And Who Will You Be?

“I started telling him about the letters. He asked me to clear away the papers, because the painting’s beauty could only be appreciated by candlelight. I cleared them away. He lit the candles. I said, ‘Intriguing.’ And waited until I could go on.”

But Felix wanted to tell her how he had found the painting, how he had haggled, why the artist had chosen that particular light. He kept addressing her, waiting for an answer, while Madeleine had just remembered where she had seen the date she needed, and reached into her bag for her notes. Something in his voice made her look up.

“He said he might as well have had dinner with the frame. At least it wasn’t rummaging about. I told him the frame would suit him perfectly: it was gilded too, and just as incapable of listening.”

“But he wanted to…”

“I know. I know now. At the time I thought he was deliberately stopping me from speaking.”

Madeleine could hear that this was not quite fair. She still thought so now, in part. Felix could take up an entire evening and then be sincerely bewildered by her displeasure. Yet she was remembering something else: the way he had held the painting to keep it from sliding off the armchair, still waiting for Madeleine to look up from her bag.

“I could have listened too,” she said. “I just wanted so badly to be listened to that evening.”

Bonnie suggested an agreement: one evening for her letters, another for his interests. She began confidently, but fell silent herself when she met Madeleine’s eyes.

“I don’t want a timetable,” Madeleine said. “Sometimes I want to get carried away and forget the time. And for him to come and see what I’ve found. He can do it. He brings food because I’ve forgotten about it, sits down beside me…”

She did not finish. A little wine remained at the bottom of her glass; she did not want any more.

“He probably wants that too,” said Bonnie.

“Probably. But why do I always have to remember it?”

A late carriage rumbled past outside. Madeleine waited for the wheels to fall silent, but when she continued, her voice was quieter:

“I want to be looked after too. Without having to do everything right first. Just because. And I want to go somewhere on my own if it interests me. You do have to live your own life, don’t you? You can’t keep running round looking after another person.”

Bonnie looked at the tray, with the letters peeping out from beneath it.

“But what if they’re counting on you?”

“Sometimes he can spend an evening without me. And I can spend one without him. We probably ought to have learnt that by now.”

Madeleine was talking about her marriage; Bonnie imagined an evening when she had warned no one, made no list of tasks, given no explanation of where to find her. At first it felt pleasant. Then she began remembering whom she still had to give things to, and what they were.

Noticing that Bonnie was looking at the letters again, Madeleine regretted the long conversation. The girl had invited her to tea and been treated to the story of three failed marriages to the same man. Madeleine finished her wine and asked whether, in the garden, she might have washed all the goodness out of the apples along with the smoke. Bonnie laughed and began asking how long the water had stood between the trees.

At the door, Bonnie gave her guest a spare handkerchief and a slip of paper with the milliner’s address. Madeleine put them in her handbag, then asked for a pencil and another slip of paper.

“I’ll leave you Felix’s address,” she said, writing down the name. “You promised me a good doctor on the bridge, so I’ll leave you one too. You can talk to him when you’re feeling bad. Don’t wait until it gets unbearable. Just don’t tell him I praised him so much.”

Bonnie wanted to assure her that she had no need of a doctor, but Madeleine was already taking out a golden apple.

“Here. The boys promised energy and happiness. I can’t guarantee anything, especially after meeting the owner of the garden, but it is so beautiful. I still have two.”

“Then come again,” said Bonnie. “Without any adventures.”

“I won’t promise.”

Madeleine put on her broken hat, adjusted it in the mirror and left. Bonnie laid the slip with the doctor’s address beside the teapot. The flat still held the pleasant sense of someone else’s presence: an armchair pushed back, a teaspoon left on a saucer, a scent of perfume. She decided not to tidy anything away just yet.

* * *

That night, Bonnie took the letters out from under the tray. She answered the first request at once. For the second, she had to consult a list. She had already read the third over tea, but now could not remember what it asked.

This was happening more and more often. Over the last few weeks she had been leaving for the evening whatever she had not managed during the day, then waking before the alarm and beginning with the unfinished work. Even a successful festival meant more bills, returning fabrics, thank-you letters, a promise to meet and discuss the next one. During the festival itself, she felt happy. Afterwards, she had to muster her strength for the simplest things: taking off her shoes, eating, getting to bed.

Today she had managed to eat and to laugh her fill. Why did she still have no strength left for the third letter?

“You can’t keep running round looking after another person.”

She wrote, “Tomorrow, unfortunately…” and stopped. A blot remained on the sheet: the pen had touched the paper for too long. If she could not come, they would ask someone else. Or manage on their own.

That morning, Bonnie had left her Interpreter on the long table and asked it to save the discussion of the final preparations for the festival: she had needed to go and sort out the delivery of the flowers. Afterwards, there had been no time all day to watch it.

