With no air — conditioning the room was stifling. The window was closed. The girl is confused, he realised, and sweating. She tried to sit up but fell back, as though oppressed by some invisible weight. Shouldn’t she be sedated, he wondered? Perhaps you’re not supposed to sedate coma patients. Why are you here? she whispered. Where’s Clive? Vince tried to be natural. He wiped a sleeve on his forehead. I don’t really know why, he admitted. Clive said he had to go to Berlin. He asked me to stay.
Vince wondered how much he should say to the girl, what allusions might upset her. The doctors hadn’t given him any instructions. I’ve brought your clothes and bathroom stuff. She stared at him. Actually, I’m not sure if they’ve been washed. I couldn’t find a launderette. Staring, she seemed to find everything he said incomprehensible. Again she tried and failed to sit up. She was pinned to the bed, panting. When’s he coming back? she asked. When can I see him?
He said he should be back Thursday.
A look of puzzlement clouded her eyes.
When Thursday, what day is it today?
The flight is due Thursday, that’s all I know. In Bolzano. Today is Sunday. He saw her fists clench on the bed. Until then, I mean, if there’s anything you need … Do you have a mobile, by the way. That might …
And that’s all he said? Is that all he said?
Vince was unprepared for this. It occurred to him that he had been spared any hospital scenes with Gloria. Only the morgue. Casting about, he told her: Actually he did say something about going because you would have wanted him to.
She managed to turn a little in the bed and pushed the sheets aside. Everything oppressed her. Me? And you believed him?
Vince said, I don’t know anything about you two, do I? I’m sure he believed it, though.
Making a huge effort, she dragged her head higher up the pillow. The drip bottle swung on its pole. Crumpled and damp, the white hospital smock they had given her clung to her body. Vince can see her breasts. Apart from the facial bruise, her body appears to have flushed through the rapid without a scratch. You really believed him! Her voice was harsh and dazed. Are you stupid?
It’s hardly up to me to believe or disbelieve. Vince kept his voice quiet, adult. I told him I thought it would be much better if he stayed with you, not me. He said he had something very important to do and you would understand. You would want him to go.
Ah, important. Again she grimaced. It was as if she were looking for the energy to express her anger. What could Clive ever do that was important?
Vince watched her. He was annoyed with himself for not having prepared the meeting at all, not having scouted ahead. He doesn’t want her to suffer some kind of relapse. Clive saved you, he told her in a matter — of — fact voice. He pulled you out. Without him, you’d have drowned. She thought about this for a moment. I wish I had drowned, and him too, she muttered. I wish we’d both drowned! Now leave me alone! she finished. Leave me alone and don’t come back! I don’t want to see you.
Vince stood up. You should have thought more before coming, he told himself. He sighed. You rest, he said, I’ll come back tomorrow. Don’t, she said. I don’t want to see you. Go back to your bank and your calculations.
He was at the door when she must have noticed the bandage on his hand. Oh, did you hurt yourself? For the first time, her voice registered curiosity. She was propped on one elbow. I went down after you. I couldn’t avoid it. She began shaking her head rather strangely. I didn’t ask you to, did I? I didn’t say you did, Vince replied. He paused a moment by the door. I’m not complaining. It was quite an experience. As he turned to leave, he heard her repeat. Don’t come back. Please.
Vince spent the late afternoon cleaning the chalet. He could have got in his car and driven right back to London if he had wanted to. She’s awake now, he thought. She’s out of danger. She can give the doctors the phone number of family and friends. She has her clothes, her health card. I forgot to leave any money, he remembers, washing a pile of dishes. But he knows it’s a detail. Someone would drive her back here. It was only a few miles. And it’s only about sixteen hours to London, he thought. If I drive through the night. I needn’t even be late for work. She made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want to see me.
He settled down to clean the chalet. To do it seriously. There was this urge in him to get in the car and go. He felt his body straining towards it: the air — conditioning, the long hours at the wheel through the continental night, the autobahns, the tunnel beneath the sea, the early morning on the M2, old friends at the bank, authority. For years now Vince has wielded authority. But the resistance is steady and strong. That was not the way forward.
Sweating and sticky, he heaped a hundred odds and ends onto the big bed and found a broom to sweep the floor. It was one of the witches’ variety with yellow bristles that caught between planks of bare wood. He scraped in corners. There are nail parings, the tar — drenched ends of rolled cigarettes, a couple of cotton buds, crumpled receipts, a piece of chewing gum, even a dried — out teabag. They don’t keep a clean house, he thought. When was the last time I used a broom? He didn’t feel critical, but dogged, trying to establish a geometry, a system. Both Clive and Michela are powerfully present to him. He can hear their voices. Sweep from the walls in, he decided. There was a cleaning firm for the service flat in Vauxhall. Everything is always clean when Vince gets back after a long day, everything in the right place. Then he found a rag, put it under the tap, wrung it out and wiped the floor twice. In this heat, with window and door wide open, it dried at once. At six — thirty the sun dropped behind the glacier. The valley began to cool. It was a relief. Some kids had started kicking a ball where Waterworld’s kitchen tent had been.
He tried to sort out the clean clothes from the dirty and put the latter in a bin — bag. Why am I doing this? he wondered. The girl’s underclothes in one drawer, sweaters in another. These two people are in grave trouble, he thought. He gathered stray books together on a shelf— Strategies of Subversion, Carbon War, Stupid White Men. Why will people never give up anything? someone had scrawled inside a cover. We must give up things! Clive, he thought. He stacked papers, invoices, brochures, printouts of e — mails. Some were signed ‘Red Wolves’, with an indication of a website. There was an IBM Thinkpad, but he didn’t turn it on. Did Michela have a mobile phone? he wondered. If so, where? He opened and closed various drawers. They are asking too little for these holidays, he reflected, considering a paper quoting the price of the canoes. It would take for ever to recover the outlay.
Suddenly, Vince realised he was crying. The tears are flowing as he shifts the bed and sweeps the big dust — balls from under it. He doesn’t stop. There are two old Durex foils. I should have done this before wiping the floor, he realises. Nobody has swept here for a month and more. I’m doing what Gloria always did, he mutters: tidying up. He shifted the bed back into position, turned up a photocopied pamphlet: ‘The Bomb in the Garage: How To!’ He shook his head. It used to infuriate him, having got home late Friday night, that Gloria would then spend Saturday morning cleaning. I never protested. He crouched down with the dustpan, collected up the dust and the foils and tobacco shreds and sweet wrappers. Should I wipe again? These are tears of shame, he decided. He didn’t stop. He tipped the mess into a Despar plastic bag, wrung out the cloth again. Could that have been what she meant? He got on his knees. That she was sorry for the Saturday morning cleaning sessions. The wet wood had a musty smell. We could have loved each other better, Vince thought.