And Who Will You Be?

“I’ve arranged it,” Felix said. “We have time.”

They talked some more. Bonnie would not afterwards have been able to repeat everything in order; but she remembered how he had asked her to repeat for herself what she would do if the dangerous thought returned. Not wait until the next appointment. Seek immediate help at the clinic, call someone she trusted; if she was not sure she could stay safe, not remain alone. They discussed who was available today and how to contact them. Bonnie remembered her friends: on this day of the week they usually gathered at one of their homes. She knew the address and could call in after the examination. Felix asked her not to stop at promising to drop in, but to tell someone plainly that she was finding it difficult to be alone just now.

Felix arranged the next appointment and wrote the time in large figures, because Bonnie had asked him to repeat it twice. She held the slip in her hands for a while.

“And what should I do until then? Apart from what we’ve agreed.”

He looked at her.

“You don’t have to put your whole life right before our next appointment. If you feel up to it, try one thing: before you help, ask whether help is needed. And if the answer is no, don’t immediately set about persuading them.”

“They might refuse out of politeness.”

“They might.”

Bonnie waited for him to continue. He did not.

“Then what?”

“You’ll have to survive their independence.”

She looked at the slip. The task only sounded short when he said it. She remembered the workmen by the paper sun, Madeleine’s hand on the envelope.

“What if someone’s drowning?”

“Rescue people who are drowning.”

Bonnie gave a little smile.

“So first find out whether the person is drowning.”

“And don’t call everything you’d like to put right a drowning. Afterwards, tell me how it went. If you couldn’t do it, tell me that too.”

At the door, she asked whether he had anything she should pass on to Madeleine. Felix looked at the sealed envelope at the edge of his desk.

“I meant to send it this morning,” he said. “If you see her. There’s no need to go looking for her specially.”

Bonnie took the letter. She wanted to ask whether it was personal, but put the envelope in her handbag without asking.

In the waiting room, the painted sea was still raging. Bonnie stopped in front of the peacock while the receptionist checked where she was expected for her examination.

“Do you like it?” asked Felix, who had followed her out.

She looked at him. She wanted to thank him, to say something pleasant, but he was waiting for an answer about the painting itself.

“No. I’m sorry, it’s dreadful.”

Felix cast his eyes over the canvas.

“Madeleine says that too. Absolutely no eye for colour.”

He adjusted the edge of the frame, although it was hanging straight. Bonnie thought of the woman with the harp stuck in the stag’s antlers, and barely kept from laughing. The doctor was already busy with his next visitor.

Chapter 3. Two Lemon Pastries

After the examination, Bonnie went to see her friends. Out in the street, she no longer had to stop before each new thing she did, as she had that morning. She straightened the twisted strap of her handbag, skirted a puddle, noticed that the bakery had changed its sign. She was still tired, but walking proved easier than sitting at home deciding whether to go out at all.

She paused on the stairs: laughter was coming through the door, and suddenly she no longer wanted to go in. She would have to smile. Or, worse still, someone would ask what was wrong, and they would all fall silent.

The door opened before she had time to ring. Her hostess was carrying out an empty tray.

“Bonnie! We thought you were busy.”

“I won’t stay long. I thought you might have some tea left.”

She was taken by the arm and led into the room. They moved an armchair for her and found a cup with an unbroken handle. The friend opposite pushed the plate of cherry pie towards her and asked for the story to be told from the beginning: Bonnie simply had to hear it.

It turned out that someone’s mother-in-law had arrived a day early and found two visiting musicians in her own bedroom.

“Were they at least playing?” Bonnie asked.

“Asleep. That was the trouble. She decided we were keeping them.”

Bonnie laughed. Hearing her, someone laughed even louder, and at once it became easier to breathe in the room. She settled the plate on her knees. Hot cherry burnt her tongue; Bonnie caught a drop from the spoon with her lips and listened to how the musicians had been ushered out through the kitchen.

