A Private View Read Free Page B

he succumbedto pain or disability. He was hardy, he was free from immediate care, and he could afford to do as he pleased.
    But nothing pleased him. His life of effort, of self-denial, of regular if tardy rewards, seemed to him almost shameful: that thought again. Shame was an emotion left over from childhood, but it had kept him company throughout many a year, always easily stimulated, quick to spring to the fore. Now he felt shame for this undeserved leisure, this pointless interlude in the sun. He had fled London as quickly as he could after settling Putnam’s affairs; it had seemed to him then that nature might heal him, might remind him that growth and flowering were as possible as decline and decay. But he had encountered no nature worth speaking of in Nice, only mineral expanses, which, in their relative aridity, reminded him that he was without occupation. Perhaps that was the problem. He had had no time as yet to experience retirement, for his days had been filled with visits of a business nature, and with the sad task of disposing of Putnam’s effects. When almost all had been completed, and only the flat remained to be sold, he had simply lingered in his own flat long enough to pack a lightweight bag and take a cab to the airport. The sun, he had thought: the sun is the cure for sad thoughts. But although the sun was unvarying throughout the day, the onset of night was sharp and disconcerting, reminding him that sooner or later he must return home. Then what to do all day? He had no calls on his time, and very few extravagances to indulge. He could walk in the park, of course, go to concerts. There was always the London Library, although not being a scholar he always felt a little shy there. He would read; he had always read voluptuously, and yet he still sensed his mother’s withering eye onhim as he buried his head in a book in order to drown out the sound of his parents’ almost routine bickering.
    One thing was certain: he would not go mad. He had never been in the least unstable, was in fact almost comically sensible. Any fantasy in his outlook had been supplied by Putnam. With that gone he was on an unenviably even keel. He knew that the days would be long, and probably empty; he knew that in due course Louise’s telephone call would be the one fixed point in his life, but he also knew that he could and would endure his altered state, for was he not, when all was said and done, an extremely fortunate man?
    Except that contemplation of his good fortune filled him with distaste. All the forbearance, all the obedience, all the acceptance that had cast their shadow over his formative years now disgusted him. Why and how had he come to this, to this idle afternoon at the café table, out of everyone’s sight, with past contentment suddenly turned to ash? If he stayed here it was partly to avoid going home; if he lingered on this café terrace it was to delay the moment of going back to his hotel room. Confinement seemed to him tantamount to concealment, and he wanted his moment of visibility, wanted to be the focus of someone’s enquiry, wanted not to have to search for company. To all intents and purposes, to the waiter’s eye at least, an ordinarily impassive Englishman, he was filled with all the sadness of loss, not merely for Putnam, but for his whole past life, for his refusal of adventure, excitement, commitment. And now it was too late, for no one found excitement at sixty-five; no one was even attractive at sixty-five. No more women: the thought struck him as a blow, though he had never been careless with women’s feelings. There had been flirtations, the occasional sentimentalfriendship; above all there had been Louise, who had functioned as both wife and mother. There was still Louise, of course, but Louise belonged in essence to that past life which now seemed to him so distasteful. He sighed. At this, as if in answer to his sigh, the waiter came forward. Bland paid, added a tip. The waiter