Love Among the Single Classes (11 page)

‘Why didn't you divorce?'

‘What for? Neither of us wanted, then, to get married again; we are both in some sense Catholics. And it might have distressed our daughters.'

‘Then', he had said:
then
. Does he want a divorce
now?
Is he thinking about marriage? ‘Polish gentleman seeks intellectual to marry': we never talk about that.

We get into the habit, when we meet, of eating mainly at my house. It doesn't cost him money, and is easy for me, and more than easy: a relief to be able to discharge some of my pent-up energies in preparing a meal, setting the table, behaving ordinarily. It means Kate eats with us, usually hostile, occasionally mollified if he talks to her about jazz or helps with her maths homework. Sometimes one of the other children joins us, but as time goes on they like Iwo less, not more, and become blatantly ill at ease. Once when Kate is with Paul for the weekend I try to arrange the table ‘romantically', with candles and starched table napkins, but as Iwo walks into the room he says involuntarily, ‘What's this nonsense? Why candles?' and I feel such a fool I never do it again.

Later, that same weekend, however, he insists that I come over to Earls Court so that he can take me out for a meal. I spend the late afternoon going through the ritual preparation that provides some outlet for my inexpressible emotion. First I lay out my clothes on the bed; then immerse myself, eyes shut, in a warm scented bath, trying to make my body quite limp and free from tension. By the time I have washed and dried my hair, dressed, made up, stared at my reflection, changed a few things, stared again, added scent and jewellery, and finally smiled, the whole process takes nearly two hours. It becomes increasingly necessary to me, as a counterweight to Iwo's overwhelming attraction. It is always in vain. He rarely makes any comment about my appearance, and if he does, it's totally non-committal. He has a
genius for remarking on my clothes in words that avoid any hint of personal judgement. That hat will keep your ears warm!' for example, or, ‘Have I seen that dress before?' Yes, I could say; or, a confession, No. It never occurs to me to say, How should I know? or, I don't remember; because I do, I remember everything.

He meets me at the tube station and we walk round the corner, in the opposite direction from his house into one of the dignified Victorian squares behind Earls Court Road. He stops in front of a red brick building and we go in.

‘The Polish Air Force Club,' he says. ‘It is a good place to eat and I can hear the radio in Polish. I've made many friends since I started coming here.'

The walls are hung with old photographs of aeroplanes and sketches of square-jawed, dashing young air-crews from the Second World War, looking exactly like illustrations for a Biggies adventure story. Just beyond the hallway there is a bar, around which a number of elderly men sit talking in Polish. They look up and swing welcoming arms towards Iwo, halting the gesture in mid-air as they see me. Iwo says something in Polish, and then, for my benefit, in the awkward English that has become unfamiliar to me since we discovered the joys of speaking French together: ‘Can I present to you Mrs Liddell?'

The old men bow and take my hand; one lifts it to his lips; another insists on buying us a drink. They explain the origins of the club to me, and I tell them that I have visited the memorial at Newark and been much moved. Iwo explains that we are going to eat, and we leave their warm, friendly circle and go downstairs.

He precedes me, and at the foot of the stairs is greeted by a young woman, one of the most unusually lovely women I have ever seen. Her face is all curves and softness. Its contours are round and full, her skin and hair seem corn-coloured, though her complexion is golden-olive and her thick pony-tailed hair is golden-brown. She looks like Primavera. Her expression, when she sees Iwo, is one of surprise, her eyebrows arching above her wide eyes; followed
by a puzzled frown when she catches sight of me. She is quite without artifice, and even to my jealous gaze, captivating.

‘Monty!' she exclaims, in astonishment and delight. I stand like Lot's wife, wondering who she is, why she calls him Monty, and, most urgently of all, whether they are lovers.

He turns round to me. ‘Constance, this is my very good friend Marina, who saved me from starvation many a time!'

She is evidently the waitress here: but no ordinary waitress. Iwo is smiling at her so broadly that he's almost unrecognizable. He has never smiled at me like that. I exchange polite greetings with Marina and after we sit down I ask why she too calls him Monty.

