Thanks to her, I’d gained confidence. I’d thought myself independent of the man who was at once my landlord, employer and oldest friend. But that her influence hadn’t entirely freed me from his power now became clear, when her puzzled look reminded me of how little I’d told her about him. Of course, I’d often mentioned him and outlined the events in my life in which he’d played a part. Several times I’d been on the verge of describing my relations with him more fully, but, for some unknown reason, I’d always refrained at the last moment. Now I saw I’d be obliged to go into details when she said, ‘If he lets you live here, why not both of us? Surely, he would, in the circumstances?’
Her beautiful candid eyes were looking straight into mine. Suddenly I was ashamed of my secretiveness, unable to understand why I’d deliberately concealed from her Spector’s peculiar hold over me. Taking her hand between both of mine, I told her what he had said; continuing with the whole story, emphasizing his influence on my childhood, the sense I’d once had of being dedicated to him, and my ambivalent attitude towards him that sometimes attracted, sometimes repelled.
In my eagerness to compensate for my earlier secretiveness, I poured out all at once a confusing mass of information that should have emerged bit by bit, at different times, as it fitted naturally into our talk. I complicated it, too, by all sorts of incidents dragged in, regardless of relevance, in the hope of making the picture comprehensive — comprehensible it couldn’t have been. It must have sounded like a confession.
I was still holding her hand. I think its inertness was my first indication that I was failing — as I’d failed once before with a different person — to convey the perhaps incommunicable nature of my relationship with this man. But I went on talking, unable to believe she wouldn’t suddenly know just what I meant, for she’d always understood me so perfectly.
It was only when lines appeared on her white smooth forehead that I became silent, hating to see her perplexed or troubled. However, they must have been lines of vexation, for she withdrew her hand and, with a certain coldness that matched the gesture, said, ‘I’d no idea you were so dominated by Spector. Why didn’t you tell me all this before? You ought to see him again and try to make friends.’ I wanted to interrupt, to tell her she alone was important to me these days, but, mistaking my intention, she hurried on. ‘No, not only because of the flat but because it’s obvious that you won’t be happy till you’re on good terms with him.’
It was our first misunderstanding, the first time I’d heard that chill in her voice, and a sort of desperation made me exclaim, ‘I don’t care if I never set eyes on the fellow again’, continuing more calmly, ‘He was only important to me once because I was so lonely. Since I’ve known you I haven’t even thought of him. That’s why you haven’t heard much about him.’ She looked at me gravely without speaking; and I, conscious that I was no longer being strictly truthful, said no more, glad that she didn’t pursue the subject.
For the rest of the evening we went on as usual as if Spector hadn’t been mentioned. But our gaiety was a trifle forced; I was afraid we’d called up a ghost that wouldn’t be easily exorcized. And in that I was right; this was proved afterwards by our mutual inability to speak naturally of the man. Carla rarely uttered his name at all. And, though I refused to revert to my former reserve, I was incapable of talking about him simply and spontaneously; whatever I said seemed to have unintended implications, the most trivial remark developing undertones of startling significance.
The day after our conversation, capitulating deliberately, I admitted there was no real reason I shouldn’t ask my employer’s permission for the two of us to live here, except that I was already in disfavour and felt certain it would be no good. She answered calmly that I must know what I was talking about — there must be some good reason for thinking he wouldn’t help us. Her face was composed and cool-looking, gentle, still, inexpressive. This unchanging composure of hers was sometimes faintly disturbing. It made me wonder now what she was really thinking. But I was glad of it, too, relieved that she didn’t want me to approach Spector.
I had, I told her, a much better plan. Why shouldn’t we occupy some of the rooms in her home, replacing the present tenants? I’d inherited a little money from my father, and, with this and my salary, I could certainly make up the full amount they were paying, so that her mother wouldn’t lose by the arrangement. I smiled, thinking our future already as good as settled, as I put forward this simple and obvious suggestion, wondering why neither of us had thought of it sooner.
To my surprise, Carla shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid that can’t be done.’ I thought she must be joking, imitating my objections of the previous day, until she went on to explain quite seriously that the rooms were let to officials of the highest grades, who couldn’t be asked to leave. ‘But, surely, in the circumstances …’ I began protesting, to break off hastily as I fancied I caught a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes. I seemed fated to make a fool of myself — or was she making a fool of me? Again I was struck by the singularly unrevealing serenity of her expression, her pale, smooth face perfect like a mask, at which I could gaze for ever, it was so clear and lovely. Yet something strange had looked out of her eyes for a moment — strangely disturbing. I’d believed there could never be any misunderstanding between us, but I’d been wrong, and now for a chilling second I seemed not to understand her at all. There was a suggestion about her of something obscure, secret and impenetrable. It was gone almost before I’d seen it; but not before it had brought about a change that proved to be permanent in our emotional climate. It wasn’t possible to go back to where we’d been before; nor did I really wish to revert to a stage I seemed suddenly to have outgrown.
Summer was ending. In the sharper, cooler days that ensued, my former languid passivity seemed out of place. Though I loved Carla if possible more than ever, and still experienced in her company hours of relaxed happiness beyond all compare, my contentment now began to develop a reverse side that was correspondingly painful. Uneasy restlessness possessed me all the time we were apart. I was like a nervous traveller waiting for a train, existing in anxiety till our next meeting. If a day passed without seeing her, I became quite distracted, for without her I was lost and incomplete.
With typical spite, life afflicted me with these distressing sensations just when I couldn’t possibly be with her as much as before, because I’d started to look for a house for us and saw her only for a short time after the day’s search was over and sometimes not even then.
I remember very well how I started searching, diving headlong into the hateful business before my good resolutions had time to cool. This was the day after Carla had said indulgently, ‘What a child you are still’, stroking my hair while I sat on the floor at her feet. I wouldn’t disturb my dream-state to ask what she meant but assumed she referred to my undignified posture, which was one I loved to assume. Resting against her knees, feeling her hand on my head, I was sublimely happy, supremely content. This was all I wanted; just to lean on her, lulled into perfect peace by her rhythmic touch, secure in my dependence, relieved of every responsibility, almost of every thought, existing in a drowsy dream.
Vaguely I contemplated the carpet on which I was sitting, remotely puzzled because its blurred pattern seemed so very familiar, though I’d never consciously noticed it till this moment, when the dim flowery thickets and tangled scrolls seemed to transfer themselves to the covering of something more resilient than floorboards. Suddenly it was a sofa I was sitting on. The warm protecting body I leaned against was clothed in tweed, through which I could feel the hard muscular masculine flesh, the underlying structure of the male skeleton. My child’s face, tingling from outdoor cold, was now beginning to burn in the heat of a fire long since reduced to ash. Yet, at the same time, words just spoken echoed confusingly in my head. Suddenly they ceased to be mere sounds, and I understood them, the floor hardening under me as time moved forward again.