The Bay of Angels by Anita Brookner Page A

mother was barred from her own kitchen by this strange complicity, and sometimes breakfast was extremely late. But Adam in the kitchen was preferable to Adam in the salon, where he sat with his legs wide apart and an expression of amusement on his face. Simon’s attempts, initially at least, to make him feel at home, were unnecessary: Adam was at home, in a way that caused them great anxiety. They had given us separate bedrooms, but Adam made no pretence of staying in his, and came to me every night, although this caused me anxiety of a different kind. I could hear Simon’s steps in the corridor, patrolling his domain. Sometimes these steps slowed down outside my door: there would be a creak as I imagined him bending down to listen for illicit sounds. This horrified me, put him momentarily beyond the pale. I could not understand how he could behave like this. I did not know anything about the sexual jealousy of the old, who realize that their powers have gone for ever. I did not know the bitterness of this realization. My mother, so much younger, was aware of it. This made me angry and sad on her behalf, giving me an unwelcome insight into their private life. Fortunately Adam slept through that breathing, that unconscious humming, on the other side of our bedroom door. I, as ever, was wakeful, keeping watch. In the end they were as anxious for us to leave as we were to go.
    ‘Funny chap, your father,’ said Adam.
    ‘Stepfather.’
    ‘Whatever. I must say I’m rather glad you’re not related. Though I hardly see how you could be. He’s an old man.’
    ‘Not so old. On the wrong side of seventy, he always says.’
    ‘Seventy-five if he’s a day, even more, if I’m any judge. I feel sorry for your mother.’
    So did I. And it was the secret knowledge of what must have been my mother’s discomfort that drove me away from them for a while. The explanation for her absences in the afternoons, when Simon would expect her to lie down with him, now suggested itself to me. I resented the fact that I was thus made a party to their intimate life, though of course nothing had been said. I pitied my mother fiercely. Nor did I ever forgive Simon for introducing me to this fierce pity. I felt deep shame on my own behalf for the failure of the visit, though I did my best to counteract this by suggesting that we go on somewhere else. On the move, and safe from prying eyes and ears in modest hotels, we were once again comfortable and even happy. We went to various towns in the Rhône Valley, making our way towards Paris. When we arrived it seemed almost like summer. The chestnut trees were in blossom, the sun was shining, although the wind was still cool. We stood blinking in the sunshine after our night in the train. I felt happy, relieved to be away from Nice, romantically happy to be in Paris. It was in every sense conventional, but it promised much. I looked forward to spending these few days with Adam, walking, drinking wine, looking at pictures, buying books, before we had to return to London and our real lives.
    ‘Fix up somewhere for us to stay, would you? I’ll meet you back here for lunch. Twelve, no, twelve-thirty. That should give you enough time.’
    ‘But where will you be?’
    He said that he had promised to see a friend, though I was saddened by this announcement, as I had been by the way he slipped off to make telephone calls, even in Nice, even in Simon’s house, until discouraged by the latter’s disapproving silence at lunch. These calls were always unexplained: they seemed to be occasioned by my presence, for although we were happy together, he was, I think, exasperated by the constancy imposed on him. I accepted this, as I accepted everything. Besides, I was filled with shame at the memory of Simon’s watchfulness, his resentment at Adam’s presence in his house, and the easy way in which advantage was taken of its amenities. He even resented Adam’s familiarity with Mme Delgado, for it was clear that