‘One evening, soon after I had managed to find at last a job, I brought a couple of fellows from the workshop here: to be friendly, show them that I, too, am a person. And of course they called me Monty, so …'

‘… to put them at their ease,' Marina continues, ‘he explained to me that he was known as Monty: and ever since then it is our joke!'

Bully for you, lady, I think: that, and how many other little private jokes? Yet I don't feel the sharp agony that Joanna had provoked. Beside the sumptuous beauty and open friendliness of this young woman I am quite defenceless. Indeed, it would be odd if Iwo were
not
enchanted by her. In the basement dining room with its garish orange paint and splashy mural across the end wall, she glows with warmth, and Iwo responds by relaxing and stretching his long legs and entering into a conspiracy with her about what I should eat – for this is my first Polish meal. Together they devise the best that the menu can offer. She brings us a bottle of wine, betrays no sign of flirtatiousness towards him, and smiles at me. She seems
pleased
that Iwo is with a woman, so surely she can't …? I will think about it later. Marina leaves us alone to eat and Iwo explains that the club had been a sanctuary during his early days in London, as poverty and disillusionment set in: for him, and for many
other Poles. They can gather here, exchange information, eat cheaply, and talk about the country they have all lost. In between eating and listening I watch Marina. She is an expert waitress, attentive without being obsequious, and it's clear that the old men love her, and doubtless see in her the daughter they never had, or had and never saw again. Finally, over coffee, Iwo persuades her to join us.

‘Did you come to England at the same time as Iwo?' I ask.

‘No: a few years earlier. I came in 1977. But, as you see, I haven't really left Poland yet! All Poles are the same. We simply make London an extension of our homeland, establish our little havens of Polishness here and there, and behave as though we had never left. Some people haven't learned English after forty years!'

‘Can I ask … why did you come?'

‘I came because my fiancé died. And because it was possible. I didn't know how soon they might clamp down again, and I felt I had no reason to stay, so I went.'

‘What were you doing in Poland?'

‘Oh, hasn't Monty told you? I was one of his students, at Lodz.'

‘No, he didn't tell me.'

Why not? He must have known I would hear it from Marina. He ought to have forewarned me. Now I am plunged into speculation and despair, and can't keep up this charade of polite small-talk. Fortunately, she can.

‘He didn't know I was here. He came down those stairs one day quite by chance, and I thought I was seeing a vision! Nobody had told me Professor Zaluski was here in London – I couldn't believe it! How we talked, that first evening! He gave me news of so many friends at university and in Lodz. It was marvellous for me, but it made
him
homesick.'

He is evidently pleased to hear her tell me how respected he was among the students; how well attended his lectures were, how audacious his ideas. I learn something new about him: that he likes to hear himself praised.

‘Did you know his wife?' I ask abruptly. Now Iwo will be angry with me.

‘Sometimes I saw her at the university. But I was just a young student.'

In a moment I shall ask her whether Iwo's wife was beautiful too, and perhaps he senses that my recklessness is on the verge of becoming lunatic, for at last he interrupts.

‘I have told Marina she was far too good a student to be working here as a waitress …'

‘… and you are too good a professor to work in a repair shop: yet here we both are! And if we complain Mrs Liddell will think we are ungrateful to her country which is our host, and, really, we are not!'

Grateful, ungrateful, what do I care? Must I endure this? Can't we go? Two: should I leave you two? I have to go back home tonight.' Just so that she knows I do sleep with him.

He shows no annoyance, but stands up, extends a courteous hand to me, speaks to Marina in Polish and moments later we are outside on the street.

I march along in silence. Let him speak.

We walk several hundred yards to the tube station before he says, ‘Do you really want to go home now?'

I am either forced to say yes, which he will know to be a lie, or to capitulate and say no, and apologize, and be graciously taken to his bed. ‘What do you think?' I say.

‘I think we have time for a coffee in my room.'

‘Yes, all right then.'

His room is dappled with shadows and reflections. It is impossible to imagine the life-giving Marina here. It is also impossible to imagine him refusing any comfort she might offer: and she offers so much. The comfort of her young body, her curving smile; the comfort of someone from his own town, who knows the people he knew; the comfort of recapturing Poland, in memories and ideas. How could he resist her?

