Eurydice

Eurydice

a story


The last of the music was fading. Harry lay stretched out on his bed, feeling drowsy. It was a summer afternoon, the time for music and drowsiness.
   Then he saw a dark form. It was sitting on the foot of that bed. The other bed; the empty one.
   Harry was not fazed by the apparition. He had had vivid dreams before, especially in the last two years. Old men often have vivid dreams. Once, just in these circumstances, he had seen Emma; and felt her too. After music – and that time he hadn’t known at first that he was asleep. But he did not believe in ghosts, or anything of that kind.
   So now he was sure he was projecting that dark form out of his own mind. But this time it was not Emma.
   It was the Devil. He was sure of that.
   “Well…so it’s you,” he said. “So what? I don’t believe in you. I’m making you up. I’m asleep. You’re not real.”
   “You are not asleep,” said the Devil. “Not this time. And I am real. Augustine was wrong: Evil is just as real as Good. We are mutually defining contraries… By the way, I don’t like that tune. They say I have all the best tunes; well, that’s not one of mine. All right as a tune, in its way, but inappropriate for the words. Would you sing like that, if you felt like that?”
   “You’re an intelligent Devil,” said Harry. “I agree. Sounds almost light-hearted. It ought to be at least in a minor key… But come on, what are you here for?”
   “Oh, the usual. I have come to grant you your dearest wish.”
   Harry glanced at the empty bed just beside his. In this dream, it looked very real, very accurate. It was stripped down to the lower sheet. No one had slept on it for two years.
   “I know,” said the Devil. “I know what is your dearest wish. And I can give it to you. Subject to certain conditions.”
   “You can give her to me – back again?”
   “Yes. For only a short time. But – yes. Alive and well, as she was some years ago. For…about three hours.”
   “Would she be as real as in that other dream of mine? When I saw her blue eyes, when I held her and kissed her?”
   “Much more real. No dream. She will be just as she was, and this house will be just as it was, with her in it – thirteen years ago.”
   “Why thirteen?”
   “Well, you could say it’s a number I happen to like. But it is also the most suitable time. You will both be a little younger, but not too young. And at that time you were still working – which makes the thing possible to arrange. You will walk in at the front door, and you will be really in the real past, for three hours. And she will be at home for you.”
   “And I suppose, for that, I sell you my soul? Where’s your parchment?”
   The Devil smiled. “No need for that. In the Middle Ages, yes. But that was the Age of Faith. Now – I move with the times. You’re an unbeliever, anyway. So – no parchment. You don’t sign anything. The bargain will be self-fulfilling. You just follow my instructions, exactly, for three hours. After that, Evil will have you.”
   “In Hell – with flames, pitchforks, and so on?”
   “No need for that. I move with the times, I tell you. Hell is a state of mind. The pain of loss… Oh yes, you will be in Hell afterwards. You may even commit suicide. Even if not – I will have you. I am an honest Devil, you see – not at all the Father of Lies. I’ve had a bad press from the other side. I give you fair warning: after your three hours, you will be very miserable. It’s up to you now. If you are willing to pay that price – we can go ahead.”
   All at once, Harry knew that he was not asleep. Gluck had faded into silence, and now he heard the click as the cassette turned itself off. And the Devil was solidly there, sitting on the end of Emma’s bed. A ray of afternoon sun lit up the glossy black edge of his cloak.
   And at once he decided. “Yes, of course I will be miserable afterwards. But I’m miserable now. So what do I lose? Yes, I agree. Now tell me what I must do.”
   “Listen carefully now,” said the Devil, unsmiling. “I am going to insert you into three hours of the past. The real past. We will fix it so that you don’t meet your other self – who will be at work – and no trace will remain of your visit. I have to do it this way, because I am not in the business of resurrections. I leave that to Him – or rather, His followers with their ridiculous claims. Actually, no one rises from the dead. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it.”
   “I’ve always thought so,” said Harry, “ even in my mystical phase, when I believed in a sort of a God. And whenever I longed to get back to her, I thought roughly along the lines you are suggesting. I want to go back and put some things right. I loved her – but I didn’t love her enough. Or not sensibly –“
   “Spare me the details,” said the Devil. “I’ve heard this spiel before, countless times. You humans have such a short time – and then you waste it… Let’s get back to the details. I’ll give you those three hours, but you must not try to do anything which leaves traces. Don’t try to record her voice, or use any kind of camera – if you do, I’ll wipe all that. And if you try to outstay your welcome – stay on beyond your three hours – I’ll wipe everything. You’ll vanish from the past, and find yourself back in this room, and those three hours will never have been – she won’t remember them, and neither will you. So, be warned! No tricks!”
   “All right…”
   “And don’t forget, you are going into the real past, the one and only past. What you are doing has been already. You have already been that other self – the one who comes back late from work. You may already remember an evening when she was unusually – well, emotional. And you were a bit puzzled by it.”
   “I – I don’t remember…”
   “Because that time you didn’t pay much attention. There were other such evenings, weren’t there? Now, this is how you insert yourself. Thirteen years ago, you sometimes used to work late. You went off with sandwiches, and you stayed away all afternoon, till your evening lecture –“
   “Yes, I did. Too often. I was so interested in my damned career!”
   “Well, I have one particular afternoon and evening in mind. You had an early afternoon class, then a lecture at 8 pm. You took your car to the university, and naturally left it there till 9 pm. Well, you – this version of you – will walk into the house now about 4.30, and you will walk out at 7.30. Tell her you decided to get some exercise, so you have walked home for a surprise visit – and you will walk back to be in time for your 8 pm appointment. She will believe you – the distance is only one mile, and you have often walked that. Now, these are the exact mechanics of the time switch. Listen carefully – after I’ve said this piece, I will vanish. So – after I vanish, you will still be in this time. Get up, get plausibly dressed, and walk out of the house toward the university. You know the road. When you get to the next intersection, cross the mouth of that roadway, and then turn round. That will be the exact moment of transition – your turning… After that, walk back, and you will see that you are in the past. It will be 4.30 pm. And you will find her. At 7.30 you leave, and when you get to that same intersection, you will be back in the present. Whether you turn back to this house then, or not, will make no difference. No difference at all. You can run away, throw yourself into the river, or do whatever else you like. You will just be in Hell, as I warned you. Got that? Do you still agree?”
   “Got it,” said Harry, “and yes.”
   “The worst of luck,” said the Devil. And vanished.

