A BED OF ROSES

By Edna O'Brien

LIKE ALMOST everyone, Miss Dalton had a secret but, like everyone, she did not wish to know what that secret was. It was not that it got mixed in with other secrets, greater or lesser, it simply got submerged because Miss Dalton did not want to share it with anyone, least of all herself.

She was open and private by turn but, as time went on, she was more inclined to be private except when she had a drink or two, and then told some little story or other relating to the past. Miss Dalton had differ- ent stories for different people. She had again, like most people — godchildren and one whom she liked in particular, a young girl called Emma, whom she had seen in her crib and had thought at once, 'Emma, you have character, you have presence.' To Emma she usually related some escapade, a missed advantage in love; whereas to oth- ers she might tell a story about the differ- ent places she had lived in, a haunted room, or some spectacular sights, such as the proud, scrolled columns of a shattered temple.

On occasion love and travel overlapped, when she gave rein to the reckless and put a flower in her bodice, and in some strange dining-room made the acquaintance of some gentleman who sat with her and con- versed with her, and then took a stroll with her in the grounds and ventured a kiss. Abroad, these gentlemen possessed an aura and a gallantry which they might not have had at home. Home was eventually England, though Miss Dalton was not English. Sometimes a bouquet arrived next day and sometimes not. She heard from one or other of these men and found her- self surprised at the nature of their confi- dences. Distance and unfamiliarity made them indiscreet. One man who had written from Vancouver confessed that he had come across her name and had been swept, yes swept, by a wave of nostalgia for her company. She was quite pleased, quite buoyed, and for a moment drawn back to the snowy fortress in the mountains and the warm wine, and this aloof man who had hired a sleigh on Christmas Eve for both of

them to go into the forest. Oh yes, she remembered it as she remembered the woodland in Sweden in autumn, the birch leaves like freshly minted sovereigns; a very studious young man, a Marxist, blond, bespectacled, who had actually proposed to her and she had declined, but in a nice way, saying that really the language barrier and the long dark winters might create a diffi- culty, might erase the sweetness of the heady embraces in the woods.

The one story Miss Dalton could not tell Emma in entirety was the kernel of her secret. It had happened long before. Miss Dalton was married and was having with her husband their first holiday abroad. It was her first taste of Europe and her last week of marriage. As a young student she had married her professor, but after two years of marriage found herself still the stu- dent and very trapped. What she saw of Europe was not how she had envisaged it at all. The bus — a bus holiday it was would pull up outside some unprepossess- ing inn on the outskirts of a town, disgorge its passengers, while the coxcomb of a driv- er would holler out arrangements for the following morning. Inside they were allo- cated to small dingy rooms, one towel per person, and a handwritten note about hygiene in another tongue. In some of these inns there was an ironing room and always a great queue, as the ladies had creased their dresses. On the third evening, while waiting for the iron, she talked to the two ladies who had intrigued her, who were superior to the other passengers, all of whom knew each other and many of whom worked in the same marmalade factory in Dundee. The ladies looked down on these people, and on the driver with his bril- liantined hair who did not even know the names of the lesser cities they drove through. `The spiv', they called him. It turned out that they were mother and daughter but looked exactly the same age, and the ani- mal that their pinched features suggested was of course the shrew. Yes, two little shrews, Mona and Ivy, who wore the same maroon skirts and matching cardigans and had identical little cysts on their lower eye- lids. Their eyes, a very washed blue, looked as if to be holding back tears, but it was not certain if these were tears of scorn or of sorrow. Mona, the daughter, had a height- ened sense of smell and was particularly disgusted by the smell of fish, which, as it happened, could be real or imaginary. As they stood in the corridor, watching a half- naked woman iron her blouse, Mona had one of her retchings and insisted on going to the kitchen where her instinct was proved right, because there on a big platter was an inky mass of fish with ink coming out of its pores. Naturally, an argument arose and she was told by a very irate chef not to come into his quarters again. She insisted on a separate table for supper, where she sat with her mother and ate grapes which she dunked in a bowl of water. It was her own china bowl which she carried everywhere, ivory with a motif of roses on the front.

