Us полностью

Eventually I stood and examined my reflection, my shirt soaked and clinging to my chest, my forehead bleeding, my tongue swollen and lips apparently rouged, my right eye sealed tight. I peeled the lid back, the sclera heavily veined and the colour of tomato soup. Peering at the ceiling, I noted that some sort of scratch, like a hair on a camera lens, had appeared at the edge of my vision, dancing around and out of sight as I attempted to examine it further. A scar. This, I thought, is why we have comfort zones, because they are comfortable. What can possibly be gained by leaving them?

As I returned to the table, Albie and Connie regarded me with the solemn faces that precede bouts of hilarity. When the laughter broke, I attempted to join in, because I wanted to be fun rather than a figure of it. I had prepared a line to this end: ‘You see? This is why we wear protective goggles in the lab,’ I said, though the joke didn’t really land.

‘You look as if you’ve been tied to a chair and beaten,’ said Connie.

‘I’m fine. Fine!’ I said, smiling, smiling as I pushed the bowl away. ‘Here, you have it.’

‘I think the food here is amazing.’

‘Well, I’m pleased,’ I said, ‘but personally I prefer food that doesn’t actually injure you.’

Connie sighed. ‘It hasn’t injured you, Douglas.’

‘It has! It has actually scarred my cornea. From now on every time I look at a plain white surface I’ll see that soup.’ This set them off again, and suddenly I’d had enough. Wasn’t I trying? Wasn’t I doing my best, making an effort? I drained a beer, my third or fourth I think, scraping my chair as I stood to go.

‘Actually, I’m going to walk back to the hotel.’

‘Douglas,’ said Connie, her hand on my arm, ‘don’t be like that.’

‘No, you’ll be far happier by yourselves. Here …’ I was tugging money from my wallet now, belligerently tossing notes on to the table in a way that I’d seen in films. ‘That ought to cover it. Amsterdam train’s at nine fifteen, so early start. Please don’t be late.’

‘Douglas, sit down, wait for us, please—’

‘I need some fresh air. Goodnight. Goodnight. I’ll find my own way home.’

I got lost, of course. The sinister black slab of the Montparnasse Tower was behind, then in front of me, to my left and right, hopping around, and now the back streets had opened out into an avenue, wide and dull and unpopulated, an elegant dual carriageway that would lead me eventually to the Périphérique. I was walking towards a motorway, soaked through with beer, soup, water and sweat, drunk and blinded in one eye, neither loveable nor full of love, full of nothing but irritation and frustration and self-pity, and lost, quite lost, in this idiotic city. City of Light. City of Bloody, Bloody Light.

I had not dared to dwell on the idea, but when we’d set out I had imagined that this trip might in some way repair our relationship, perhaps even lead to a change of heart on Connie’s part. I think I want to leave you, she’d said, and didn’t ‘think’ imply some doubt, the possibility of persuasion? Perhaps the newness of our surroundings would recall when we were new to each other. But it was absurd to think a city could make a difference, absurd to think oil paintings and marble statues and stained glass could make that change. Place had nothing to do with it.

Now I saw the great gilded dome of Les Invalides against the purple sky, the searchlights on the Eiffel Tower swooping as if hunting down a fugitive. The air had taken on that charged quality that precedes a summer storm and I realised I was still some distance from the hotel. They’d be in bed now, quite happily asleep, my family. The family I was about to lose, if I’d not lost them already, and I trudged on down that long, dull deserted avenue, wondering why it was inevitable that my plans should fail.

I turned right at the Musée Rodin. Through a gap in the wall, a sculpture of five men stood in a huddle, wailing and moaning in various attitudes of despair, and this seemed like an apt spot to rest. I settled on the kerb. My phone was ringing — Connie, of course. I considered not answering but I’ve never been able to ignore Connie’s call.

‘Hello.’

‘Where are you, Douglas?’

‘I seem to be outside the Rodin Museum.’

‘What on earth are you doing there?’

‘Seeing an exhibition.’

‘It’s one in the morning.’

‘I got a little lost, that’s all.’

‘I expected you to be waiting at the hotel.’

‘I’ll be back soon. Go to sleep.’

‘I can’t sleep without you here.’

‘Nor with me, it would seem.’

‘No. No, that’s right. It’s … a dilemma.’

A moment passed.

‘I got a little … het up. I apologise,’ I said.

‘No, I do. I know you and Albie like to wind each other up, but I shouldn’t join in.’

‘Let’s talk no more about it. Amsterdam tomorrow.’

‘Fresh start.’

‘Exactly. Fresh start.’

‘Well. Hurry back. There’s going to be a storm.’

‘I won’t be long. Try to get some—’