*

He closed the front door behind him, and walked up to the gate. It was about 4.30, but still definitely present time. The front garden was a mass of fallen leaves and straggly plants, with hardly a flower. Since her death, his only gardening had been negative, cutting things back when they threatened to overwhelm paths and lawns. As he stepped up the road, he saw the ugly mauve house across the way. That house was new, built in the last year or two. So – still the present summer. He glanced back at his unpainted fences and the barren mango tree; then moved on.
   Now the house was hidden from view round the curve of the road. He passed the church, the church where he had never worshipped. And now: the intersection. The opening on the right.
   He felt hot. And a little frightened. Probably it was all nonsense. Probably he had been dreaming. Still…
   He crossed the intersection. And turned.

*

At once, he knew that something had happened. A pervasive change. Several things were different.
   It was cooler. The angle of the light was different, the sun lower. He looked down – and he was wearing different shoes, a different shirt; and he remembered them. The shirt was a patterned one she had made for him, with great skill, matching the pattern at the pocket. (She was good at things like that.) A year ago, sadly, he had bundled the shirt into a shelf full of rags, as too worn out to be used any longer. There had been holes, and rents near the seams. Now there were no holes, no rents; and the shirt was freshly ironed.
   In himself, he felt stronger. Thirteen years younger? Not all that different: he had been ageing well. But ageing all the same. Of course he would have to be younger – otherwise she would notice the extra wrinkles, the age spots. At least he felt no different in his inner self, his brain. But he was stronger in the legs: he could walk faster, with less effort.
   And he was walking very fast now, almost running; his heart thumping, not with effort, but excitement. Round the bend –
   The ugly mauve house was gone. In its place stood the yellowish one, the old one. The bushes round the church were back. And now he could see his own house –
   The tall fence on the left had vanished. Yes: there’d been a different neighbor then. And his own front yard: it was neat and full of flowers. Day-lilies, orchids, geraniums, nasturtiums. No dead branches on the mango tree; instead, a few lingering white blossoms.
   It was earlier in the year. Not summer. Spring.
   Harry hardly dared to go on. Where was she? Would he bump into her immediately, in the front room? Prepare for that… No, he couldn’t. He muttered a private motto: Never prepare what you will say. Let it happen. She will make it happen.
   He turned the key in the lock. No change there: the door opened easily. Slowly, he stepped in.
   She was not in the room. But he knew he was thirteen years back. There was that different big picture on the end wall, an earlier model telephone. And flowers in the vases, as in the old days. Which were now his day, this day… He could almost sense her presence. He called, thickly” “Emma!”
   No answer.
   Swiftly now, in fear, he ran through the house. She was not in any of the rooms – but every room was different. Some of the differences surprised him. He had been trying to forget; but now it was all coming back. There were pictures on the walls, and her art room was very neat, her brushes and paints properly stacked.
   The bedroom… Two beds properly made up, twin beds with no gap between them. And some of her trinkets on her side of the bed. Oh god, where was she?
   He peered out of the back window. And then he saw, in the back garden, the head and shoulders of a woman stooping over the lawn. Brown hair sprinkled with grey; red dress. From her movements, she seemed to be weeding.
   It was her. He ran out through the rooms, down the back stairs. And just paused at the corner of the house, before she came into view. He called loudly: “Emma!”
   By the time he stepped onto the lawn, she was looking up at him, and smiling.
   “Oh my god,” he said. “Emma…”
   She was so beautiful. Her eyes, her blue eyes! Her sweet white fingers… And she was wearing thongs, so he could see her white bare toes. Those darling hands, those feet, those eyes – about which he had ached for two years, thinking of what had happened to them. (Bury that thought!)
   But now she was alive. She was his Emma.
   “Oh my god,” he said again, staring.
   “Oh, Harry, it’s you,” she said, smiling, coming forward. “What a surprise! I didn’t expect you till tonight… Oh! Is something wrong? Why are you looking like that?”
   “Nothing’s wrong, Emma. I’ll explain everything in a minute. But now – oh, Emma!”
   He was in her arms, and they were kissing. Frantic, he kissed her all over her face, fondled her ears – those delicious little ears… It was heaven – and then again, for a second, it was hell.
   He couldn’t help remembering the last time he’d seen her. Not her, but her body. This dear mouth open, not breathing. The brown hair gone all white, the blue eyes closed for ever…
   He drew back slightly. “Oh god, Emma, I love you!”
   She laughed. That pleasant, tinkling little laugh, his to hear once more. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Well, Harry, that’s nice. So why do you look so tragic?”
   “Emma, Emma my dear – I had a sudden impulse. I thought, what the hell am I doing here all afternoon, going over papers, when I could be home. All afternoon, away from you! Life’s too short for that.”
   “Funny thing,” she said, “I didn’t hear your car.”
   “No, I left it parked there. I walked. Needed the exercise. I’ll have to walk back. Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
   “Funny boy. If you were so eager, you might have driven.”
   “I can’t explain. I was too nervous. I’m – I’m in a strange mood. I expect by tonight I’ll be quite calm again, and morose. My usual boring self.”
   She giggled. “So like you! You’re suddenly in an Up phase again, aren’t you? Well, I like you this way – so long as you don’t overdo it. That can be wearing. Don’t get too manic this time. Let’s go in, and have some tea.”