That night Miss Dalton heard rats and, as she heard them scrape and scurry behind the wainscoting, the lunatic thought came to her whether rats in different coun- tries had different appearances and differ- ent appetites, just like people. She was not sure whether she was in France or Holland. Throughout the night she prayed that she could go home. She thought of running away and going to a railway station but she was without money as her husband held the purse. By morning she was herself again, smiling insincerely and making stupid remarks about the scenery. In the bus, three of the passengers were sick and several complained of nausea. Opinion was united on the fact that it had been the octopus served at dinner. The driver who acted as compere was, as usual, spouting some fanciful facts and pretend- ing not to be aware of the embarrassments going on around him. However, Mona saw

to that. She gave him such a wallop of her leather handbag that he stopped the bus on a bend, hurtling them into a stone wall over which a vast willow drooped. The passen- gers piled out. Those who had up to then been jocular, or even forbearing, now vent- ed their rage — a rage induced by heat and claustrophobia — and it seemed as if he might be assaulted on the roadside by a coven of angry Scotsmen who had drunk heavily the night before. Their floor-man- ager intervened, said they did not come abroad to disgrace their clan and asked them to tuck their sleeves up and help hawk the bus out of its impasse. Mona, meanwhile, with Ivy's help, opened the sev- eral windows and then insisted that some men go to the nearest farmhouse and ask for pails of water. There was difficulty in finding volunteers, because few were lin- guists and the driver refused to go as a matter of pride. A buxom young woman who had been sick offered her services because she could see some nice apples in the orchard beyond.

`I am like the Romans: I am sick and then I eat and then I am sick again,' she said, taking the arm of one of the young men and heading off.

Miss Dalton took her book across to the hayfield and read. It was her husband's book, had his name written on it, and she had to thank him for that. Oh yes, she had to thank him for that, as she read those infinitely sad and infinitely nourishing sto- ries. They were stories that mirrored her own plight — unhappy men and unhappy women in distant Russia, who railed against their situations but were unable to change them. The bundles into which the hay was saved, its very texture and its smell, were different from the haycocks in her native land, and this also made her lone- some for something, but she did not know what.

Soon they were en route again, passing through towns with bells and church spires; then the countryside, the shuttered houses, fields with poppies and workers — mostly women — bent over, their heads covered with scarves or cloth caps. It was all so hot, so monotonous. Others shared her disap- pointment, complained about the small bedrooms, the cheerless dining-rooms, por- tions of leaky clotted cheese in little pouch- es along with black bread and raw sausage for breakfast, and not once a decent cup of tea. Yet, as they said, they must make the best of it and, anyhow, there were only two days to the final destination. In their differ- ent ways they elaborated on it.

The resort, at the foot of a high moun- tain, was not a fairy-tale castle with turret- ing and painted timbers, but a low complex of wooden chalets skulking under the mountains, which were free of snow except on their summits. There were 'verboten' signs, two muzzled dogs, and the driveway was freshly cemented so that the bus got stuck, and they had to walk the remainder with their luggage. Inside, a battle-axe with extremely long plaits ordered them to queue until their names were called out. Complaints abounded. Some went to the spiv, tackled him, demanded a refund and were told, not without a degree of inso- `They're a gift from the people of Norway.' lence, that the head office in London was the place where objections could be lodged. He himself was officially free of them and setting out to meet his girlfriend in Weimar. The prurience with which he repeated this brought extra odium on his head and, in a brisk exchange with the receptionist, he said, 'Don't expect sweet- ness and joy from this lot.'

The bedrooms were boxrooms and there were bunk beds. The one remark that passed between Miss Dalton and her hus- band was concerning the bunk beds, as to who should take which bunk. She men- tioned her vertigo and, by way of censure, he said he was trying very hard to remem- ber the day he fell out of love with her, but that when he did remember it she would be the first to know. She panicked then. She became afraid of what her husband might do. She lost her marbles to the extent that the blisters on the newly creosoted walls looked like insects that would soon buzz about and crawl over them as they slept. She could feel something pending. She had felt it downstairs when she found the one book in the salon. It was called Die Elixire des Teufels. She had gone to the woman with the plaits to enquire what it meant. It meant 'The Elixir of the Devil'. Much as she feared it, she was also intrigued by it, something potent, something dangerous, an elixir that could change a person's char- acter, make for daring. It was syrupy and viscous and quite a new taste on her palate.

