written first, ‘when you go to bed’ and then changed ‘when’ into ‘before’ for some mysterious reason unless perhaps he was avoiding a sexual connotation. ‘Together we were not often unhappy, were we?’ It was a very modest claim, I thought, for a lover to make. If indeed he was a lover. This wasn’t the sort of language that I associated with love. Perhaps they were the easy lies of a man bent on keeping a woman quiet and at a distance.
A comparison came to my mind and I took out from a file on my desk the rough draft of a letter which I had written a year ago. I always made a rough draft of a love letter, and this one was addressed to a girl I thought I loved at the time called Clara: I wondered – wondered again – whether the Captain had the habit too of making rough drafts and perhaps had sent the wrong version, for his letter read very much like a first effort which was not intended to be seen. There was after all nothing wrong about making a rough draft. When I wrote an article I made rough drafts. In both cases – a love letter or an article – I worked hard to produce the maximum effect on the reader. Even a poet, I told myself, made rough drafts and no critic condemned him for insincerity. A poet would often keep his rough drafts and sometimes they were published after his death. Judging from his final version, if this were a final version, the Captain’s rough drafts, I thought, would be very rough indeed and unlikely to find a publisher.
I read my own letter with a certain nostalgia. It began ‘Whenever I get into bed’ (I was surprised how close that phrase was to what the Captain had written) ‘I put my hand out and try to imagine that I am touching you where it pleases you most …’
Well, I thought, my letter certainly wasn’t poetry – it was meant, however crude the expression, to excite myself and Clara too. In my own way I had written as sincerely as the Captain, perhaps even more sincerely. I had left nothing out for the sake of good taste. I had written to please the two of us, and to hell with good taste.
But why, I asked myself, do I feel so angry with the Captain? And I realized that what I felt now was a sense of shame when I compared the two letters. Was it because I no longer wanted to put my hand out to touch Clara when I went to bed and I no longer troubled even to write to her. I had left her – or rather we had left each other – a few weeks after I wrote that letter. In my experience love was like an attack of flu and one recovered as quickly. Each love affair was like a vaccine. It helped you to get through the next attack more easily.
I read the Captain’s letter a third time. ‘I miss you every hour of the day.’ That sentence at least could not possibly be true, but why did the Captain persist in penning such sentimental lies when there was no benefit to be gained from them since he was far away in Panama and she was stuck in her Camden Town basement? For how many years had he been writing just such deceptive letters while I had only written my exaggerations for a matter of months. Who was the greater liar? Surely it was the Captain, who had been imprisoning Liza with his lies and robbing her of liberty as the price of her loyalty?
My irritation against the Captain remained, until I began to ask myself, is it only my envy speaking, the envy of someone who has never felt real love for anyone?
A message came. I went to the hospital. Liza had lapsed into a coma and she died the next day. There was nothing left to do but bury her. She had left no will: if she had money it was in some unknown account. I told myself that I owed her nothing when I had paid the necessary bills, and a few days later I sent a telegram to Carver at the mysterious sounding Apt and signed it Liza. Surely, I told myself, it was kinder to break the news myself to the Captain. The telegram read ‘Jim has left for Panama. He will explain. Time of arrival, flight number, etc. Love.’ I
A comparison came to my mind and I took out from a file on my desk the rough draft of a letter which I had written a year ago. I always made a rough draft of a love letter, and this one was addressed to a girl I thought I loved at the time called Clara: I wondered – wondered again – whether the Captain had the habit too of making rough drafts and perhaps had sent the wrong version, for his letter read very much like a first effort which was not intended to be seen. There was after all nothing wrong about making a rough draft. When I wrote an article I made rough drafts. In both cases – a love letter or an article – I worked hard to produce the maximum effect on the reader. Even a poet, I told myself, made rough drafts and no critic condemned him for insincerity. A poet would often keep his rough drafts and sometimes they were published after his death. Judging from his final version, if this were a final version, the Captain’s rough drafts, I thought, would be very rough indeed and unlikely to find a publisher.
I read my own letter with a certain nostalgia. It began ‘Whenever I get into bed’ (I was surprised how close that phrase was to what the Captain had written) ‘I put my hand out and try to imagine that I am touching you where it pleases you most …’
Well, I thought, my letter certainly wasn’t poetry – it was meant, however crude the expression, to excite myself and Clara too. In my own way I had written as sincerely as the Captain, perhaps even more sincerely. I had left nothing out for the sake of good taste. I had written to please the two of us, and to hell with good taste.
But why, I asked myself, do I feel so angry with the Captain? And I realized that what I felt now was a sense of shame when I compared the two letters. Was it because I no longer wanted to put my hand out to touch Clara when I went to bed and I no longer troubled even to write to her. I had left her – or rather we had left each other – a few weeks after I wrote that letter. In my experience love was like an attack of flu and one recovered as quickly. Each love affair was like a vaccine. It helped you to get through the next attack more easily.
I read the Captain’s letter a third time. ‘I miss you every hour of the day.’ That sentence at least could not possibly be true, but why did the Captain persist in penning such sentimental lies when there was no benefit to be gained from them since he was far away in Panama and she was stuck in her Camden Town basement? For how many years had he been writing just such deceptive letters while I had only written my exaggerations for a matter of months. Who was the greater liar? Surely it was the Captain, who had been imprisoning Liza with his lies and robbing her of liberty as the price of her loyalty?
My irritation against the Captain remained, until I began to ask myself, is it only my envy speaking, the envy of someone who has never felt real love for anyone?
A message came. I went to the hospital. Liza had lapsed into a coma and she died the next day. There was nothing left to do but bury her. She had left no will: if she had money it was in some unknown account. I told myself that I owed her nothing when I had paid the necessary bills, and a few days later I sent a telegram to Carver at the mysterious sounding Apt and signed it Liza. Surely, I told myself, it was kinder to break the news myself to the Captain. The telegram read ‘Jim has left for Panama. He will explain. Time of arrival, flight number, etc. Love.’ I
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