*

He followed her into the kitchen. He was going to take the end chair, the one nearest the sink. Emma was surprised. “Hey, that’s my place” – and waved him to the chair by the door. If course: she had to have the working spot, handy for all the apparatus.
   As she made tea, he remembered, with a pang, how and when they had changed over. It had been during her long illness, when she had been getting less and less capable, dropping cups, breaking plates. One day he had taken over the working spot. He had said to her, “This is my kitchen now.”
   Yes, he had said that. Oh god – what a brute. There could have been a gentler way. Gentler! Sometimes, he had not been gentle at all. Pushed her. When she was staggering near her bed, he had pushed her onto it. In anger at her illness, which was almost, or also, anger at her.
   Now, what could he say? Apologize for what he was going to do? Those pushes were in her future, they were going to happen, no matter what he said now. He suddenly saw the hellish malice behind this gift he had been given. From schooldays he remembered the priest giving the Hell sermon. The pain of loss, yes; and the pain of remorse. Remorse was worse, more horrible than repentance. It was when you were sorry, but you couldn’t change. And now he couldn’t change the future that was lying in wait for Emma.
   But maybe he could do something about the past.
   One crucial fact: she had left diaries lying about, unconcealed, for years. Perhaps she had meant him to read them, but he hardly ever did. During her lifetime, he had glanced once or twice, then not again. They seemed to be all about trivia. She hadn’t much talent as a writer… Then one day, nearly a year after her death, he had thought about those diaries. A way of getting back a little of her, her voice from the past… And he had found they were not all trivia. One passage, especially, the longest in the diary, had been very
 eloquent. And it had destroyed all his remaining happiness for weeks. She had got one thing wrong: confused what he had said with what a critic had said. But on the broader issue, she had been right. He had undervalued her talent. He must tackle this, now. It was surely the most urgent thing he must say during these precious three hours.
   He pushed his tea away. He took her hand, squeezed it. “Oh, Emma, my darling – I’m so sorry!”
   “Sorry? For what, Harry?” She laughed. “It’s nice to have you here. Surprise visit. You don’t often surprise me. Well, maybe once. That first time you brought me roses, for our first anniversary… That was nice of you.”
   Another pang. No, he had not been generous with nice surprises. But he must get to the main point.
   “It’s not about today. It’s about the way I’ve been treating you for years. I’ve been a bad husband to you.”
   She looked startled. “How? What is all this?”
   “A confession –“
   “A confession? Oh, yes, you’re very good at confessing. Must be your Catholic background. Like that time you confessed to me – when was that? Four years ago? – That you’d kissed a girl in Sheffield. At that conference.” She laughed. “Don’t tell me it’s that again – you’ve got a secret mistress!”
   “You know me better than that.”
   Indeed she did. Harry was obsessed with Emma, and only Emma. In more than twenty years of marriage, he’d never been unfaithful. Never felt the slightest temptation – except that one time, when he’d been in the hothouse atmosphere of the conference, everybody interacting like mad; and at the very end, in saying goodbye, he’d kissed that American girl on the lips. And confessed it to Emma immediately – over the phone, from England. The girl had meant nothing to him, by a couple of days later. And now he had even forgotten her name. Emma knew perfectly well that he would never go to bed with another woman. So now she was just teasing.
   “Come on, Harry, what is this?” She squeezed his hand. “What’s got into you?”
   He kissed her hand, and clasped it in both of his. “My love… Basically, I’ve taken you for granted. Too much! You’re my loving wife – I know that. But you are more… You are yourself, for yourself too. I’ve ignored that – too, too often. I should have asked you so many questions! About your early life. Your family…”
   She changed, she drew her hand away. “Harry – don’t force yourself to try and feel what you don’t feel. You never did like my family. You looked down on them. You think your own family is so great – the great Bassingtons, with their pedigree stretching back to the Middle Ages. I really do hate that. The way you’ve tried to explain me to them. As if I were something inferior.”
   “Yes, yes, Emma, I know. But that’s over now – isn’t it? Surely I told you before, that I was sorry about that. Very sorry. And cured of it.”