She picked up the wand. Now she would see. Perhaps Madeleine was right and nothing terrible happened when she was away.

An image appeared above the table: a window on the left, the edge of a board, three people, one half-hidden behind someone else’s shoulder. The person behind the shoulder remained out of sight even when he spoke.

“Let’s divide everything up while Bonnie’s away,” one of the assistants was saying. “Or she’ll come back and decide we’re lost without her again. She’s wonderful, but she does need to be allowed a rest sometimes.”

“The tables would be better by the water,” said Brook.

“What about the wind? All the tablecloths will end up in the river.”

“Against the wall, then. Just leave a way through.”

The assistant drew the list towards her.

“I’ll take the tables. Who’s meeting the musicians?”

Bonnie sat with her cheek propped on her hand. The apple lay on a saucer beside her elbow. She picked it up without taking her eyes off the image, and bit into it.

They had settled it without her. No one had even suggested waiting for her to return. Bonnie went back to the point in the recording where they called her “wonderful”. Then back again, to the tables. They had left plenty of room to get through.

The apple was sweet, with a taste of cold air. She took another bite and tried to remember what she had been going to advise them. The tables really had been conveniently placed; she had seen that for herself today.

The image was blurring. Bonnie blinked and put the wand in its stand. It was good that they had managed. Now she could…

She just had time to lay the fruit on the saucer. Her cheek came to rest on her bent arm.

Chapter 2. A Peacock in a Storm

In her dream, Bonnie was in a garden where a long table had already been laid for lunch.

Familiar people had gathered there, although on waking she would not have been able to name them all. Cherry twigs lay between the cups; someone had brought warm bread, and the crust crunched so distinctly that Bonnie felt it against her own teeth. She stood to one side and saw herself at the table, wearing an old dress she had loved and had given away long ago. That other Bonnie was laughing at something, her head thrown back.

More plates were needed. Bonnie thought of this, but the plates were already being brought. A child dropped a spoon; the man beside the child picked it up. The wind tugged at the tablecloth, and someone held down the edge with a hand.

The other Bonnie saw all this. She sat there, breaking off pieces of bread.

They had not forgotten her: they pushed a dish towards her, asked her to tell a funny story, then interrupted because they knew a different version. An argument began at the table. Bonnie, standing to one side, wanted to object too, but the woman in the old dress was already saying exactly what she had been about to say. They laughed together.

The garden changed imperceptibly. Berries appeared on the branches, then the leaves turned yellow; a cup broke and was replaced by another. A strand of grey flashed in the hair of the woman at the table. The child who had dropped the spoon was now sitting in a different place, cutting a large pie. Bonnie felt no surprise and did not try to count the years. Everything was familiar, even what she had never seen.

An empty chair was pushed towards her. She sat down, no longer watching herself from outside, and stretched her legs out beneath the table. Warmth rose from the ground. She could listen to the end of the story: no one expected her to get up before the others.

Somewhere in the distance came a knocking. Bonnie decided someone else would answer.

Bonnie woke to a knock at the door.

The light was falling on the table from an unfamiliar direction. The creases of her sleeve had left her cheek feeling tight, and her numb arm would not straighten. Bonnie moved her fingers and watched them bend. Then she ran a hand over her cheek. The room smelled of yesterday’s tea, not the garden.

The knock came again. It was almost eleven by the clock.

She stood too quickly and caught hold of the edge of the table. She waited until everything stopped swaying, then went to answer the door. On the other side stood a boy from the festival team.

“Miss Bonnie, Brook said to tell you: the scenery’s been put away, we’ve had the bill from the town council, and the materials are locked up. And no one’s to bother you today. He particularly asked me to say that.”

“What about the lists?”

“Which lists?”

“For today. I promised to have a look.”

The boy thought for a moment.

“I don’t know. Brook said everything was done.”

Bonnie thanked him. He lingered, waiting for an errand, then ran down the stairs. She closed the door.

Someone laughed in the street. Bonnie went back to the window. The boy was already running across the road, jumping over puddles, and did not look back once. In the dream it had all happened so easily: she sat while the others managed. Now she wanted to stop him and ask him to check the lists again.

No one was angry. No one was asking where she had been. Perhaps even the letters she had meant to answer were no longer needed. At the table in the garden they had wanted her there without any task for her to do. Here, she did not even know how to fill the next hour. She poured herself some water just in case, although she was not thirsty.

“What if I disappeared altogether and never owed anyone anything again?”

Bonnie froze with the cup in her hand. The thought had come as matter-of-factly as a decision to cancel an appointment. That made it more frightening.

She put down the cup. Water splashed onto the slip beside the teapot. Bonnie picked it up automatically. Above a spreading line of ink, the words “Felix Renard” were still clearly legible.

You can talk to him when you’re feeling bad.

