Private House by Anthony Hyde Page A

was trying not to sound nosy—and trying all the harder because, really, she was. This Canadian woman, alone, in this city, was suddenly an object of interest, for a reason she couldn’t account for, not quite. But that was it: not quite . She was about what you expected, but not quite . Now Mathilde prompted, “The will . . . it’s not your husband’s?”
    Lorraine shook her head. “No, no. My husband died three years ago. And then we had a lawyer.” Mathilde thought she should probably say something, but really there was nothing to say that wasn’t banal. She waited. Lorraine finished her orange juice, and set down the glass. “But you’re right, he was a friend of my husband’s and mine. We were all at school together. University.”
    â€œAh, that’s interesting. It’s usual in France, you know, people keep in touch. But I didn’t think it was so common—” Mathilde had been going to say “in the United States,” but she caught herself—“in North America.”
    â€œI suppose it isn’t, really. Well, maybe it is, who knows . . .” The young man had slipped plates of fruit onto their table, and now Lorraine bit into a slice of watermelon, perfectly ripe. “Murray was studying geography—he became a town planner—and my husband was in economics—he worked for the Department of Finance most of his life, in the government—but we all loved poetry, which is what I was studying.”
    â€œSo you were the link?”
    â€œWell, not exactly. T. S. Eliot. He was our passion—although you’re right, I was the one studying him. But as well, Murray and my husband were both Anglican. We were all religious. I suppose that setus apart, then. The sixties. Well, not so much—not so much as people thought. I was more plebeian, an ordinary Protestant, but they converted me. The joke was, I was Tom’s disciple—meaning Tom Eliot’s, you see. But really I was theirs. My husband’s and Murray’s.” As she finished saying this, she put down the rind of the melon.
    Mathilde was astonished. Religion played no part in her life. It seemed extraordinary that she could be having a reasonable conversation with someone for whom it was important. And Lorraine instantly sensed this. She laughed. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes, I am. I admit it.”
    â€œWell, I don’t think you have to admit it.”
    Mathilde laughed too. “No. I didn’t mean it like that.” Then she added, “I just don’t believe.” Lorraine, hearing this, found herself thinking, She’s out of touch with belief. But she didn’t say this; she had no evangelical talent, and was glad of it. Instead she said, “Sometimes it was the religion of the poetry, sometimes it was the poetry of the religion, we were never sure.” Lorraine knew this was a silly thing to say, but she also knew it would help Mathilde through an embarrassing moment. She liked Mathilde. She was young, and she was beautiful. She had beautiful golden shoulders, as round as Priam’s apple, and a lovely, dark, impish face, except her nose was too big, though it was her nose that made her beautiful. And she was sympathetic. Intelligent, too: after considering a moment, Mathilde said, “English and French poetry are very different.”
    â€œThat’s true. But Eliot’s was very French. He even wrote some poems in French.”
    â€œBut, you know, what you say makes me think of Graham Greene—”
    â€œ All religion, very little poetry . . . although this is his city, isn’t it?”
    â€œAnd I’m wrong. He was a Catholic . . . which is different?”
    â€œOh, yes. We sometimes call ourselves Anglo -Catholics, Eliot usually did as a matter of fact. But it is different. No pope, and the priests can marry. Our priests can even be