   “Catholic thinking again. Just say sorry, and it’s all over. But with me, I’m afraid, some things are never quite over. Bad memories re-surface. Some of that’s not your fault, it’s stuff from my childhood. I find myself crying, sometimes, not knowing quite why –“
   “And sometimes you remember things wrongly.” That diary entry – she must have written it this year – nine months ago – but it was about things fifteen years earlier. “Sometimes, you know, in memory things get muddled together. What A said and what B said. But now, I want to take up one particular point, where I may have failed you. About your painting – I should have encouraged you more. You do have a great talent that way. Greater than mine. Why didn’t you do more? Those murals downstairs – I played around with them, my pastiches, and I did invite you to take a hand in them. For years. But you never did. Why?”
   She smiled, but not happily. “Well, they were your thing, not mine. Your fantasies… And you didn’t invite me very strongly. Once, I think, no more. I left you to paint your naked ladies. I didn’t think I could edge in there.”
   “But your own work. The pictures… You could have had exhibitions. I think.”
   “Do you really? I always got the impression you didn’t.”
   “You have great talents in some lines. Maybe not in all – who does? But you are a painter, a sculptor, a dressmaker. I should have encouraged you more. Yes, I failed you there. It’s my bloody ego. I have always been the one doing things. And I expected you to sit back, sit at home, and – pat me on the head. For being such a good boy, such a great achiever. I always thought of you as – functioning in relation to me. But you are more than a patter-on-the-head. You are you.”
   She stared. “Have you been reading my diaries?”
   “N-no –“ He began the lie; but he never lied to Emma. “Well, not lately. Not for a year or so.” Equivocation: literally true, but misleading. It covered that dreadful entry. She would believe now that he had not read it. “I think I did read some stuff about my mother.”
   “God, your mother! You know, your mother spoiled you, Harry.”
   “Yes, didn’t she! She was my original patter-on-the-head. And I cast you in the same role. That’s the main thing I’m confessing about. I’ve not been interested enough in you apart from me. I’ve – I’ve often been looking not at you but past you, more or less. Looking at all the great things I would do, expecting you to praise my books, my articles. Using you for background.”
   “I don’t know why you’re saying all this now,” said Emma, looking pensive, “but you are making some sense. I never said exactly that in my diaries, but maybe you’ve read between the lines. I – I often lacked confidence in myself, because my parents discouraged me so much. My father especially.”
   “I know, you told me once. You had that handicap, I had that advantage. My mother always told me I was a genius, so I believed her. Poor Emma!”
   “But what’s given you all this sudden insight, this nothing-special afternoon?”
   “I – I suddenly got afraid.”
   “Afraid of what?”
   “Afraid that – one of us might die, and I’d never have the time to say these things to you.”
   She took his hand again. Her fingers pressed his. (Sudden piercing memory – the last time her fingers had responded to his, when she was deeply unconscious.)
   “Dear Harry – you’re all right, now, you know. That was the first thing I told you when you came to, after your operation, and I’ve been proved right. It’s four years – well, three and a half – since your surgery. And the specialist keeps passing you, every year, as a hundred per cent OK. There won’t be any recurrence. You’ll last, my dear.”
   The tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn’t tell her whose death he feared. “Darling, darling – I’m not afraid of that. But – ah, you were so wonderful, all around that time. D’you remember, before the operation, when I’d just seen the surgeon, and he was gloomy about my chances, and we were coming down in the lift?”
   “Oh yes. And you couldn’t kiss me, for once, because there were other people with us.”
   They had a little custom, of always kissing, whenever they were alone together in a lift.
   “And Emma, that time in the lift, in the corner away from the others as much as we could manage – you said, ‘There seems so little hope.’ And you were in tears, my love. And I – I hugged you. That was better than a kiss. It was one of the high points of our life together. Perhaps the highest point. I will always remember that, till the end of my life.”
   She kissed him now, leaning across the table. He said, “Your tears always did turn me on, you know – my Rosy.”
   “Oh, Danny,” she breathed.
   This was another of their customs. When they made love, they had secret names for each other. He was Danny, she was Rosy. These names had some relation to their middle names, but were not exactly those, either.
   It was definitely time to leave the kitchen.

