Hidden Faces

I

It was a cold, clear night. There was a splash of light above the entrance to the café, and across the cobbles taxi drivers sat picking their teeth in empty cabs waiting for fares.

Bannerman was dour, silent, as he crossed the square, weighed down still by the memory of the child. The bleakness of her face as he drove her back to the clinic had haunted him all through his solitary meal in some anonymous restaurant after he had left her. And now, his meeting with Sally on this dark, Brussels night, and he wondered why he felt it would be their last.

She was waiting for him at the bottom end of the square, her face pale and sad when they met and then flushing quickly in the sudden warmth of the café as they stepped inside. Neither of them had spoken.

The café was Eastern European, run by a small, fat exile from Communism. A four-piece Hungarian orchestra played in the light of the candles that burned dimly on the tables. A pianist who never smiled sat at a grand piano, and a tall thin creature wrestled with a double bass. The clarinetist sat on a high chair by the piano and a gaunt, middle-aged man stood out front by a microphone which hung by its lead from the rafters, and he played haunting melodies on his violin. The music was soft and pleasant, and stepping into this place was like stepping into the past.

The tables were of rough-hewn wood and the stools hard and uncompromising. The stone walls were whitewashed and a wooden staircase led to a gallery where there were more tables. People leaned on the wooden rail and gazed down on the orchestra, their faces flickering in the candlelight, tiny mobile pinpoints of light shining in their eyes.

Bannerman and Sally sat at a table by the big window that looked out on the Place du Grand Sablon, and though the café was busy they felt safe and anomymous in its darkness. A waiter with a black shirt and trousers and a white napkin over his arm came to take their order. Sally’s face brightened. ‘You must try their speciality,’ she said. And to the waiter, ‘Deux thés Slaves.’

Bannerman looked around. The clientele was mostly middle-aged. There were one or two young couples holding hands below tables and watching the orchestra or gazing at each other as though they had just discovered love for the first time and it was unique to them.

‘The place never closes,’ Sally said. ‘Open twenty-four hours a day. I used to come in for a drink sometimes after college and sometimes after babysitting for Tania.’ She was talking for the sake of talking. ‘On Sundays the square is used as a market for the antique dealers. You can see the antique shops across the other side there, and on Sundays there are stalls set out right up to the church.’

Bannerman smiled and reached for her hand. ‘You don’t have to talk,’ he said.

She took a deep breath and tried to smile. This was so difficult for her. She said, ‘I think, perhaps, I could love you, Neil. I don’t really know, but I think it might be worth a try.’ He felt her hand tighten around his. ‘It’s been too easy just to put it off, not to think about it. But now I’ve got to decide, haven’t I?’

‘I thought you already had. I thought you were going tomorrow.’

The violinist had begun to wander among the tables and he stopped now at theirs and played for them. It seemed as though all the eyes in the café were on them. Bannerman looked up at him and shook his head almost imperceptibly, but the maestro did not miss it. He was too experienced. He smiled and moved away to the next table. Sally’s smile was strained. ‘God, it’s embarrassing when that happens.’ She hesitated, then for the first time faced him with it. ‘Help me, Neil. Please. If I only knew how you felt. If... if you wanted me to, I’d stay.’

There had been a time when she had vowed never to make that kind of commitment again. To any man. And she remembered the horror of that night before the wedding. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Just that. ‘I’m sorry.’ And there had been the tears, the humiliation of turning away all those people who’d travelled for the wedding. Sending back the presents. The embarrassment of her friends who didn’t know what to say to her. The false comfort of the relatives who told her they never liked him anyway.

But things had changed. She was thirty-two now. Ahead of her lay a lifetime of loneliness. And with Bannerman, somehow, it seemed different in a way that had caught her off balance. Yet she hardly knew him and within her still lay the seeds of doubt and mistrust sown that night three years before. But maybe, just maybe, it would be worth trying.

The thés Slaves arrived in glasses wrapped around with paper napkins, a mixture of tea and some kind of spirit that the waiter set alight at their table. The flames licked up over the rims of the glasses, soft and warm. Bannerman looked across the table at Sally’s downturned face. The flames softened it and he thought she looked almost beautiful. He felt a tremendous weight of responsibility. It would be too easy to say yes, he wanted her to stay. But he knew she would make demands on him that he was not sure he was capable of fulfilling. And his was the kind of life into which love did not fit easily. There was a place inside him, big and empty, that needed it badly. But in that way he was like Tania. It was so often those who needed love most who were the most difficult to love. And what kind of life could he give her? ‘It’s not for me to say,’ he said, knowing that he didn’t want her to go. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’ He blew blew out the flames in their glasses. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’ And he thought what an empty son of thing it was to say.

