acknowledged his horror when he looked frantically round the hotel room and said, ‘What, here ?’ She even smiled.
So he pulled himself together and they got up and paid their bill and left. Salzburg for lunch, they had idly arranged, two weeks ago, sitting over their conspiratorial lunch, looking at an infinitesimal map of Europe that he had on the back of one of his Common Market notebooks: and they got there for lunch, but it wasn’t an early one. They had eggs, again, again defeated by the menu, and wondered what to do with him. He felt in a way better, but rather ominously better: he felt lightheaded and slightly unreal, and his limbs felt vague and weightless. He poured beer over his throat as a kind of penance, and she suddenly said, very clearly and distinctly, as though speaking to him from a great distance, through thin mountain air (which it was, perhaps), ‘I know what you need, you need some strong drink.’
‘What about the driving?’ he said, shrinking from the thought of all the as-yet-uncovered miles.
‘I’ll drive,’ she said.
‘But you don’t drive,’ he protested, hoarsely.
‘Oh, yes I do,’ she said, and when he looked at her (what a waste of looking this illness was, he seemed to have beencontemplating nothing but the inside of his own head for the last day and night), he saw that she was positively gay, with a kind of defiant satisfaction, as though, despite her undoubted solicitude, she were enjoying this disaster.
‘I used to drive quite well,’ she said. ‘I like it. I’ll drive, and we’ll buy you some codeine and you’ll feel better in no time.’
‘The car’s too heavy for you,’ he said.
‘I could drive for a while anyway, but first of all, we’ll buy some things to make you better. You stay here, and wait till I come back.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
So they went together, through the sunny streets of that famous place, looking for whatever the Austrians used as chemists; the chemist would not sell them codeine without a prescription, so they had to make do with some throat mixture and some more aspirins. She led him back to the car, and with a sense of hopeless submission and abandon he allowed himself, for the first time ever, to be put in the passenger’s seat. She didn’t start too well: she reversed smartly into a yellow stone wall, swore, pulled away, set off on the left-hand side of the road, couldn’t find the indicator, and then was away. He opened his bottle of whisky, sat back and gave up. He shut his eyes, and must have fallen asleep, because when he opened them they were driving through acres of flowers and dark-green trees, and there were Alps rising again on the horizon. She was singing to herself: Mozart, inevitably. A passing tribute.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, and she stopped singing to pay him attention.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Lovely. But I don’t like the look of those mountains. Are you going to enjoy being driven through those mountains?’
‘I’ve given up,’ he said. ‘I might as well die here as anywhere, don’t you think?’
‘Have another drink,’ she said, and accelerated towards the snowy backdrop.
‘I’m having such a lovely time,’ she said to him, after a while, as the road began to ascend, sharply and dangerously. ‘What about you?’
He held tight to the whisky, knowing he could not refuse her a drink if she asked for one: and after a little while she did.
‘What I need is a little drink,’ she said, as pine trees and icy torrents fell away from the edge of the car into nothingness.
‘Of course,’ he said, and handed it over. Trust, that was what it was called: mutual trust. He shrank down into his seat until she seemed larger than he was: she seemed to have taken on some extra quality that he could not quite name, and he conceded it to her entirely, slumped as he was, and feverish. He knew that he had a temperature: perhaps he would soon start
So he pulled himself together and they got up and paid their bill and left. Salzburg for lunch, they had idly arranged, two weeks ago, sitting over their conspiratorial lunch, looking at an infinitesimal map of Europe that he had on the back of one of his Common Market notebooks: and they got there for lunch, but it wasn’t an early one. They had eggs, again, again defeated by the menu, and wondered what to do with him. He felt in a way better, but rather ominously better: he felt lightheaded and slightly unreal, and his limbs felt vague and weightless. He poured beer over his throat as a kind of penance, and she suddenly said, very clearly and distinctly, as though speaking to him from a great distance, through thin mountain air (which it was, perhaps), ‘I know what you need, you need some strong drink.’
‘What about the driving?’ he said, shrinking from the thought of all the as-yet-uncovered miles.
‘I’ll drive,’ she said.
‘But you don’t drive,’ he protested, hoarsely.
‘Oh, yes I do,’ she said, and when he looked at her (what a waste of looking this illness was, he seemed to have beencontemplating nothing but the inside of his own head for the last day and night), he saw that she was positively gay, with a kind of defiant satisfaction, as though, despite her undoubted solicitude, she were enjoying this disaster.
‘I used to drive quite well,’ she said. ‘I like it. I’ll drive, and we’ll buy you some codeine and you’ll feel better in no time.’
‘The car’s too heavy for you,’ he said.
‘I could drive for a while anyway, but first of all, we’ll buy some things to make you better. You stay here, and wait till I come back.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
So they went together, through the sunny streets of that famous place, looking for whatever the Austrians used as chemists; the chemist would not sell them codeine without a prescription, so they had to make do with some throat mixture and some more aspirins. She led him back to the car, and with a sense of hopeless submission and abandon he allowed himself, for the first time ever, to be put in the passenger’s seat. She didn’t start too well: she reversed smartly into a yellow stone wall, swore, pulled away, set off on the left-hand side of the road, couldn’t find the indicator, and then was away. He opened his bottle of whisky, sat back and gave up. He shut his eyes, and must have fallen asleep, because when he opened them they were driving through acres of flowers and dark-green trees, and there were Alps rising again on the horizon. She was singing to herself: Mozart, inevitably. A passing tribute.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, and she stopped singing to pay him attention.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Lovely. But I don’t like the look of those mountains. Are you going to enjoy being driven through those mountains?’
‘I’ve given up,’ he said. ‘I might as well die here as anywhere, don’t you think?’
‘Have another drink,’ she said, and accelerated towards the snowy backdrop.
‘I’m having such a lovely time,’ she said to him, after a while, as the road began to ascend, sharply and dangerously. ‘What about you?’
He held tight to the whisky, knowing he could not refuse her a drink if she asked for one: and after a little while she did.
‘What I need is a little drink,’ she said, as pine trees and icy torrents fell away from the edge of the car into nothingness.
‘Of course,’ he said, and handed it over. Trust, that was what it was called: mutual trust. He shrank down into his seat until she seemed larger than he was: she seemed to have taken on some extra quality that he could not quite name, and he conceded it to her entirely, slumped as he was, and feverish. He knew that he had a temperature: perhaps he would soon start
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