Her husband's second comment during their five-day stay was that the brown pen- cil she applied to her eyebrows was ludi- crousness incarnate. It was not a dark brown, but a sort of ochre brown, bought in the kiosk of the hotel which opened for three hours a day so that people could get soap, or occasionally an English newspaper or aspirins or liver salts. Everyone had some ailment or other — headache, stomach-

ache, swollen ankles, what have you. Even Mona and Ivy began to mutter spiteful things to each other, using Miss Dalton now both as companion and go-between. She heard of Mona's several, indeed rar- efied, allergies and of Ivy's brief fling with another man, litigations they had taken and solicitors who had tricked them out of money. When Mona went off to wash her hands — a thing she did constantly — Ivy hinted at scenes too awful to relate, hyster- ics, sleepless nights, hostage to a highly strung daughter who could not suffer a rival.

`It was him or her I had to choose,' she would say and shake her head bitterly, and go on to talk of the lurcher who was a figment of Mona's imagination. This lurcher had even been given a name, which was Misty, but in fact had never existed. Mona, who could not stand the stench of an animal, or the heat of animal flesh, would hardly have a pet in the house, would she. Both their hands were raw and pink from repeated washings. Their hands looked frost-bitten in the glare of the sun.

The bedrooms too were cauldrons. Their little room was so cramped and the smell of creosote so stifling that Miss Dalton crept there only to sleep. She could feel her husband's gravity above her, his body shift- ing around, venting his rage. She avoided him as much as possible and in the day- time, if she had need to get her book or comb her hair, she listened to make sure he was not inside. For the most part he took walks and befriended the young cashier who aspired to sing Lieder. She had seen them once at dusk set out for a walk, and she thought how wonderful if he should fall in love with this dark young woman and give her permission to leave him. Idiotical- ly, she felt she needed his permission so that she could go.

The five days dragged along with con- stant moaning about the food: the black bread, the sour cabbage, the tripe; not to mention the language itself, so fat and gut- tural to the ears, like the thickly sliced, fatty salamis. Men began to order beers and sit down to cards as soon as they had finished their breakfast. The women, how- ever, were buoyed up by the idea of the last-night soirée. Some had even gone to the town and got some finery. There was to be an orchestra, a five-course dinner and dancing.

Miss Dalton had a little bolero crested with jet which she wore over her blue dress, and long gaudy earrings. Mona and Ivy took exception to her appearance at once, as if sensing some intended transgression. The bolero they deemed both ill-bred and skimpy, and so she found herself without a companion on either side. Her husband had taken a car to the town for dinner. Mona and Ivy both wore lilac which gave an unfortunate lilac hue to their skins. All around was a sea of bold bright dresses, brooches lethal as daggers and such a glut of perfumes and talcum powder smells that Mona sat with her handkerchief to her face, and refused the entrée. The whole Party was seated at one long table on which there was a regiment of pink candles stuck in wine bottles that were crusted with can- dle grease from previous farewells. She drank a lot. She had never in her life drunk but she drank red wine and over-sweet white wine and talked a little intemperately to the couple across from her. She talked of a museum where she had gone, and how in her mind the figure in the portrait seemed to pass out of the paint and approach her. She did not mention that he had the leer of a devil. She said, too, that she had learned that many German folk- tales had originated in the spot where they had been set down. Wildhaus. Wild house. They smiled but in a disbelieving way.