Laughing with everyone else, her hostess was sorting through invitations. Then she pulled an Interpreter out from under the envelopes.

“I’ve something better to show you: what I’ve thought of for Saturday.”

She took the wand in her hand and concentrated. An image of a hall appeared: white tablecloths, branches covered in tiny flowers, garlands above the tables. For a minute, the conversation fell quiet.

“Will the flowers be real?”

“On the tables, yes. Overhead, I want to use images. I’m still trying things out.”

Her hostess tried a different arrangement, and white birds appeared among the garlands. She admired them, frowned and removed them. She liked it better without the birds.

Bonnie was barely looking at the flowers. The end table came right up against the door. She pictured someone coming in with a tray, turning sideways, catching the tablecloth… All they needed to do was move the table. No, then there would be no room for the second one.

She set her plate on the small table and was already reaching for the invitations to see how many guests there were, but stopped her hand. No one had asked her. For now, she could simply eat her pie.

“What do you think?” Her hostess turned to her. “Can it be done like this?”

Bonnie straightened.

“How many people are coming?”

“Forty. Perhaps forty-two.”

“Show it with the chairs.”

When chairs appeared in the image, the passage almost vanished.

“At least no one will leave early,” one of her friends remarked.

They all laughed, except their hostess. She was looking at her hall with such dismay that Bonnie felt sorry for her—and happy at the same time: this could be put right. She could already see how.

“Give me a pencil.”

She turned an envelope over and sketched a rectangle. Her hostess ended the display and pulled her armchair closer. Their heads came together over the drawing.

“We’ll leave the entrance here. And put this table across the room. Only don’t seat your aunt here; she’ll be in a draught.”

“You remember?”

Of course Bonnie remembered. She remembered the aunt, and the folding chair she had once been unable to get out of, and that she would have trouble hearing at the far end of the hall. The pencil moved faster and faster. A pleasant, familiar effort was gathering inside her: just a little more, and it would all come right. That morning she had been unable to decide where to put a cup, and now forty-two people were obediently taking their places on the back of an envelope.

“There,” her hostess said, with such relief that the party might already have been a success. “I’d never have managed it myself.”

Bonnie wanted to do something else while she was still being looked at like that.

It turned out that they had been promised the hall from noon on Saturday, and now could only have it after six. Her hostess produced a letter. Bonnie read it and asked for the receipt for the deposit. The pie was moved to make room for a folder.

“They need a letter,” she said. “These are quite different terms.”

“You write it. Mine will sound angry.”

Bonnie willingly took up the pen. She knew this manager: the main thing was not to begin with threats. First remind him when the agreement had been made, then enclose a copy of the receipt. She could also refer to…

Laughter broke out behind her.

She smiled without looking up. Let them talk for now; she would soon be finished. She crossed out a word that was too sharp and chose another. Asked for the date; her hostess answered, then turned back to the others.

The other voices grew distant, as though behind a closed door. Now and then a name reached Bonnie, and she tried to hold on to the sentence in her letter while working out who they were talking about. Once she turned round, ready to join in, but did not recognise the story. It had all happened without her by then: someone had arrived, someone had been caught, and now they were laughing about something.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Oh, just a moment,” her friend replied, laughing too hard to finish.

Bonnie waited. She began to smile herself, hoping to catch their merriment. But another woman was already telling a similar story, and the explanation was lost. The pen had dried. Bonnie dipped it again.

Now she wanted to finish as quickly as possible. She wrote the last line, read it through—she had left out a name. She inserted it above the line. It looked untidy. She could hardly hand the manager something like this; he would think the request did not matter.

While she was copying it out, they offered her more tea. Bonnie nodded. Only when the cup was set beside her did she notice that the first was still almost full. A cold film trembled on its surface.

“May I give my cousin your address?” someone asked her. “They’re having a children’s party. She’s completely at sea. You could at least give her some advice?”

“Tell her to write,” Bonnie replied.

