’
‘Why do you think I told you that secret?’
‘Because we are ships that pass in the night.’
‘Because you are sympathetic’
The waiter hovered close and then approached them boldly. The bar was open for as long as they wished it to be. There were lots of other drinks in the bar. Cleverly, he removed the coffee-pot and their cups.
‘He’s like a magician,’ she said. ‘Everything in Isfahan is magical.’
‘You’re glad you came?’
‘It’s where I met you.’
He rose. He had to stand for a moment because she continued to sit there, her handbag on the table, her black frilled shawl on top of it. She hadn’t finished her whisky but he expected that she’d lift the glass to her lips and drink what she wanted of it, or just leave it there. She rose and walked with him from the restaurant, taking her glass with her. Her other hand slipped beneath his arm.
‘There’s a discothèque downstairs,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m afraid that’s not really me.’
‘Nor me, neither. Let’s go back to our bar.’
She handed him her glass, saying she had to pay a visit. She’d love another whisky and soda, she said, even though she hadn’t quite finished the one in her glass. Without ice, she said.
The bar was empty except for a single barman. Normanton ordered more brandy for himself and whisky for Mrs Azann. He much preferred her as Iris Smith, in her tatty pink dress and the dark glasses that hid her eyes: she could have been any little typist except that she’d married Mr Azann and had a story to tell.
‘It’s nice in spite of things,’ she explained as she sat down. ‘It’s nice in spite of him wanting to you-know-what, and the women in the bungalow, and his brother and the business manager. They all disapprove because I’m English, especially his mother and his aunt. He doesn’t disapprove because he’s mad about me. The business manager doesn’t much mind, I suppose. The dogs don’t mind. D’you understand? In spite of everything, it’s nice to have someone mad about you. And the Club, the social life. Even though we’re short of the ready, it’s better than England for a woman. There’s servants, for a start.’