A medley of complaints burst out of Marion. She began to talk about sexual harassment, about the bottom- pinchers in the supermarkets, about the men who gave her trouble on the streets because of her blond hair. As she talked, her eyes began to shine, and a look of thrilled fear grew on her face. She must have learned that look in Africa; terrorists, rabies, armed robbers, are the subjects for morning sherry parties. “And besides,” she said, “he says that when we finish here we’re not going home to the UK. He says we’re emigrating to Australia. He says Britain’s finished. I don’t think it’s finished, do you, Frances?”
By the time Marion had got through her grievances a half hour had gone by. Her little voice was a victim’s voice, but her fingers, like a murderer’s, shredded and twisted and tore. “I don’t know what I’d do without Jeff,” she said. “He helps me out such a lot. He runs the girls to Brownies. He unblocked the lavatory for me last week. You know Russel, he won’t do anything like that.”
Frances said, “I can’t stand Jeff.”
“Can’t you?” Marion said wonderingly. “Why ever not?”
Frances said, “He’s such a fascist, that’s why.” She was ashamed of herself, but it was a way of bringing the conversation to an end.
She pitied Marion. Her thick pallid skin never colored and never burned; between her large arms and legs, almost as an afterthought, was a thick-waisted child’s body. Her clothes, even when designed to be voluminous, seemed ridiculously small and tight; she was prone to allergies and rashes, to swollen lips, swollen eyelids, conjunctivitis. Her husband was a bully, and her two daughters were petulant, demanding children, who had learned their mother’s habit of sniffling when thwarted. Frances felt, and was ashamed of herself for feeling, that compared to Marion she was quite glamorous; and that she was witty, and lucky, and sane. But perhaps, she thought, Marion feels just the same about me.
Marion stood up, and a cascade of shredded Kleenex slid to the carpet. Her eyes were pinkish and her nose shone. “But I’ve got it off my chest,” she said. They went out together to the gate. Marion glanced up at the building; Samira had her blinds down, and so of course did Flat 4. “You know what goes on up there, don’t you?” she asked, managing a miserable smile.
“Yes.”
“See much of your neighbors?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Don’t tell anybody, will you?” Marion took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and mopped her eyes again. “Don’t tell anybody what I’ve been saying about Russel. They don’t like to know that people are unhappy. It could jeopardize his job.”
“Who doesn’t like to know?”
“The Saudis,” she said. “They like people to be, you know, just like robots.”
“Come to dinner,” Frances said. “Will you? Wednesday week? Can you manage that?”
“I think so,” Marion said, sniffing.
Frances went indoors, out of the splashy yellow sunshine and into the cool and the dark. She thought, I wish I had a kinder heart.
When Andrew came home he was carrying two large plates covered by paper napkins. He said, “Rickie Zussman stopped by the office.”
“I seem to hear his accents.”
“True,” Andrew said. “I mean he dropped in. He called on me. I suppose I am getting a bit American. I’ve spent the morning talking to one of the Corps of Engineers people. You know, they run the missile base. Unofficially.”
“I thought you had nothing to do with the missile base.” Frances lifted a corner of one of the napkins. “Oh, it’s Carla’s banana bread.”
“And her pumpkin pie. No, I don’t have anything to do with it really. I’m just being nosy.”
“I suppose she spent a day baking, and then when we didn’t turn up she didn’t know how to get rid of it. They’re both on diets.”
“All the
“It’s guilt,” Frances said. She remembered Yasmin’s sly question: you know of guilt? “They feel bad because they’re making so much money. They want to punish themselves a bit.”
“Do you think that’s it?”
“Yes, it’s like those people who go on fasts and give their lunch money to Oxfam. Religion without God.”
She took the plates from Andrew and carried them into the kitchen. He followed. “I wonder if Carla would mind,” she said, removing the napkins, “if I gave this stuff to Yasmin and Samira. Samira sent me some stuffed vine leaves yesterday. I’m in debt.”
“It would be a cross-cultural experience for them,” Andrew said. “Are we always going to carry on this food exchange?”
“Oh, it’s a harmless hobby. Food’s the only thing we can talk about without running into a lot of misunderstandings. By the way—”
“Put the kettle on, will you?” Andrew said.
“I was thinking about the empty flat. Is it supposed to be one woman the chap’s seeing, or several?”
“Only one, I think.”
“Oh, this disgusting water,” Frances said. “It’s furring the kettle up. What I wondered is, why don’t they just both get divorced. Divorce is easy here. So I’m told.”
“I don’t know.” Andrew is baffled by how simple life sometimes seems to his wife. “There could be all sorts of reasons. There might be family connections at stake.” Or what emotional complexities in the background, he