Only after answering did she feel the weight of it: another letter. Another person who would need her. A few minutes ago, that was exactly what she had wanted.

Her plate stood at the other end of the table. Cherry juice had dried along its edge. Bonnie tried to remember what she herself had wanted to tell them when she arrived. Something funny. About Madeleine’s hat, she thought. Now she would have to interrupt everyone, explain who Madeleine was, begin far back. And suddenly there was nothing funny left in a broken hat anyway.

“How lovely that you came,” her hostess said, taking the letter.

Bonnie looked at her and smiled a moment too late.

Now she could return to her armchair. Her hostess even took the folder off it, making room for her. Bonnie sat down, laid her hands on her knees and tried to listen.

Her friends were choosing a day for their next meeting. Someone could not make Thursday; someone suggested getting together in the morning. Bonnie waited to be asked too, already dreading the question: she would have to open her notebook, promise something. She had only just wanted to join in, and now even saying whether she was free on Thursday seemed difficult.

Her hostess leant towards her.

“Shall I cut you another slice?”

Bonnie shook her head. The kindly voice suddenly made her nose sting. If they asked her what was wrong now, she would probably cry. In the middle of a pleasant evening, when everyone was so happy to see one another. And she would not be able to explain it properly.

She began looking for her handbag. She wanted to be out in the street, where she could walk without looking at anyone.

“I think I’ll go.”

“Already?”

“Yes. I’m rather tired.”

It was true, and yet Bonnie said it guiltily, as though she had made up an excuse. Her friend held the door for her; from the room came one more question: “So are we agreed on Thursday?”

At the door, it emerged that it would be a good idea to deliver the letter as well: since Bonnie knew the manager, perhaps on her way… She was about to ask how late he would be there. Her eyes fell on the porcelain peacock beside the mirror. Felix would have liked it. She remembered his peacock amid the waves, then the brief words: “Rescue people who are drowning.”

No one here was drowning. The letter was finished.

Bonnie took hold of her glove fastening. Her finger would not go through the loop.

“I won’t deliver it today.”

It came out dryly. Almost angrily. At once she wanted to add a reason—a serious, sufficient one that could not be mistaken for an unwillingness to help.

“Of course,” her hostess said. “I’ll send a messenger. Thank you.”

She hugged Bonnie, pressed her cheek to hers and returned to her guests. Behind the door, someone asked where the sugar was.

Bonnie stood on the landing. Nothing had happened. No one had followed her to find out what was wrong or demanded an explanation.

For some reason, that did not make her feel any better.

She could have delivered the letter. It was only a few streets away. Now her hostess would have to find a messenger, pay him, worry—and she would go home and sit down. Just sit down. She would not even be ill enough to justify herself.

Bonnie went down a few steps and stopped. She could go back and say that it was on her way after all. Her hostess would be pleased again; this unpleasant, cold feeling inside would end at once.

There was laughter upstairs. Bonnie gripped the banister more tightly and went down.

* * *

Out in the street, she kept changing the hand in which she carried her bag. She felt she had left badly. She should probably have stayed another quarter of an hour. Or at least finished the pie. What if they thought she had taken offence?

She had taken offence. But try explaining why. They had welcomed her, fed her, praised her. No one had made her write. And she had wanted someone to notice how long she had been sitting with her back to them all, and call her back of their own accord.

Bonnie was walking home, but picturing a different door. Madeleine would open it without her hat and be surprised; she could ask whether she had made it to the milliner’s. Only where was that door?

She had given Madeleine the milliner’s address. She had been given Felix’s address. They had never got round to Madeleine’s own.

She could ask the doctor to pass on a note. But she had already tried to arrange his personal life today. To appear in the waiting room again and begin, “I need your wife”… Bonnie pictured the secretary’s face and turned into her own street.