As soon as the main course was served, the musicians filed on and sat by their sev- eral instruments. Among them was the most ravishing man Miss Dalton had ever seen. He was tall, smooth, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a cropped beard, black as soot. He was the violinist. She was not alone in singling him out. Others remarked on his charm, his spill of dark hair, his vel- vet jacket, his eyes with a soft absorbed quality, looking disinterestedly into the room. Although brown, they looked to have a glow of orange, but that, she con- ceded, could be from the spotlighting. As the music struck up and the strains of a waltz filled the room, people began to thaw somewhat and enter into the party spirit by donning the paper hats and becoming saucy with one another. Although sparing in her glances, Miss Dalton could see the intensity with which the violinist played and see, too, that his chin seemed to be at one with it. First he played softly, as if to lure them into a friendly state, and then far more vigorously, enticing them to get up. She was not asked to dance, and as she sat alone helping herself from the wine bottle, she became aware of his glances in her direction. Ivy was aware of them, too, and came across and shook her and said, 'Stop dreaming . . . Stop bloody dreaming.'

'I'm not dreaming,' she said, and thought, 'I don't care . . I don't care what they think,' and stared into space, realising that her breathing was quite rapid and quite fluttery.

When the celebrations ended and the orchestra played both English and Scottish songs in honour of the guests, she had this longing to march straight up to him and say something but her nerves prevented her. She decided to go into the garden to cool off, but instead found herself in a warren of passages ending up in a sort of vestibule which was full of clutter, stepladders, beer- barrels and a mesh of newly born kittens crawling along the muddy floor. The over- head light was such that she could see the sleek cat nibble the umbilical cord and chew it assiduously. Then a footstep. There he was, facing her, a shy look now as if to say, 'I have come to rescue you.' Not being able to converse, they simply stood there, smiling, somewhat surprised, somewhat transfixed.

'Celia . . . Ce . . . Celia,' she heard her name a distance away, Mona and Ivy saying it imperiously, as if she was a member of their family. Nothing for it but to hide, and he followed her in there, into a fuel shed where they had to crouch. She could feel the heat coming off him, not like the heat of the sun, but a warmer, balmier heat.

'She's here . . She must be here.'

'You're sure you saw her come this way?' 'Quite sure.'

She could feel them prowling about out- side, could almost feel them lift back the trap-door and then, with a leap of delight, she heard the scream and the retching as Mona sighted the kittens suckling.

`It's disgusting, it's loathsome,' she shout- ed to her mother, who led her away.

Crawling out, Miss Dalton made some gestures of apology and a wan attempt at goodbye. He did not want that. He wanted her to stay, the gentle, searching eyes more chivalrous than ever. To try and persuade her, he took out his hotel key and waved it back and forth so that she felt like some- one being hypnotised. She recalled the room number and noted that the figures added up to seven.

Weimlich,' he said, and put the key to his lips .

Weimlich,' she said, not knowing what it meant.

Back in the lounge, she sat with a rowdi- er group and drank liberally, because the men were anxious to get rid of their foreign money. She drank a very strong liqueur which tasted of pears and even had a pear, like an embryo, in the bottom of the bottle. Later in the bunk bed things went askew: the violinist, his jacket, the Dundee accents, the ice-cream with the lit sparklers, rungs of the bed and her hus- band's haunches above her, hurtled dan- gerously in and out of her mind and she knew that for the first time in her life she was drunk, very drunk. She feared that something calamitous would befall her. As time went on she felt worse: she felt hot and also that she was expiring and thought that the best thing to do would be to creep out of her room and get some fresh air and wash herself under the outside shower. Reams of mist, white and milky, hung in the atmosphere, masking the few stars that were left in the sky. She sat for a while, then climbed over the low wall and went into a field to pick flowers that she could bring home as a souvenir. She who did not want to go home. It was on her way back that she decided not to go directly to their boxroom but to find the room that corresponded with the number on the key. The stairs grew shab- bier the higher she went, the carpet ran out and gave way to linoleum and soon after were stone stairs and a rope bannister. Outside the landing lavatories there was disinfectant the shape of a round biscuit and pink, but with a very acrid smell.

