fairish and not yet bald, with light fine silky rather faded straight hair. I have a bland diffident nervous sensitive face and thin lips and blue eyes. I do not wear glasses. I look considerably younger than my age.
«She's back,» I heard him say.
«What? Who's back? I do not understand you.»
«Christian's back. He's dead. She's back.»
«Christian.»
This was the name, not pronounced now in my presence for very many years, of my former wife.
I opened the door wider and the person on the step, whom I now recognized, slipped, or dodged, into the flat. I retreated into the sitting-room, he following.
«You don't remember me.»
«Yes, I do.»
«I'm Francis Marloe, you know, your brother-in-law.»
«Yes, yes-«As was, that is. I thought you should know. She's a widow, he left her everything, she's back in London, back in your old place-«Did she send you?»
«Here? Well, not exactly-«
«Did she or didn't she?»
«Well, no, I just heard through the lawyer. She's back in your old place! God!»
«I see no need for you to come-«So she's written you? I wondered if she'd have written you.»
«Of course she hasn't written to me!»
«I thought of course you'd want to see her-«I don't want to see her! I cannot think of anyone I less want to see or hear of!»
I shall not attempt here to describe my marriage. Some impression of it will doubtless emerge. For the present story, its general nature rather than its detail is important. It was not a success. At first I saw her as a life-bringer. Then I saw her as a death-bringer. Some women are like that. There is a sort of energy which seems to reveal the world: then one day you find you are being devoured. Fellow victims will know what I mean. Possibly I am a natural bachelor. Christian was certainly a natural flirt. Sheer silliness can be attractive in a woman. I was, of course, attracted. She was, I suppose, a rather «sexy» woman. Some people thought me lucky. She brought, what I detest, disorder into my life. She was a great maker of scenes. In the end I hated her. Five years of marriage seemed to have convinced both of us of the utter impossibility of this state.
However, shortly after our divorce Christian married a rich unlettered American called Evandale, went to live in Illinois, and as far as I was concerned disappeared forever.
There is nothing quite like the dead dull feel of a failed marriage. Nor is there anything like one's hatred for an ex-spouse. (How can such a person dare to be happy?) I cannot credit those who speak of «friendship» in such a context. I lived for years with a sense of things irrevocably soiled and spoiled, it could give suddenly such a sad feel to the world sometimes. I could not liberate myself from her mind. This had nothing to do with love. Those who have suffered this sort of bondage will understand. Some people are just «diminishers» and «spoilers» for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler. Most of one's acquaintances however can be blessedly forgotten when not present. Out of sight out of mind is a charter of human survival. Not so Christian, she was ubiquitous: her consciousness was rapacious, her thoughts could damage, passing like noxious rays through space and time. Her remarks were memorable. Only good old America cured her for me in the end. I put her away with a tedious man in a tedious and very distant town and was able at last to feel that she had died. What a relief.
Francis Marloe was another matter. Neither he nor his thoughts had ever been important to me, nor as far as I could see to anyone. He was Christian's younger brother, treated by her with indulgent contempt. He never married. After lengthy trying he qualified as a doctor, but was soon struck off the register for some irregularity in the prescription of drugs. I learnt later with abhorrence that he had set up in business as a self-styled «psychoanalyst.» Later still I heard he had taken to drink. If I had been told that he had committed suicide I should have heard the news without either concern or surprise. I was not pleased to see him again. He had in fact altered almost beyond recognition. He had been a slim tripping blond-haloed faun. Now he looked coarse, fat, red-faced, pathetic, slightly wild, slightly sinister, perhaps a little mad. He had always been very stupid. However at that moment I was not concerned about Mr. Francis Marloe, but about the absolutely terrifying news which he had brought me.
«I am surprised that you felt it your business to come here. It was an impertinence. I don't want to know anything about my ex-wife. I finished with that business long ago.»
«And don't called me 'Brad.' I'm catching a train.»
«I won't keep you for a moment, I'll just explain, I've been thinking-yes, I'll make it snappy, just please listen to me, please, I beseech you-Look, it's this, you see you're the first person Chris will be looking up in London-« What?»
«She'll come straight to you, I bet, I intuit it-«Are you completely mad? Don't you know how-I can't discuss this-There can be no possible communication, this was utterly finished with years ago.»
«No, Brad, you see-«Don't call me 'Brad'!»
«All right, all right, Bradley, sorry, please don't be cross, surely you know Chris, she cared awfully for you, she really cared, much more than for old Evans, she'll come to you, even if it's only out of curiosity-«I won't be here,» I said. This suddenly sounded horribly plausible. Perhaps there is a deep malign streak in all of us. Christian certainly had more than her share of sheer malignancy. She might indeed almost instinctively come to me, out of curiosity, out of malice, as cats are said to jump onto the laps of cat-haters. One does feel a certain curiosity about an ex-spouse, a desire doubtless that they should have suffered remorse and disappointment. One only wants bad news. One wants to gloat. Christian would yearn to satisfy herself of my wretchedness.
Francis was going on, «She'll want to show off, she's rich now, you see, sort of merry-widow style, she'll want to show off to her old friends, anybody would, oh yes, she'll be sniffing after you, you'll see, and-«
«I'm not interested,» I cried, «I'm not interested!»
«You are interested, you know. Why if ever I saw an interested look on a bloke's face-«Has she got children?»
«There you are, you are. No, she hasn't. Now I've always liked you, Brad, and wanted to see you again, I've always admired you, I read your book-«Which book?»
«I forget its name. It was great. Maybe you wondered why I didn't turn upя?
«No!»
«Well, I was bashful, felt I was small fry like, but now with Christian turning up it's-You see, I'm in debt up to the neck, lave to keep changing my digs and that-Now Chris sort of paid ic off, you might say, some time back, and I thought that if you Chris were likely to get together again-«You mean you want me to intercede for you?»
«Sort of, sort of-«Oh God!» I said, «Get out, will you?» The idea of my prising money out of Christian for her delinquent brother struck me as unusually lunatic even for Francis.
«And, you know, I was knocked when I heard she was back, it's a shock, it changes a lot of things, I wanted to come and chew it over with somebody, for human interest like, and you were natural-I say, is there any drink in the house?»
«Just go, will you please.»
«I intuit she'll want you, want to impress you and that-We broke down in letters, you see, I was always wanting money, and then she got a lawyer to stop me writing to her-But now it's like a new start, if you could just sort of ease me in, bring me along like-«
«You want me to pose as your friend?»
«But we could be friends, Brad-Look, is there anything to drink in the house?»
«No.»
The telephone began to ring.
«Go away, please,» I said, «and stay away.»
«Bradley, have a heart-«Out!»
He stood before me with that air of revolting humility. I threw open the sitting-room door and the door of the flat. I picked up the telephone in the hall.
Arnold Baffin's voice was on the wire. He spoke quietly, rather slowly. «Bradley, could you come round here,