The scent of thyme came from a shop. Freshly washed shelves were drying in the doorway, and the bitterness of the herb mingled with the smell of wet wood. Lately, people had been trying herbs in everything: soap, skin oils, sweet dough. Imported spices were coming into fashion too. Even the familiar bakery now offered a filling each week that no one had tasted before. But passers-by still smelt more often of thyme than of expensive blends from the Eastern Isles.

Then a warm, sweet scent drifted towards her—and Bonnie decided she was hungry.

Cinnamon. Warm, rich, with the sweetness butter takes on as it soaks into hot dough. Then came something fresh, faintly bitter, like a strip of peel bent over a cup. Bonnie breathed in more deeply. For a moment she wanted to close her eyes and bite into the crisp edge of a bun.

She looked at the signs. “Memory Recording.” “Accumulators.” “School of Wishes.” No bakery.

The fragrance passed her in the company of a plump woman who was no longer young. She carried a small handbag and held up her hem as she skirted a puddle. Bonnie involuntarily took a step after her, examining her hands: no parcel, no basket. The woman stopped. Bonnie went on staring at her face until she realised how rude she was being.

“Forgive me. You smell of…”

“Too strong?”

“Buns.”

The woman raised her wrist to her nose, waited and frowned.

“I’ve been fiddling with it since this morning. I couldn’t distinguish anything at home any more. I thought I’d get a better idea outside.”

“You made it yourself?”

She nodded.

“At first I thought someone was baking here,” Bonnie said. “Then I started looking to see what you had in your bag.”

“It’s empty. I’m going to buy accumulators. Used up every last one in the space of an hour, with nothing to show for it.”

Bonnie could not help breathing in again.

“But it smells wonderful.”

“It does. Only I wanted people to catch the cinnamon close up. Almost by chance.” The woman looked across the street. “Where were you standing?”

Bonnie showed her.

“Over there. By the sign.”

The woman looked at her wrist and lowered her hand.

“You see.”

Bonnie looked at the sign too. It was quite a distance.

“What if I wanted perfume like that myself? A scent that carries a long way. Would you help me choose?”

“That far, exactly?”

“A little less would do.”

The woman smiled.

“Only not today. Today I can’t distinguish anything any more.”

“I’ve kept you, I’m sorry. You were going to buy accumulators.”

“There’s time.”

The woman looked Bonnie over again, as though she were about to ask something about her clothes.

“Don’t cut the trousers down. You’ll have to give them back.”

Bonnie looked at her dress.

“What trousers?”

The woman looked down too. She was silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

A boy carrying a long parcel asked them to move aside. The woman stepped out of his way and walked on; Bonnie moved in the other direction and saw Madeleine over his shoulder.

Madeleine was standing outside a pastry shop, studying the window. She had no hat on. Bonnie had time to feel delighted, then to fear that Madeleine would go in and she would have to catch up with her inside.

Bonnie waited for a carriage to pass and crossed the street.

“Did they mend your hat?”

Madeleine turned.

“Bonnie! I left it with your milliner. She looked at the feather for a long time, then asked whether it had sentimental value. I had to tell her about the bridge.”

“I can explain how to straighten it. There’s wire…”

“She’ll manage. Tell me this instead: what’s in those?”

Bonnie went up to the glass. Madeleine pointed to round pastries under a thin layer of white icing.

“Lemon. I bought some for the actors after a rehearsal.”

“And?”

“There weren’t any left for me.”

“Then let’s find out.”

Madeleine took hold of the door handle. Bonnie stepped forward with her and stopped.

“Are you taking them home?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Why?”

“No reason. I just… I was nearby. With friends.”

Madeleine looked at her more closely. Bonnie adjusted her glove, hiding the ink stain, and felt how tiring it would be just now to say that everything was all right.

“Let’s go in,” Madeleine said. “Then I want to have a look at the new salon round the corner. Will you come with me? They change your appearance for an evening. I’ve walked past twice already, but never had the time.”

“Why change it?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s see what they offer. I might like it.”