*


On her bed, they were not completely stripped. Both were still in a bit of underwear. He kissed her bare feet, and then they were clinging tightly, in one another’s arms. He felt deep, almost agonized love – but he knew the physical thing was not going to work, not all the way. For going all the way, he always had to move beyond love, into lust. And he could not feel lust for her now. The idea of doing that, now, seemed like sacrilege. He could not take his dear, dead wife.
   He drew slightly apart, and smiled. Or tried to. “Rosy, it’s not going to work for me, not all the way, darling, not this afternoon. I hope you won’t mind.”
   She gave him a beautiful smile. “No, I don’t mind. And you often have trouble, don’t you, my Danny? You know, there’s nothing physically wrong with you in that department; far from it, I’d say. But often you just lose confidence.”
   “Yes.” He laughed. “Maybe like you and your painting. With me, it’s sex. I never really was any good till I met you. You gave me all my confidence… But I don’t think it’s that now. Not really. I just want to hold you, to tell you how much I love you. Emma – my Emma!”
   “Harry…” The change back to normal names was a signal. They relaxed, and he held her round her bare midriff, and looked into her beautiful eyes.
   “Harry,” she said, “we never did sort out that thing – of your sudden fear today.”
   “No, the loving took over, didn’t it?”
   “Well now – if it’s not your cured cancer, what is it?”
   He was silent a moment. “Well…death can come at any time, can’t it? On the road – in a car – in a plane. Do you know, when I was young, I always thought how awful it would be to die in a plane crash. Not the actual dying, but the waiting, as the plane went down, and you knew you were going to die within a few minutes. Now – I don’t think I’d mind, if I were with you. Still better would be a car crash, if it killed us both instantly. And that’s the way I’ve always thought about our end, or hoped. That we both go out together, and neither would be left. Only…it may not be that way.”
   “It very seldom happens that way. I should know…”
   Of course she knew. She had been married before, very young, and her first husband had died young. Of measles. The whole family had it, but he had died of it. She had seen it happen.
   He gripped her tightly. “That’s another thing where I…didn’t ask you enough questions. About your first marriage.”
   She smiled, and kissed him. “I didn’t mind that, Harry. You asked just a few questions, and I answered them. Beyond – well, I think you showed some tact.”
   She was partly right. Tact, delicacy. But not only those. “His” Emma had once been another man’s Emma. He had always avoided – comparisons. And if there were such a thing as the Christian heaven, could he claim a heavenly Emma all for himself? What about the other one? Could there be two eternal Emmas, one for each?
   Luckily, there was no such thing as heaven. But he had always been a bit posthumously jealous.
   He tried now to think of some question to ask about her first marriage. But his mind refused. There was simply a blank. Perhaps he didn’t really want to know… Well, what about her still earlier life, her childhood?
   “Time’s getting on, Harry,” she said. “We’d better get dressed. And maybe you’d like a drink?”
   The light in the room was indeed fading. The one thin sunbeam, striking the far wall, was a fading red sadness.
   There simply wouldn’t be time now to ask about her early life. That sort of thing needed leisure. And he only had, now, an hour and a half.
   “Yes – let’s,” he said.

