A Quiet Life(127)
She rattled the keys in the door. One of the locks turned one way, one turned the other, and she still muddled them most of the time. The flat itself seemed to resist her, refusing to fit itself to her shape. Yet Aurore had Rosa sitting in a pile of cushions on the floor in the living room, and as Laura came in she heard a gurgling laugh. That was the only thing to hold onto now: since Aurore had started to help her to look after Rosa, Laura had felt some of the overwhelming pressure of motherhood lessen.
Now someone else was doing the work, feeding her baby and bathing her, alongside Laura, she could see how it was possible to survive becoming a mother with one’s personality intact, even to enjoy it. She could also see that Aurore’s physical presence, her scent and voice and face, were becoming imprinted on her daughter; that this slow growth of trust was love, and this was a gain for all of them. She still found motherhood often overwhelming, especially during the long nights and weekends without Aurore, but she could stand away from it enough to say, no, this is too much; yes, this is fine. Before, she had not even been able to become conscious of how she felt, in the deluge of experience.
But while her relationship with Rosa had become easier, that did not make life in the apartment straightforward. As the urgency of Laura’s need for her mother lessened, their relationship became gritty, constantly irritable. Out of duty and the fear of solitude, Laura tried to be a good daughter, tried to bring her little nuggets of news, tried to encourage her relationship with Rosa, tried to find people – middle-aged Americans, mainly – with whom Mother might find common ground. Tonight, Laura wanted her mother to accompany her to a cocktail party in one of the big hotels; she had been invited by an Italian man to whom Winifred had introduced her a few months earlier. But Mother felt unwell. She was lying on the sofa. She motioned to the telephone. ‘There are messages,’ she said. Laura looked at the notepad; someone had called whose name she did not recognise. ‘A reporter,’ her mother said brusquely.
The repose they had hoped they would find in this quiet city seemed to be eluding them. There was no longer a pack of reporters camped outside the door, but still Laura never knew when the camera flashes would suddenly go off again, sparked by some new piece of gossip or simply a quiet news day; she never knew when the telephone or doorbell would ring and some enterprising writer would be there with a reason why it was time for her to tell her story at last, and why he or she was just the person for her to confide in. No doubt this latest message was one of those, and Laura threw it in the bin without looking at it. ‘If you won’t come out, Mother, you don’t mind if I do?’ she said. ‘Aurore can put Rosa to bed before she goes.’
Her mother acquiesced, getting up heavily and saying she might go to bed early. Laura made herself go and get changed. It’s funny, she thought as she put on an old velvet dress and lipsticked her mouth, that even though she no longer had the crippling shyness of youth, there was always that reluctance just before she left the apartment to go out. She had partly wanted Mother to come with her to protect her from the possible expectations of Roberto Peri. He was a smooth-voiced man, an aficionado of Wagner and Mahler, and she had enjoyed going to a couple of concerts with him, where she could lose any self-consciousness in the waves of sound, but she did not want the friendship to go any further. Her strange status – neither widow, divorcée nor single woman – made her an object of interest to too many men.
But tonight, as Roberto steered her around the room, she felt that his interest in her was not really sexual. It was as though she was a little curiosity he had collected as he might have picked up a picture or an ornament; the wife of the missing diplomat, how fascinating. She saw the usual knowledge jump into people’s eyes as he said her name and saw that he was pleased to have brought such an intriguing object to a dull party. So many people seemed to pass through Geneva in those days; she was not really surprised when she saw a familiar face nearby her.
‘Why, Archie!’
‘Winifred said you might be here,’ he said. ‘It’s been so long.’
What was he doing in Geneva? Had the Foreign Office sent him over for some posting?
‘Just this,’ he motioned at the cocktail he was holding, and Laura was puzzled. ‘I don’t mean drinking, but just having fun. I came into a huge inheritance a few months ago – quite a shock – my cousin Rupert died without children and left the whole thing to me – massive estate, house, pictures, the lot, but all up in the Scottish Highlands. I can’t be doing with it, so I’ve sold everything, to the horror of the family. I’ve chucked in the Foreign Office and I’ve been travelling for the last six months – had a whale of a time. Egypt, Italy, and now back here. I think I’ll stay in Europe for a bit. You know I’m no longer with Monica?’
Laura did know, obviously. She exchanged letters with Monica from time to time, although they had not seen one another since before Edward’s disappearance.
‘I knew you’d left England and come over here. Can’t blame you, the papers were beyond belief – I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch. What with the divorce and then Rupe’s death – I’ve been a bit all at sea. I didn’t want to impose on you. You’ve had so much on your plate. But it’s great to see you.’
Laura understood what he was saying; he had had enough to deal with, he could not have confronted her trouble too. But it was good to see him. There was a sort of humour about the way he talked, as though he refused to see things tragically, which she found refreshing after the hushed tones so many adopted when they met her. When he told her that he was meeting Winifred and Peter later for dinner, they decided to leave together. Roberto was not really irritated when she told him she was dining with a friend and she saw that she had fulfilled her role for him for the evening.