`Die Elixire des Teufels,' she said as she climbed and also feared that the man might have a guest with him. It took him several moments to answer. First he called out in German but she was too fearful to answer. His shoes were outside the door and she noticed that he had quite large feet. They were black patent shoes and they had not yet been polished. A dust lay in the creases where his toes had inclined upwards. Opening the door, he did not recognise her for an instant, what with no bolero and no earrings, and then he did.

`Die Elixire des Teufels,' she said, and he smiled as if to some sacred password.

Drawing her into the room like a sleep- walker, he led her across to a rocking-chair and she was aware as she sat down of a gar- ment slipping onto the floor. It was his vel- vet jacket. On the bedside table she noticed his gold watch and an ashtray with a lot of stubs. He had smoked very little of each cigarette. Taking the flowers, he laid them one by one into a tooth-mug, studying them carefully and with infinite tenderness. It was then it happened. She could not put a word to it, she had simply lost the memo- ry of where she had come from or why exactly she had come. She had put herself in his keeping. It was like going on the big dipper except that her mind as well as her body was at sway.

Weimlich,' she said. It meant home. She had asked a waiter in the hotel the night before. She had come home for a few moments to a stranger who was not really a stranger because he seemed to have such a sense of her, sensed her exile and her dread. She seemed weightless in his arms and very safe, as if being led into a niche.

When they departed the next morning, the man seated next to her on the bus waved and she waved too. He was waving, as he said, to Ingrid, the gay girl in a polka- dot who had taught him the German dance steps and had given him three boiled eggs for breakfast.

`Lovely lass,' he said, looking down at a photograph of her in a shell frame. She thought of her friend, maybe sleeping, maybe not, but standing by the window smoking one of his black cigarettes; think- ing of her, perhaps.

`Changed my life,' the man said, and brought his face closer to the picture. Yes, lives had been changed; hers also, because when they stopped at the first inn for refreshments she marched up to her hus- band and said, quite confidently, 'I'm leav- ing you.'

`Leaving me — you won't last a week,' he said. To her amazement, she did not break down as she always had when broaching something difficult to him, or asking him for money. She was quite calm, quite confi- dent, and knew that when they got to Vic- toria Station in London, she would not be going home with him. And she didn't.

`But what about the stranger?' Emma would say. 'What happened with him?'

I don't know.'

`How long did you spend in the room?' `Half an hour . . . less?'

`Did he kiss you?'

`Just the once.'

Always at that moment Emma shivered, an exaggerated shiver summoning a con- stellation of pleasures and sensations that she had no name for.

`And you came away with your clothes on?'

`Yes, I was carrying my shoes and the stairs felt spongy, like warm sand.' Twenty odd years went by and Miss Dal- ton was travelling again, but her travels were of a more agreeable kind. She lec- tured on the restoration of icons and attracted a reasonable audience in cities throughout Europe. It was in Vienna, after she had given her lecture and prepared to go out to supper with her hosts, that she sighted a gentleman at the back, hovering, with a bunch of roses, apricot roses. `One for every year since we met,' he said.

`Since we met?'

`In the mountains — Wildhaus.'

`Wild house,' she said, and felt the blood rising in her neck at this sudden challenge to her reserve. He bore no resemblance to her violinist at all, but he was him, older, more harried, with the same soft, rueful eyes. What had happened to him? He shrugged, as if to say, 'You see, I have grown older, I have grown heavier but I have not forgotten.' He only played the vio- lin occasionally, at some wedding or other. A rose for every year since they had met. He remembered exactly. How had he known she was coming? He had read it in the paper. By the way he looked at her, he was also saying how pleasant it would be if she could excuse herself and go off with him for a few hours and talk and perhaps even reminisce. What would he tell her? What would she learn?

`I can't,' she said, glad that there were people waiting on her. `Maybe you'll come back one day?' he said.

`Maybe I will,' she said, thinking it quite unlikely. He did not kiss her hand, simply bowed, then withdrew as if he were a spirit, a spec- tre of the night, except that he wasn't. He had come in person and had brought this sheaf of roses.

Their secret was safe now, lost without a trace, like a stone cast into the sea, a stone to be absorbed in the timelessness of the great currents.