They lifted the scalding liquid to their lips and drank it in tiny sips. It was strong, and the spirit filled their mouths like a cold breath before slipping, burning, over their throats to bring a real glow to their insides. She stared into her glass. ‘Is that just a roundabout way of saying that you don’t want me to stay?’ Bannerman said nothing. If that was what she wanted to think then perhaps it would be easier for her. Then suddenly she said, ‘I’d like to spend just one night with you, Neil. Something...’ she hesitated, ‘to remember you by.’

So, she had decided and he knew now that it was beyond recall. He was going to say he didn’t think it would be a good idea, but a voice cut in before he could speak.

‘Well, Mr. Bannerman, isn’t this a surprise. Come on, Henry. You don’t mind if we join you, Mr. Bannerman?’ Mrs. Schumacher sat herself down without waiting for his reply.

Bannerman turned in astonishment. Mrs. Schumacher grinned at him, her face flushed that way he had seen it at the party. She had been drinking. Behind her Henry Schumacher hovered apologetically. He nodded politely at Bannerman and the girl. ‘Perhaps they want to be alone, dear,’ he said tentatively.

‘Oh, nonsense, Henry, sit down.’ Then to Bannerman, ‘Well, Mr. Bannerman this is a real surprise. Aren’t you going to introduce us to your young lady?’ And confidentially, ‘My, you are a fast worker. Does she speak English?’

Bannerman smiled indulgently. ‘She is English. Miss Sally Robertson — Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher.’

Sally was taken aback by the sudden arrival of this garrulous American woman with her big bosoms and timid husband. She took a moment to collect herself. ‘How do you do?’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’

A waiter arrived promptly at the table and Mrs. Schumacher gave him a broad grin. ‘How are you tonight, Jean?’

‘I am very well, madame. Have you had a good night?’ His manners were impeccable. He looked almost as though he was genuinely interested in the reply.

‘Why, yes, Jean, as always. We took your advice about that little restaurant in the Grand Place. Exquisite.’

‘I’m very pleased, Madame. You will have a sherry?’

‘Well, yes. But just a very small one.’

‘And Monsieur?’

‘A small whisky, please.’

Jean bowed and dematerialised into the gloom.

Sally and Bannerman exchanged looks. ‘Actually we were just leaving,’ Bannerman said.

Schumacher leaped self-consciously to his feet to allow Sally out from behind the table.

‘Perhaps you would join us for a drink tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘We are going home on Sunday.’ He seemed so eager for their company that Bannerman was almost sorry to turn him down.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘That’s a pity,’ Mrs. Schumacher said. ‘Tomorrow’s our last day, and I would so have liked to hear all about the exciting world of newspapers. We’re flying back to Edinburgh on Sunday morning to spend another few days there before going back to the States. The folks back home would just have loved to hear all about it. It is The Times you work for, isn’t it?’

‘The Post. The Edinburgh Post.’

She frowned as the myth she had been building in her mind crumbled. She would no doubt rebuild it over the next few days. ‘Wasn’t it just terrible about that poor Mr. Griffin?’

‘Gryffe,’ Bannerman corrected her.

‘And to think we were speaking to him just the night before.’

‘Yes,’ Bannerman said. ‘Goodbye. I hope you have a good journey.’

‘Why thank you, Mr. Bannerman. Goodbye young lady.’

Schumacher shook his hand solemnly. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘If you should change your mind, about the drink I mean, give us a call. We’re at the Hotel Regent in the Avenue Louise.’

‘I’ll do that.’

And when they had gone Mrs. Schumacher said, ‘They haven’t even finished their drinks. He seems a very peculiar young man, doesn’t he. You don’t think he’s trying to avoid us do you?’

‘They struck me’ Schumacher said thoughtfully, ‘as two young people with rather a lot on their minds.’

II

Bannerman watched her undress in the moonlight that came in through the open shutters. The room was cold and he felt a shiver run through him. He knew this was a mistake. It would only make it all the more difficult afterwards. But he wanted her with every fibre of himself. ‘Let me,’ he said in the quiet.

She had slipped out of her jeans and panties and stood only in her tee-shirt. Bannerman ran his hands overs its intimate softness, over the swellings of her small, firm breasts, nipples hard and pouting. Then behind her, pulling her to him, feeling the smoothness of her buttocks and lifting the shirt up over her head. He dropped it on the floor and kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, seeking out every part of it. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

He undressed and lay down beside her and laid his hand on the soft mound of her pubis. There was a great tenderness in him and he kissed her softly on her breasts and on her belly and moved his hands about her body as though it were porcelain. She moaned softly and he felt her nails in his shoulders as he entered her. Her legs crossed over his back and he buried his head in her neck and smelled her perfume.

Afterwards they lay still for a long time, curled up in each other’s arms, each reluctant to be the one to make the break. Finally it was Bannerman who rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp, and they blinked in its sudden brightness. She pulled the sheet up over her and lay on her side watching him. ‘I wish...’ she said. But her voice trailed away and she never said what she wished.

