Blaming (Virago Modern Classics) Read Online Free
Author: Elizabeth Taylor
Before she went back to her postcards, she glanced across at Nick. Martha wondered, too, about this everlasting wifely watchfulness. On the whole, she had disliked the marriages she had studied.
Nick was reading her book about Byzantine art. On the flyleaf was written, “Dear Martha, I’ll miss you. Love, Simon.” He and Amy had discussed this, for they couldn’t place Martha, though were less occupied with her than she with them. The three of them, knowing nothing of one another, were cast together by their language and nothing else.
Even in that stupid cardboard hat he was handsome, Martha thought. The fleshy fold under his eyes denoted sensuality, and she had never, never been wrong about that, she was sure. His hair was thick, going grey. There was an arrogance about the deep lines from nostrils to mouth, and in the set of his lips. And yet he bites his nails, she thought. They were cropped right down. Absorbed in his reading, he put his forefinger between his teeth, then quickly stuffed his hand in his pocket.
Now some people were dancing – the Alexandrian woman on her own in a space near the band, doing a sort of belly dance, with arms raised and bracelets shaking. Wives looked at her with hostility. But they were all participants in the festive occasion, wore their carnival hats, clapped at the end of each piece of music this assorted audience from Beirut, from Italyand France and Switzerland. The rich family from Saudi Arabia clapped most and enjoyed themselves greatly. Only the three English-speaking passengers had retreated, and were not thought better of for doing so.
It occurred to Nick that perhaps he had retreated too much into his book. He closed it reluctantly and said, his voice placidly expectant, “Tomorrow, Mosques.”
“Why I can’t tell you…” Martha began eagerly. But what she couldn’t tell them no one ever discovered, for Nick, with an altered look about him as if he had been struck blind, put out a groping hand to the table and tried to rise.
“Hot,” he said, and then, attempting by a great effort to be social, added, “Damn music.”
Amy was at his side in a flash. With Martha’s help, they went out through a glazed door onto the deck. Nick leaned over the rail for a while in silence, and Amy watched him, saying nothing. Martha, a little apart, looked at all the lighted traffic on the vast stretch of water, the ferries, still crowded, coming and going between the shores. But it was not warm out here, and soon Nick said that he would go to their cabin. He pressed Amy’s hand against the rail, silently asking her to stay where she was.
“Is he ill?” Martha asked, when he had gone.
“Has been. Very.”
“Perhaps came away too soon.”
“Perhaps.” Very taut this conversation. Amy put up her small hands and rather wearily parted her hair from her brow. “Shall be glad in a way to be home.Get back to being ordinary. He might be happier working again.”
“What sort of work?”
“He’s a painter.”
Sometimes, people who knew that she wrote but had never heard of her books, asked Martha if she did so under her own name. She would not make that kind of mistake with Amy, who must know by now that neither she nor Nick had heard of each other. He had his incuriosity as a painter, and she her chameleon quality.
2
“Tomorrow, Mosques,” he had said, and he came to breakfast in happy anticipation; had slept well, looked better. Amy looked just the same as yesterday.
For this first day of their friendship, instead of coming across one another by chance, the three of them stayed together by arrangement.
Nick listened to the French-speaking guide and interpreted for Martha. She found his enthusiasm infectious. Amy did not.
The oppressive, dark weather, the noise of the city, the trudging and bussing about had brought her to snapping point. She was tired of being herded, of listening to foreign languages. And now there were two who got left behind and lost, and
Nick was reading her book about Byzantine art. On the flyleaf was written, “Dear Martha, I’ll miss you. Love, Simon.” He and Amy had discussed this, for they couldn’t place Martha, though were less occupied with her than she with them. The three of them, knowing nothing of one another, were cast together by their language and nothing else.
Even in that stupid cardboard hat he was handsome, Martha thought. The fleshy fold under his eyes denoted sensuality, and she had never, never been wrong about that, she was sure. His hair was thick, going grey. There was an arrogance about the deep lines from nostrils to mouth, and in the set of his lips. And yet he bites his nails, she thought. They were cropped right down. Absorbed in his reading, he put his forefinger between his teeth, then quickly stuffed his hand in his pocket.
Now some people were dancing – the Alexandrian woman on her own in a space near the band, doing a sort of belly dance, with arms raised and bracelets shaking. Wives looked at her with hostility. But they were all participants in the festive occasion, wore their carnival hats, clapped at the end of each piece of music this assorted audience from Beirut, from Italyand France and Switzerland. The rich family from Saudi Arabia clapped most and enjoyed themselves greatly. Only the three English-speaking passengers had retreated, and were not thought better of for doing so.
It occurred to Nick that perhaps he had retreated too much into his book. He closed it reluctantly and said, his voice placidly expectant, “Tomorrow, Mosques.”
“Why I can’t tell you…” Martha began eagerly. But what she couldn’t tell them no one ever discovered, for Nick, with an altered look about him as if he had been struck blind, put out a groping hand to the table and tried to rise.
“Hot,” he said, and then, attempting by a great effort to be social, added, “Damn music.”
Amy was at his side in a flash. With Martha’s help, they went out through a glazed door onto the deck. Nick leaned over the rail for a while in silence, and Amy watched him, saying nothing. Martha, a little apart, looked at all the lighted traffic on the vast stretch of water, the ferries, still crowded, coming and going between the shores. But it was not warm out here, and soon Nick said that he would go to their cabin. He pressed Amy’s hand against the rail, silently asking her to stay where she was.
“Is he ill?” Martha asked, when he had gone.
“Has been. Very.”
“Perhaps came away too soon.”
“Perhaps.” Very taut this conversation. Amy put up her small hands and rather wearily parted her hair from her brow. “Shall be glad in a way to be home.Get back to being ordinary. He might be happier working again.”
“What sort of work?”
“He’s a painter.”
Sometimes, people who knew that she wrote but had never heard of her books, asked Martha if she did so under her own name. She would not make that kind of mistake with Amy, who must know by now that neither she nor Nick had heard of each other. He had his incuriosity as a painter, and she her chameleon quality.
2
“Tomorrow, Mosques,” he had said, and he came to breakfast in happy anticipation; had slept well, looked better. Amy looked just the same as yesterday.
For this first day of their friendship, instead of coming across one another by chance, the three of them stayed together by arrangement.
Nick listened to the French-speaking guide and interpreted for Martha. She found his enthusiasm infectious. Amy did not.
The oppressive, dark weather, the noise of the city, the trudging and bussing about had brought her to snapping point. She was tired of being herded, of listening to foreign languages. And now there were two who got left behind and lost, and
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