She opened the door. Bonnie went in first and immediately stepped aside to let a customer out. It was warm inside. Bonnie took off her gloves and only then noticed that all this time she had been holding them against her chest, as though she were about to ask the shopwoman for a favour.

“Two lemon pastries?” Madeleine asked.

“What about you?”

“One for me too.”

“Two, then,” Bonnie told the shopwoman.

* * *

The salon still smelt of paint. Gold lettering on the glass read, “A New Appearance for Your Evening.” Through the open door they could see a narrow bench, a large mirror and a screen with people talking behind it.

A young man peered out to greet them. He was holding an Interpreter.

“Good afternoon. I need to finish with a client. Would you mind waiting a little?”

“We’ll wait. We’ve only come to look for now,” Madeleine said.

He nodded and disappeared behind the screen. They heard him say:

“Now turn round. No, you needn’t hold your face still. Smile, please.”

Madeleine sat down and unwrapped the parcel. Bonnie perched on the end, leaving space between them for their handbags.

“I went to see Felix today,” she said.

Madeleine stopped unfolding the paper.

“Did he see you?”

“Yes. Without an appointment. I thought we’d just talk for a little while, but he sent me for an examination as well.”

“Did you go?”

“I did. I feel better now. This morning I couldn’t do anything at all. Not even get dressed properly… Yesterday I ate your apple and fell asleep at the table. But I’d been getting tired before that too, so I don’t know whether it was the apple or not.”

“I haven’t touched mine yet,” Madeleine said. “And I don’t think I will. He was shouting something to me about the apples, the man who owns the orchard. I was already leaving by then.”

She fell silent for a moment, looking at the parcel.

“I’m glad you went to Felix.”

Bonnie wanted to explain that that was not why she had gone at all. She began, “Actually, I…” but Madeleine handed her a pastry, and she took it in both hands, paper and all.

The icing cracked, and lemon came through its sweetness. Bonnie licked a crumb from her lips and took another bite at once.

“Well?” Madeleine asked.

Bonnie held up a finger, asking her to wait until she had finished chewing.

“Now I see why they didn’t leave me a single one that time.”

Bonnie smiled, but then she heard the laughter behind her again—the laughter at her friends’ house, while she was copying the letter and trying to understand what they were talking about.

“After the doctor’s, I went to see some people I know. I wanted to sit with them. Then I started helping with a party, wrote a letter… They were talking, and I kept thinking, I’ll be finished in a moment. In the end I left having heard almost nothing.”

“Did they ask you?”

“At first I volunteered. Then they asked me to deliver the letter as well. And I said I wouldn’t.”

Madeleine waited for her to go on.

“She said she would send a messenger. She hugged me. Everything’s all right.”

“Where’s the letter?”

“I left it with her.”

“Good. I was beginning to think it was in your bag.”

Bonnie smiled, but Madeleine did not smile back: she was waiting.

“I could have delivered it, you see. It isn’t far. Now I’m sitting here thinking: why did I do that? She hugged me goodbye, and I almost went back to fetch that letter.”

She lowered her eyes to the pastry. The icing cracked, and a piece fell onto the paper. Bonnie picked it up with a finger and suddenly felt terribly hungry.

Madeleine moved her handbag off the bench.

“Come closer; there’s a backrest here. You’re right on the edge.”

Bonnie moved along and leant back. The wood pressed between her shoulder blades; she wriggled a little to get comfortable and ate the last of the icing off the paper. Behind the screen, the client laughed; the young man said something in reply.

Sticky icing lingered on her fingers. Bonnie reached for her handkerchief and saw the envelope.

“Oh, goodness, I forgot. He asked me to give you this.”

“Felix?”

“I offered. The letter was already written.”

Madeleine wiped her fingers on the paper and opened the envelope.

“Madeleine,

I looked in at Under the Skirt yesterday, behind Market Square. Laugh all you like. They put on the show with an Interpreter, and all evening I had the feeling I’d met some of the ladies in more respectable circumstances. I should like to make sure it’s only a resemblance.