Pitch Dark by Renata Adler

Author:Renata Adler [Adler, Renata]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 1590176146
Amazon: B008LNWHLI
Publisher: NYRB Classics
Published: 1983-03-19T07:00:00+00:00

After dinner, the men and the women separate briefly, to different bedrooms, the men downstairs, the women upstairs, the two places, apparently, where the bathrooms are. It is bitter cold in the upstairs bedroom, and there is something in its shabbiness, and perhaps in the fact that the windows are lined against drafts by sopping towels, which suggests a need, after all, of money in this house. And as Nicole, having shown us to the bathroom, goes downstairs, Iris suddenly turns to me and says, very softly and with real kindness, If for some reason, when you come back from London, you’d feel more comfortable staying with us, I mean with William and me, well, it’s only a small cottage, compared to the castle, or to this house, but we have an extra bedroom. I thank her. For some reason, we have been talking almost in a whisper. Nicole returns. We fall silent, and go downstairs. In the hall, outside the drawing room, conversation is desultory. Though Iris and William have also been saying goodbye, and putting on their coats, I am in fact the first to leave. They watch from the doorway, as I turn the car around in yet another narrow driveway. There is heavy rain, which turns to snow. By some miracle, I find my way back to the intersection with the main road. As I turn into it, the snow stops, the night is clear. I am worried that I will not find the Cihrbradàn turnoff, so I watch the road for any sign. There are no other cars at all. After several miles, however, there is just one car, coming toward me. We are on the straightaway, and the distance between us is at first considerable; but soon we are close, and no matter how far I pull over to the right, halfway up finally on the embankment, we seem nearer to collision. When we brake, both incredulous, to a halt, virtually headlight to headlight, I see that the man at the wheel of the other car is a priest. Until now, I had been proceeding, in the face of this inexplicable difficulty, almost entirely by instinct. As, of course, had he. And it is only when we brake to our unlikely halt, on the outer edge of a road, just before midnight, that it occurs to me in what way I have been wrong. I make gestures of apology, the priest nods, we back up, and I move to the correct side of the road. I arrive, without further incident, at the castle and my room.

I finish packing, take my things downstairs. As I pass the kitchen, there occurs to me the question of the tips. That is, though I have spent the entire evening trying to establish my intention to return from London before the car’s lease has even expired, there is now more than a strong possibility that, if I get safely out of Ireland, I shall not be coming back. Leaving tips, of course, implies that the departure is, in some sense, final.

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