Hothouse by the East River by Muriel Spark

Author:Muriel Spark [Spark, Muriel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-4507-1
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
Published: 2012-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

6

‘GO BACK, GO BACK to the grave,’ says Paul, ‘from where I called you.’

‘It’s too late,’ Elsa says. ‘It was you with your terrible and jealous dreams who set the whole edifice soaring.’

‘You’re not real. Pierre and Katerina don’t exist.’

‘Don’t we?’ she says. ‘Well then that settles the argument. Just carry on as if nothing has happened all these years.’

He puts down the newspaper he has been holding. He says, ‘The headline reads, “Offbeat Production Peter Pan Ends in Tomato Throwing”. You’ve ruined Pierre’s show. Your own son’s show.’

‘If Pierre doesn’t exist and I’m dead,’ she says, ‘I don’t see how I could have ruined his show. Use your logic’

‘Read the paper yourself. See the headlines. You know it was you who threw the tomatoes.’

‘I know,’ she says, ‘and I stopped the show. Tell Garven to bring some more coffee.’ She hands him the coffee-pot from the breakfast tray. He takes it and stands staring at her, adjusting the tie-belt of his dressing-gown. She says, ‘But I wasn’t to blame for the big blackout in 1965. You were so sure it was me. But then you saw in the papers that it was someone who forgot to shove in a plug or put on a switch or something when he went off duty. So you see, you can be wrong about me, Paul. You can make mistakes. You can be mistaken about anything.’

He goes to the kitchen with the coffee-pot and can be heard speaking to Garven. Their voices can be heard, conversing there. The words are indiscernible but the sounds are of an unusual accord. It is like the conversation of men who have shared a house for years and are used to each other’s ways; the tones of voice do not reach very high or low registers; there is here and there a little force behind a phrase, as of indignation or resentment, quickly followed by an equal, altogether acquiescent response. The voices lower, as in confidential exchanges. It is like the distant sea. The voices trail away as in reciprocal exasperation. Elsa, in the drawing-room, trails her shadow in the morning light, to the telephone table. She sits beside it, staring reflectively, and when Garven and Paul arrive with the coffee, wearing on their faces identical expressions, they find her in that position.

Garven carries a tray on which are a plate of curly buns, a dish of butter, a dish of marmalade, three breakfast plates and an extra coffee-cup and saucer. Paul carries the percolator.

‘I’m going to have my breakfast here with you,’ Garven says. ‘We have to talk.’

‘Would you mind fetching a duster?’ Elsa says. ‘The phone’s dirty. Black marks round all the numbers. You have to remember to dust in between the crack with the edge of the cloth. It looks awful.’

Paul puts out one hand reassuringly towards Garven and with the other hand removes his clean white handkerchief from his pocket and gives it to Elsa. ‘Clean it with this,’ he says.

She slides the

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