No Saints or Angels

6

It's gone ten already. The street outside the window is falling silent and the breeze coming through the open window is starting to be almost cool. I've put on some Bach, but I can't pay attention to it. I'm waiting for Jana, although I know she won't be back before midnight. I wait for the doorbell to ring but it doesn't, the phone to ring but it doesn't, a messenger to arrive with good news, but he can't arrive because he hasn't even set out yet.

I open the box of Dad's letters but then close it again. I ought to sort out my own papers first. I always chuck all my letters, including the ones from that anonymous lunatic — of which there have been more and more recently — into the big cardboard box which the vacuum cleaner came in. If I turned it upside down, I'd find right on top letters from my old flames. I had plenty of the latter and even more letters. I'd always look at the greeting first and then at the last sentence. Darling…, I love you, Your. . What came in between seemed to me of secondary importance.

There are so many letters I haven't the strength to sort them all out. I've taken to putting only the latest ones in the box: invitations, greetings cards, death notices, letters from women friends, threats, holiday postcards and New Year cards. There are fewer love letters. Their number almost equals the contents of an empty mathematical set, as my one and only husband would define it. When I die Jana, or whoever accompanies me on my last journey, can chuck that box into the coffin and it can be cremated along with me.

I get up and go into the junkroom where the box stands under all the shelves. I pick up the uppermost letter. It's one of the poison-pen letters, of course. It's written in block capitals, which lean to the left pathologically and are decoratively rounded at the bottom. The greeting is not very flattering, which is appropriate, I suppose, for this kind of correspondence:

YOU DAUGHTER OF A RED SWINE,

YOU BLOODY RED CURRANT, YOU POISONOUS HOGWEED, i'm COMING TO WEED YOU OUT SOON. YOU'LL BE BROUGHT TO BOOK AT LAST.YOU'LL WEEP AS I WEEP,YOu'lL HOWL AS I've HOWLED EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE. YOU WON'T FIND A BUCKET BIG ENOUGH TO HOLD ALL YOUR TEARS.

There are a few more lines of abuse. I drop it back in the box instead of flushing it down the toilet. I have no idea who has been sending me these rather rude messages regularly for the past six months. Maybe it's some mad naturalist; he enjoys regaling me with the names of plants and animals. Maybe it's a spirit letter from Charles the Second. Maybe it's not a spirit letter, maybe he's still alive. Maybe he just went somewhere where nobody knows him. I quickly reach for another letter. It's a brief note from Father Kostka thanking me for treating him.

My dear young lady,

The new teeth are better than the ones I chewed with all my life, of which only a few remain. I'll say nothing about how beautiful they are, as it would be inappropriate (particularly at my age). .

I think I hear the phone ring. I drop the letter and run to catch the good news before the telephone grows tired.

'Hi, love.' I recognize my sister's voice. 'I've been phoning you all afternoon there and at the surgery, but you've been nowhere around.'

'I must have told you a hundred times already that I don't work on Saturdays.'

'Really? I must have forgotten. Or maybe I didn't notice it was Saturday. Things are in total chaos here.'

They always are, or at least any time she thinks I might want something from her. But I don't want anything from her.

'Mum wrote to me. She seems. . doesn't she strike you as a bit strange?'

'We're all a bit strange.'

'OK. But some are a bit more than others. She said she's got backache and can't cut the grass. She hasn't got any grass to cut, has she?'

'No.'

'See what I mean?'

'Maybe she wanted to cut the grass in front of the flats. She needs to be doing something to keep her mind off things. Her husband died.'

'Dad, do you mean?'

'Do you know of any other one?'

'Don't you think we should get the doctor to see her?'

'A doctor won't tell us any more than I know already. And I also happen to know her. She's my mum. And she's yours too, though you wouldn't really know to listen to you.'

'My love, you're picking a quarrel again.'

'You could have spent a couple of days with her when Dad died.'

'But I explained why I couldn't. I had a tour of Austria already arranged. It'd taken a year to set up. And it was a success.'

'And what if you were to die?'

'Me?'

'You think it couldn't happen?'

'I don't see the connection.'

'I was wondering whether you'd have had to go on the tour if you happened to have died.'

'There's only one answer I can give to your impertinent questions, my love: kindly get stuffed.'

'Was there anything else you wanted, Lida, love?'

'I was wanting to know how Mum is.'

'Mum's fine — if you bear in mind what she's been through. If you want to know any more, then come and see her. That's unless

there's some enormous, successful tour you simply have to take part in.'

It's nearly midnight; I'm tired. When I was young I used to be able to sit around in pubs and even make love until morning, and sometimes I'd go for a week at a stretch before collapsing and sleeping sixteen hours; and there was no waking me up. It was during one of those sessions that I was discovered by my former — then still future — husband. That's how he first saw me: drunk, dishevelled and dog-tired. He was on his way back from some tennis tournament and was thirsty. He sat down at a table where I happened to be finishing off a bottle. Who was I with, in fact? It's not important. The pub was packed and the only free seat was at our table.

He was a good-looker, that future husband of mine, that's one thing I managed to register and also that he seemed to fancy me. He looked at me and asked, 'Are you all right?'

That was the first sentence he said to me: 'Are you all right?'

I told him I was OK, but it wasn't true. I had a heavy head, puffy eyes and an upset stomach.

'I'll see you home.' That was his second sentence. It wasn't a question or a request, it was a statement, and I meekly got up and left. And for the next twelve years I would meekly get up and go in whichever direction he pointed. It wasn't always a bad direction to take. He obeyed some kind of rules that required him to take care of himself, perform all his duties, do morning exercises, have a good breakfast and go to bed early. The rules even included reading some books so as to keep abreast of the times. I had no rules, although I did read books and listen to music, but he forced me to adopt his. He forced me to exchange my life of freedom for what he called a decent life. I owed that to him. I owed it to him that I didn't burn myself out. We loved each other. Why do I speak for him? I loved him. For the first time in ages I was crazy about someone. I longed to be with him and I was even jealous of his wife, that poor soul he betrayed on my account; except that he