*

   On the back veranda, at one end, there stood a room with a flat roof. A metal ladder went up from veranda to roof. They had had all this built onto the house, years ago. The high flat roof served as an observing platform, for Harry dabbled in astronomy. From either level there was a good view over the back garden; and on this fine evening they decided to have their drinks up there. Emma brought two cushions, Harry two whisky-and-sodas.
   At the first level, Emma paused. It was just about sunset; a few high clouds bathed the scene and the whole earth in a rosy light.
   “The garden looks good, doesn’t it?” she said. “I think we’ll have a good crop of mangoes this summer. And down the bottom end – that little sweetgum is doing well, isn’t it?”
   The sweetgum, or liquidamber, was a beautiful tree which they had chosen and planted together. Now it was a sapling just a meter tall. Harry looked at it, and his hands on the glasses trembled. He fought back tears. He remembered that sapling as a tall, shapely tree, stately and dominating the end of the garden. And he knew what casket he would bury there, at its roots, eleven years from now.
   “Yes,” he said. “Yes, darling. You keep the garden beautiful.”
   They both climbed the ladder to the high level, and Emma placed the cushions against the east railing. They sat, facing the sunset. Following their usual custom, they touched glasses. They looked at each other.
   “To us,” she said, smiling. “And to absent friends.”
   “To you, my darling,” said Harry. “Now, and forever.” And they took the first sip. And then he kissed her.
   He knew that he would perform this ceremony nearly every evening, in the future. But alone, raising his glass to the sunset. Emma would be there, in the sunset, with the other absent friends.
   Now she put down her drink, and caressed his neck and cheeks, and kissed him. “You seem very sad this evening, Harry. What is it? Are you thinking of death again?”
   “Yes, I am.”
   “Isn’t it good that we don’t know the future? If we did, I don’t think anyone would ever dare to marry. If I had known, that first time…”
   “You have to accept the sorrow if you are going to have the joy. But – don’t you ever think of what may happen to us, Emma?”
   “Not much. What’s the good? You yourself used to quote that proverb, Never cross your bridges before you come to them. It’s a good proverb. But I think you’ve not been obeying it yourself, lately.”
   “Lately?”
   “Yes. Not just this evening. For the last – what, a year, two years. You’re so often depressed. It’s been a bit wearing for me, you know. Wearing when you’ve been Up and manic, and wearing when you’re Down. I think Down is worse. And you’ve been that a lot, lately. Can you tell me why?”
   “Oh, the usual. The whole thing. Life, getting older. I never did think much of life. All comedies are lies, there are no happy endings. For me, you’ve been the only good thing in life. I did feel a little happy a few years back. But I believed in stuff then. My sort of religion, the meditation, the mysticism. I got some huge highs, and I thought I was Enlightened! But recently I’ve come to see that all that was really nothing. You can’t get in touch with God. So nothing really means anything, and there’s nothing to look forward to. Except – death.”
   She looked bleakly unhappy. “Oh, don’t start that again. Bloody religion! I’m glad I never had any.”
   He held her, and smiled. “That’s one thing I’ve loved about you, darling. Totally pagan, never even baptized! My pagan goddess… I wish I’d been brought up like that. But I wasn’t. Look: just try to bear with me. I don’t feel exactly depressed this evening. But I expect it will come back. Just remember this, dear – I don’t do it on purpose. I don’t want to make you unhappy. I wish I could be a better husband in that way. I probably can’t, but – will you accept my apology? For that too. Like for so many other things. I am sorry, very sorry. Darling – will you forgive me now? For all the past unhappiness I have caused you – and for what I will probably cause you again?”
   She suddenly laughed. “You want an absolution in advance? A special Indulgence – I hear the Catholics went in for that, in the old days. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I will sin. Tomorrow I’m going to screw my brother’s wife. I really fancy her.’ What you fancy, Harry, is pessimism. Oh, all right, I’ll forgive you.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “There, will that do? I absolve you for all your sins against me, the past ones and the future ones, my dear Harry.”
   “Thank you,” he said, and took her hand, and kissed it. “This means a lot to me. Emma, you can’t know what it means! Well, I know you’re mostly joking. But I’m not – I’m serious. And I’m very, very sorry.”
   She yawned. “Come off it, this is getting boring. You’ve been saying Sorry for about two hours now. And I guess we’d better eat before you go off to your lecture.”