But Bannerman could guess. ‘It probably wouldn’t have worked out,’ he said. ‘It’s probably as well that you’re going.’

And for the first time she knew for certain that he didn’t want her to go. But it was all too late now. They would go their separate ways though neither of them wanted it. Neither of them had had the courage to face the alternative.

She reached up and pulled his head down so that she could kiss him, taste him again, reassure herself about what had gone before. ‘It was so perfect,’ she whispered. ‘You and me. It’s never been like that before.’

Bannerman pulled away, rolling over on to his back and staring up at the ceiling. ‘Perfection,’ he said, ‘only comes once. It’s never the same a second time. You spend the rest of your life trying to recapture the illusion.’

She was silent then for a very long time. Finally she said in a strained, quiet voice, ‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you?’

He thought about it. ‘Yes. It probably means more to me than you’ll ever know. But that’s now. What it will mean next week, or next month, or next year — I don’t know.’ He sat up and fumbled for a cigar and lit it. She lay quite still. ‘A week ago’ he said, ‘there was no-one in my life. Now there are two people.’ He heard her head turn but he didn’t look. ‘You and the child,’ he said. ‘And you are leaving. Sometimes life is like that.’

‘Yes.’ Somehow that one word was the final acceptance of their parting, that whatever they might feel now there was no real future in it. Then she asked, ‘Does she mean that much to you? Tania?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

And he wanted to tell her. He knew that tomorrow she would go and it didn’t matter any more.

‘Somewhere,’ he made a vague gesture, ‘there is a child.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Not even a child any more. Almost a young woman. A part of me. My daughter.’ He turned to see her, but there was nothing in her face. ‘I’ve never seen her, not even a photograph. I would pass her in the street and not know.’

‘You were married?’

‘No, it was a girl, a long time ago. She was only seventeen. She worked in the same office where I had my first job in newspapers. I was eighteen. She was a shy girl. Didn’t know much about anything. Least of all sex. She thought she loved me, and maybe she did. I used to pretend that I loved her, even to myself. It was a kind of growing up game I played where I was sort of testing her, testing myself, playing with both our emotions to see what would happen. I was just a raw boy who thought the world had given him a pretty raw deal. Anyway, I took her virginity, hurt her. I led her into it when she really didn’t want to. I had to promise that I loved her, you know, the way kids do. And it was easy to say it; it’s always easy to say it when you don’t mean it.’

He paused to draw on his cigar and lost himself in thinking about it. All the detail, the finely etched memories that he would carry with him always. ‘And, she got pregnant and I thought my whole world had fallen in. I don’t think I thought too much about her. All about myself. I felt trapped. I tried to persuade her to get rid of it. But she wouldn’t. She just cried and her face went all red and blotchy and she said she would have to tell her parents. So I said I would marry her.’ Again he paused and he smiled to himself and shook his head sadly. ‘And you know, she turned me down. No great fuss or anything. She just said, no, she didn’t want to marry me. She would have the child and stay with her parents if they would have her. And still I only thought about myself. My first feelings were of confusion and hurt. She would rather go through the hell of being an unmarried mother than marry me. The mist was gone from her eyes and she saw me for what I was. A liar and a cheat. And then I thought, I’m free. I didn’t have to marry her, there’ll be no paternity suit. It lost me my job though. Word got around, the editor got to hear about it. He called me in and told me he didn’t want my kind on his staff and that I’d better start looking for another job. I was pretty sore at the time, but I got another job, in England. I heard later she’d had a baby girl, and then I lost contact. It didn’t seem to matter then. I was just glad that I’d escaped.’

His cigar had gone out and he reached for a match to relight it. ‘Then, well then I had time to think about it. The years pass and you get older and wiser and you become more aware of consequences. I find it difficult to reconcile myself now with what I was then. I ruined two lives. I soured a young girl’s attitude to sex, and I scarred her for all to see, as plainly as if I had taken a razor to her face. And I robbed a child of her right to a proper home, to the love of a father. I didn’t discover my own wounds until later. Perhaps not until now.’

The cigar had gone out again and he dropped it in the ashtray. He felt no better for having told her. What had he expected? And suddenly he felt embarrassed at having opened his soul to her. This was only making the moment of parting worse.

He rolled away and climbed out of bed, crossing to the window and standing naked in the darkness with his back to her.

‘Neil...?’ Her voice trailed after him.

‘You’d better go,’ he said, his voice muffled against the glass.

She rose and dressed slowly. He heard her moving about behind him. Then he heard the bedroom door opening and closing, and then the landing door shutting and there were footsteps echoing away down the stairs. When he could no longer hear them, he let his face rest against the cold glass and whispered, ‘Goodbye.’