The Intervention of a Good Man

6

In which our hero finds renewed hope.

In which our heroine shows signs of hesitation.

The car trundles along the small Scottish roads toward the hotel, the Glen Carron Park Hotel. He has not tired of saying its name, which has such a charming ring to it. Your hotel’s very nice, she concedes. I’d rather you called it our hotel, our hero manages ironically. Silence on the passenger seat. I’d also rather you went ahead and attached yourself with that, he adds, pointing at her seat belt which she is holding halfheartedly across her chest. Then he thinks about his choice of words and goes on, But I do know you have trouble getting attached. He smiles, she meekly fastens her seat belt.

We can see here that, yes, our hero is capable of smiling. In fact, from this point on and until notification is given to the contrary, the reader should only be picturing our hero with a smile on his lips. This smile may be ironic, genuine, seductive, amused, or sad, but he will not abandon it and give in to moody pouting. It is a question of dignity but also of survival.

They park in the hotel’s lot, the Nissan slips between two luxurious German sedans. They take the bike from the trunk, and she immediately crosses the road to secure it to a lamppost. The building is indeed very impressive. A two-story, brick-built coaching inn, looking delightful in the sunshine. A Virginia creeper sprawls over its walls, framing the bedroom windows. The spacious lobby with its marble flooring has an air of Mediterranean luxury.

Our heroine does not go with him, preferring instead to stay outside to have a cigarette. She smokes too much but our hero couldn’t give a damn if this affects the health of those around her. In order to get back to her as quickly as possible, he abandons his bags to the bellboy and simply makes a mental note of the room number. Because he feels his time is limited.

He looks around for her. Fails to see her right away. For a brief moment he thinks she has left, that he will never see her again. It would be absurd. But he now has his doubts about everything.

There is a lounge bar alongside the hotel and he suggests they have a drink on the terrace. She orders a glass of cider and he has sparkling mineral water. These details are of only minor importance, but every now and then it is appropriate for insignificant details to be given their full weight. It is a hot day, too. With a determined flourish, our hero opens an umbrella (Always Coca-Cola! shrieks the red canvas) and takes cover in its shade. He would loathe it if his scalp, whose capillary betrayals are already familiar to him, now started shining like a mirror.

Our heroine is reserved but has a lot to say. She talks and explains and hopes she is being persuasive. Her mother, whom she never sees enough, a few weeks, once or twice a year, her boyfriend, who is due to arrive soon and will be staying with her, and him, so incongruous in this place. She does not want her mother to guess, from her serial absences, that she is having an affair. More important, she does not want the Other, who knows nothing of her infidelity, to find out about it and possibly suffer as a result. He doesn’t deserve that, she adds.

Then she talks about her mother, at length. She tells such a sad and intimate story that he feels quite disarmed. He maintains his idiotically frozen smile even though there really is nothing to smile about. She points this out to him. He says he is very sorry, erases any trace of jollity from his face. He wishes he knew how to console her, how to leave her alone with her mother, alone with her family. He understands. Honestly.

They fall silent. She brings her cider up to her lips. The bitter taste surprises her, she makes a face.

But anyway, our hero says. I’m here now. What to do? She smiles. It is a pretty smile, it really is. Although he has never been an authority on women’s smiles and what they mean, our hero thinks to himself that no one can smile like that without feeling something. He responds with a different smile, of the happy variety. It all calls for a bit of sense and sensibility. If even Jane Austen says so, then it must be true.

He takes her hand.

She surrenders it to him.

For a moment.