*

In the kitchen, she made pasta. She also turned on the radio, and got some classical music. They both liked classical music, and they both liked pasta. It was all a very ordinary scene. And Harry felt for a moment that he was back in their years together, the old, comfortable life, which they would live for years… Then he looked at the clock, and saw how little time he had left. What could he do?
   Well, he could do one thing. While she was bending over the stove, he came up behind her, clasped her round the waist, and kissed her on the back of her neck.
   She giggled. This was an old trick of his. The Photis maneuver, he called it, from a passage in Apuleius. A young Roman had made love to a slave girl, just so. Emma knew all of Harry’s fantasies.
   She turned. “Interfering with the slave girl, again, Harry? Well, I like it. Anyway, the pasta’s about done.”
   She was perfectly relaxed now, normal, happy. If only he had time, he would be happy with her too. But he did not have time. Very little, now.
   As she put down the plates, a familiar tune began on the radio. Oh, not that! But it was that. A woman’s voice began:

Che faro senz’ Euridice…

He reached over, and turned off the radio. “Sorry, Em, but I can’t bear that one just now.”
   “Why?”
   “The words.”
   “What do they mean?”
   “What will I do without Eurydice. Che faro – What will I do. It’s usually Englished as ‘What is life to me without thee, what is left if thou art dead.’ “
   “Oh yes. I think I’ve heard that sung by Kathleen Ferrier.”
   “It’s from Gluck’s opera Orpheus and Eurydice. You know the myth? Orpheus was allowed to get his dead wife back from Hades, so long as she followed behind him, and he didn’t look back till they were quite out. Well, just at the last moment, he did look back at her. And of course she vanished. And then Orpheus sings this damned happy-sounding song.”
   “I don’t see why you should get so upset about it.”
   “No, you can’t see. Oh, Em…”
   The tears came. At least he didn’t howl – not the way he had howled, again and again, over the first empty months, alone in this house.
   She held him. “Harry, darling, it may not happen. You may die before me.”
   He was startled out of his tears. “You – you guessed?”
   “Of course. You’ve been giving me clues all evening. But you know, women usually last longer than men. And we are exactly the same age.”
   “That time I had cancer – I thought it would be so unfair, for you to lose two husbands. Next time – I should hope it will be different. For your sake. But – being without you, Em – can you imagine how I would go on living? I would want to kill myself.”
   “You mustn’t, my dear.” She caressed his face. “It would be wrong, for all the children. Yes, they’re grown up, but it would still be terrible for them. You know, I had to go on living, once… And, if it comes to that, I’m sure you won’t do it. You are stronger than you think.”
   It was time to go.
   All these three hours, his joy in being with her had been pierced with pain. Having tea, having a drink, having supper: he knew he was doing each thing with her for the last time. In ordinary life, this almost never happens. (It had never happened in those months leading up to her death.) Last times occur, without being noticed as such. But now, with each action, he knew. And now he was going to say goodbye to her for the last time. He would never see her again.
   They went out onto the front patio. He said: “You’ve often seen me off like this, haven’t you, my darling Em? But hardly ever so late in the evening.”
   She said: “You didn’t eat much pasta.”
   “No, I wasn’t hungry.” Make it easy, make it easy – for that other. “Perhaps I’ll fill up later, on those sandwiches you gave me. They must be sitting on my desk right now.”
   It was full night, and turning cold. Beyond the patio light the front garden faded into darkness, around the gate. There was no moon, and clouds covered most of the stars. Beyond the gate the drear orange street-lights showed the way he must tread.
   He faced her, took her hands. “My darling, I really must go now. It’s seven-thirty. I’ve had a wonderful three hours… When you see me again, I’ll have got over these emotions. I probably won’t even refer to this afternoon – this afternoon when I was supposed to be working in my office… You needn’t refer to this afternoon, either. Let it be a sort of secret between us. You’ve forgiven me everything, and I’ve told you all my fears. Don’t make it hard for him.”
   “Him? Who?”
   “Slip of the tongue.” It was! He was being jealous again, but now about her next husband, who would be – himself. Another self, whom he remembered, and rather disliked. “I meant, don’t make it hard for me. My other, stupid, rather morose self, who may tend to ignore you again, because he’s so wrapped up in his own problems and pessimism. I expect that’s what you’ll see tonight, when I drive home. The Down phase. Just remember: under all the depression and despair, I love you utterly. I would die for you if I could. You are my whole reason for living.”
   She smiled. “That’s very nice of you to say, Harry, but it’s not quite true. There are other things in your life; and just as well; for both of us. Like I have my painting, you have your work. And that’s as it should be. I think a couple who live just for each other could end up destroying each other. You must have something else – to give me; and I must have something else, to give you. And we do. Don’t spoil all that with melodramatics.”
   “You are right.” He kissed her now, slowly. “But it’s still true, that I love you for ever. Even when we are both dead, our love will be an eternal fact. To quote Burns – I will love you till the rocks melt with the sun. And beyond.”
   She laughed. “You’re always quoting!”
   “Well, that’s my work. That is the something else I have to give you. I quote because the great poets say it better than I can.” He paused, feeling the threat of tears. “Well, Donne said goodbye to his wife, but forbade mourning. And that’s how I must say goodbye to you now, my love. With no tear-floods. But it’s hard – very hard.”
   “But Harry – I’ll be seeing you again – in less than two hours!”
   “I hope so. Should be back by 9.15. But there’s always the chance of an accident. To either of us. Oh, my love, my love!”
   They embraced. It was a long kiss.
   “Goodbye, then,” she said, also almost tearful. “Harry, if you are killed tonight – or if somehow I die tonight – remember this. You’ve been a wonderful husband to me, my dear, and a wonderful lover, and I love you for ever. I can’t give you any witty parting quote. Just – I love you.”
   “Thank you, Emma darling. Rosy…”
   “Danny…”
   “Goodbye.”
   After the last kiss, he turned, and walked through the gateway into the darkness. Just by the yellow house, he paused, and looked back. She was still standing there, under the light by the front door. He waved. She waved back, blew him a kiss. Then she was going in. And he walked on.