Bonnie sat down. She sat for a while, pressing the slip against her knee. Then she decided she had better wash first.

Washing proved difficult too: finding a towel, pouring water, getting her hair out of the way. Each time, a stretch of time passed between intention and movement. She looked in the mirror for a long time, unable to work out what she had not yet done, until she noticed yesterday’s paint beside her ear.

She could go. Just ask.

But he would not see her without an appointment. And if he did, someone would have to wait. There were people there who were really suffering; she could not turn up because she had slept through the morning and did not know what to do with herself. He would ask what had happened. What would she say? Everyone was doing their work well, no one had hurt her, she had spent the evening drinking wine with a pleasant woman, and now she was complaining?

She put the slip in her handbag, then took it out again. She sat down before she had finished fastening her dress.

She needed to eat. She would probably feel better afterwards. She broke off some bread and chewed it. She felt no better. She did not want to look at the letters, and immediately felt ashamed: only recently she herself had been delighted that people came to her.

Bonnie picked up the top envelope to finish her reply after all. On the back she found the note she had made yesterday: “Musicians—ask Madeleine”.

She remembered the stag with the woman on its antlers.

Felix and Madeleine had never really talked it through, had they? Each had expected the other to guess. If she met him, carefully found out… Not arrange a dinner, no. Just see whether there was anything she could do to help.

Bonnie raised her head. That would give her a reason to leave the house. She did not have to talk about herself straight away. She would drop in briefly, pass on Madeleine’s regards. Then she would see.

She fastened her dress and put up her hair. The slip went back into her handbag. Already at the door, Bonnie turned back for it, although it was in there; she had to open the bag and make sure.

Outside, she walked slowly towards the clinic. Twice on the way she almost turned back. Both times she remembered Madeleine.

* * *

Felix saw his patients in a separate wing of the clinic. Outside were pale stone, trimmed shrubs and a brass plaque; beyond the door began burgundy, green and gold. In the waiting room, Bonnie stopped before a painting: a peacock had spread its tail against a backdrop of a storm at sea and an ancient colonnade. She tried to find a spot where the peacock could have stood without getting its feet wet, but the receptionist was already asking whom she had come to see.

Bonnie gave the doctor’s name and immediately explained that she had no appointment. She could come back another day if he could not see her now. She had come on Madeleine Renard’s recommendation; it was only a small matter.

“Were you at yesterday’s festival?” the receptionist asked, brightening. “My granddaughter still has the paper sun hanging over her bed.”

Bonnie wanted to ask whether the fastening was holding properly. She opened her mouth and forgot what it was called.

The woman stopped smiling.

“Are you feeling unwell? Sit down for now. I’ll ask the doctor.”

Bonnie sat in an emerald armchair. The armrest was uncomfortable, and for some reason she felt relieved: here was something about which she could make a perfectly straightforward complaint. While she was thinking about this, the door opened.

Felix Renard was so handsome that the absurdity of his green waistcoat with its lilac flowers only became apparent at a second glance. He heard the receptionist out, looked at Bonnie a little more closely than she liked, and invited her in. The peacock was left behind him. There was no mistaking who had chosen the furnishings.

“I’m told you’ve come on Madeleine’s recommendation,” he said. “What’s happened?”

Bonnie began by saying how highly his former wife spoke of him. It helped her start talking. She explained that they had met the previous day, that Madeleine was a woman of great enthusiasms, and that it was probably difficult for both of them to find time for each other.

Felix stood at the desk, his hand still on the back of the chair.

“Forgive me, did she ask you to tell me this?”

“No. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

He sat down. Bonnie suddenly realised that going on to mention dinner would sound quite ridiculous.

“I was given your address,” she said. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“Tell me about it.”

She began with the day before: the festival, Madeleine, the wine, then the recording in the Interpreter. At the word “recording”, Felix paused a little, but asked only what was on it. Bonnie explained: the assistants were discussing the preparations, everyone was working, no one had said anything bad. She spoke faster and faster, as though she might get straight to the point where her visit would be justified.

“And this morning I thought I could disappear altogether. And never owe anyone anything again.”

He stopped her.

“When you say ‘disappear’, do you mean go away from everyone? Or die?”

Bonnie was looking at the flowers on his waistcoat. A stem broke off beside a button; she wanted to match up the two halves of the pattern.

“Die. I wasn’t going to… I didn’t do anything. I just thought it. And it frightened me.”

Felix asked whether she wanted to do that now, whether anything specific had occurred to her, whether she had made preparations to harm herself. He spoke plainly, without lowering his voice at the awkward words. Bonnie answered hurriedly at first, then more slowly. She had no plan and had taken no action; she did not want to die now, but was afraid of being left alone with that thought again. Nothing like it had happened to her before.