‘How old is Marina?'

‘Constance, she is more than twenty years younger than me. She can't yet be thirty. And now, will you stop frowning if I ask you to come to bed, or will that make you frown all the more?'

I will stop frowning. I turn to him, cleave to him. Tonight I want kisses to comfort me. The body he kisses becomes the map of Poland. In a half-sleep, in a kind of trance, I cease to be my own self and become what he wants me to be, which is his country. These arms its borders, these feet its limits, these breasts its cities, and here, his home. The body of this world like thine, my little world! … My mind detaches itself and hovers, quite clear and rational, above the bed where Iwo is mapping out his territory. The mind reasons, Do not ask him about Marina, for he will not deign to answer, neither with truth nor kindly excuses, he will simply rebuke you for asking. Assume the obvious, that she has been here; but take her friendship at face value and use it. Make an ally of her. Talk to her. Ask her questions about him. Tell her you love him, and ask for help. But he – this self-contained and secretive man, silent even in these paroxysms – will tell you nothing.

The victim may also remain silent under torture.

Yet I am not always plunged into self-indulgent melancholy. At home and in the library I am quite often my normal, quick-witted self. On the telephone or with my friends I make my relationship with Iwo accessible by making it absurd: reducing it to a series of picaresque incidents in which I star as a sort of Charlie Chaplin of the heart. Then they laugh and say, ‘Oh Constance, you are
hopeless
…' and few realize that the comic melodramas I rattle off for their benefit are a painful parody. My emotions are so vast and turbulent that if I were to describe them literally people would think I must be going mad. It's easier and safer to joke.

Sometimes I try to tell myself that the relationship has manifestly failed and I might as well cut my losses. I could say to Iwo, Look, sorry, we're wasting our time: I can't marry you. Find someone else. This course of action would at least allow me to walk away with dignity and self-respect intact. Late at night, waiting for him to ring – he hardly ever does – I practise letters of graceful renunciation. Any form of action is better than aching hours of thought, and sometimes the letters are so plausible they almost convince me. I need advice, but whose? It ought to be someone who has also experienced this kind of lunatic obsession; preferably someone who has met Iwo and could tell me whether in fact his impassivity might conceal something more than indulgent tolerance. Maybe an objective viewpoint could persuade me to take action; whether by reason or ridicule, it doesn't much matter. But whose?

An unlikely comforter turns up: Paul, my ex-husband. The children must have talked to him during a
weekend spent at his flat; at any rate, he brings Kate home one Sunday evening, invites himself to supper, packs her off to bed early (she goes with unusual docility) and says, ‘Can I go down to the cellar and fetch up one of my bottles?'

‘Our bottles, Paul: yeah, sure, why not, help yourself. Good idea. Let's get pissed. I could do with a sympathetic shoulder.'

‘'76 claret do?'

‘Christ Paul, you know I haven't a clue. I don't even know what's still down there. Just get it and open it and pour the stuff out.'

‘Waste of a '76,' he mutters, as he goes down the steps.

I look in the mirror in a reflex gesture – Oh God! is he going to tell me I look a mess again? was always my first thought when I heard his key in the front door – and am shocked to see how haggard I look. He returns.

‘Don't worry, love, you look fine. Lost a bit of weight, haven't you? It's good. Suits you. Now listen: Kate's been going on about this new bloke of yours. She's very loyal – don't think she criticizes you – but I get the impression she doesn't care for him a lot. Who is he?'

‘Polish. I've known him for getting on for two months now. He's about ten years older than us. Quite unlike any of our friends… sort of mirrei-European intelligentsia type. Very serious; a bit humourless I suppose, rather laconic. Not your type, but mine.'

‘What's he doing here?'

And so I tell Paul everything, wallowing in our former intimacy, which means that I don't have to make it funny; need not conceal my own disasters, yet can rely on the old shorthand of marriage and know that he will understand. Even as I tell him how much I love Iwo I find myself looking at Paul with nostalgia for the simple, undemanding cosiness of marriage. What's all this nonsense about sexy underwear and candlelight and having to double-check everything I say and analyse everything Iwo says? It's all so exhausting.