*

I am not sure what Harry did after that. Past the intersection where time changed, perhaps he just went on walking, down to the river; to the place where he had scattered her ashes; and threw himself in, and drowned himself.
   But I think not. I think he reached his intersection, then turned, as he felt himself grow old. Then he walked past the ugly mauve building, and re-entered his own house. His empty house. But he was not in Hell: he knew he had promises to keep.
   The Devil, after all, is the Father of Lies. And sometimes he misjudges people.
   Or, just possibly, that Devil was an angel in disguise.

*

“Hello, darling,” said Harry, as he got out of his car, and saw her in the doorway. “Hey, what are you doing out here? It’s getting chilly.” He had his briefcase in one hand; in the other he was jingling his keys. Now he put the keys back in his pocket.
   “Harry!” she cried, and ran down the drive. She put her arms around him. “Harry, you’re back! Safe! I’m so glad!”
   “You dear silly, of course I’m safe. Why shouldn’t I be?”
   “You’re later than I expected. Not 9.15. It’s past 9.30.”
   “Oh, I was talking to a student; she had an essay to show me, she wanted advice. You know these things happen sometimes. You shouldn’t be anxious about me.”
   “That’s one thing I forgot to tell you – earlier,” she said. “Whenever you come home late, Harry, I’m always anxious. You never think to phone. And there are such fools on the roads – fools in other cars.”
   He kissed her lightly. And laughed. “Fools in classes too, sometimes. Sometimes they bore me nearly to death. But not quite to death. Come on in now, it is cold. It’s not summer yet.”
   “How are you feeling?”
   “Well – to be honest, a bit depressed. Life goes on, the job goes on, nothing ever improves, in the department or the world. We just grow older… But, what the hell. We could have a nice late night drink.”
   “Danny,” she said, “I love you.”
   He kissed her again. “Rosy…”
   “By the way,” she said, “are you hungry?”
   “No, I ate all your sandwiches. Before my lecture. Very nice they were too. You always make them so well. Now, come on in.”
   They went up the drive and into the house.