“I like being alive,” she said, and immediately regretted it: it sounded as though she was arguing with herself. “Yesterday we laughed. Really laughed. I wasn’t pretending.”

“I believe you. And I still want to understand what happened this morning.”

He asked how she slept, how long she had been finding work difficult, whether she had had similar periods before, who could stay with her today. When he heard about the apple and the sudden sleep at the table, he put down his pen. She had to go through it all again, in order: the wine, the fruit, the time she had woken. Bonnie was growing irritated: she had come because of what was going on in her head, and they were counting glasses and hours.

“I was getting tired before the apple.”

“That’s important. How long before?”

She had no precise answer. First there had been busy days, then weeks. She had stopped going anywhere just for the sake of it: if she went out, there was always something to be done. But she had felt happy at the festival itself, and yesterday with Madeleine too. Felix listened, sometimes asking her to go back to something she had skipped. Being tired every day and feeling the same thing all day turned out not to be the same answer.

“I’m not going to put everything down to the apple,” he said. “But drowsiness like that after an unfamiliar magical fruit also needs a medical examination. Don’t eat any more of it. Do you still have what’s left?”

She nodded. He went out briefly, made arrangements for the examination and asked for the next visitor’s appointment to be changed. Bonnie could hear his voice in the waiting room and was already thinking up an apology.

On returning, Felix put some water beside her and opened his notebook at a fresh page.

“Did you hear something hurtful on the recording?”

“No, I told you. They’re good people. They said I was wonderful and I needed a rest. I even listened to it twice.”

“At first I wanted to write to them about the tables,” Bonnie went on. “Then I watched the rest. They noticed everything and moved them themselves.”

She ran a finger along the wet mark left by the glass.

“They didn’t even need me.”

“Did it hurt that they hadn’t asked your advice?”

“I told them myself not to wait for me over every little thing! Do you think I want them to ruin everything when I’m not there?”

Felix looked up from his notebook.

“No. I asked that badly. Try explaining it yourself.”

Bonnie had been ready to defend her assistants, and now did not know what to do with the indignation she had set in motion. She drank some water. It was warm.

“I wanted someone to ask when I was coming back. Not because of the tables. Just to ask.”

Felix wrote nothing down.

“And when I was sitting with Madeleine, I was happy no one was calling for me. As soon as she left, I felt hurt. Even though they hadn’t…”

Bonnie fell silent, pushing the glass away in vexation.

“You don’t have to bring me evidence of their bad behaviour,” he said.

Bonnie gave a brief smile and immediately stopped. She liked organising festivals. She liked the way people at first did not understand the idea, then began arguing and coming up with ideas of their own; the way someone who had come for half an hour stayed right to the end. She began talking about it, grew absorbed, and almost forgot what she was explaining. Then she remembered.

“Only don’t tell me I do it all for praise.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Bonnie was silent for a while. Felix waited.

“It’s just, if I’m happy to see them, why do I feel bad when they’re happy without me?”

“I don’t know yet. One recording isn’t enough to answer that.”

Felix returned to her ordinary days. This time she did not reel off her tasks one after another: she paused, trying to remember when she had found time to eat, what she had put off until night-time, what she could have turned down. Before yesterday evening, she had gone almost a week without sitting and doing nothing with anyone. An evening at home had proved no rest either: she had worked through bills until late at night.

“I asked about rest, not your address,” Felix remarked when she said again that she had not gone out.

Bonnie gave a short laugh. Then she admitted that she herself did not know how to say no while she was still able to help. If she said she was tired, people would start worrying, cancelling things, rearranging them. She would have to explain that it was not so bad. It was easier to say at once that it would not take long.

“But sometimes it really doesn’t take long,” she added stubbornly.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “Let’s look at one instance. Not all of them at once.”

She chose yesterday’s letter about the lists, began explaining why they could not do without her, and discovered that she had not yet seen the lists herself. She fell silent. From the other end of the desk came the sound of pen touching paper.

“It’s the same with Madeleine,” Bonnie said. “She wants you to ask about her letters yourself. She feels awkward reminding you all the time, though of course she’d never admit it. You could…”

“Bonnie.”

She stopped.

“I am not going to discuss my marriage with you now.”

It sounded sharper than anything else he had said. Bonnie apologised at once and moved to the edge of her chair. Felix put down his pen.

“I’m not asking you to leave. Madeleine and I have a great deal of experience of separating. We’ll manage without your help today.”

She nodded, but was still sitting as though waiting to be dismissed.

“You can stay here without arranging anything for us,” he added.

Bonnie took out her handkerchief. She wanted to explain that she had not intended to bring them back together, only to meet him and understand. That was turning into too many untruths for one explanation.

“I’m not coping,” she said.

He did not answer straight away. He let her blow her nose and moved the water closer. Someone passed outside the door; Bonnie’s head shot up.