The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [116]
While the Major, with neither chart nor compass, was thus wandering at large through the minefields of love, a letter arrived for him. He recognized neither the postmark nor the handwriting. “Curious!” he mused, and tore it open. It was from a girl he had known before the war. She said that she was going to get married and that she hoped he didn’t mind. (Not only did the Major not mind, for a few minutes he could remember nothing about the girl at all; even the circumstances of their meeting escaped him.) But she had waited for him—that is, if at a certain stage he had made the right move, or rather (the letter was somewhat confused, as if written while intoxicated), any move...that is to say, it had become clear to her, after all one can only wait so long, but she would always think of him, would always remember him with love and affection...one can’t, after all (why should one want to?), pretend that the Past hasn’t happened...tear it out of one’s life by the roots...the fun they had had together. She could close her eyes even now and still see him, Lieutenant Brendan Archer, as she knew he would always be. She hoped he would also. Life goes by so quickly.
The Major did remember her now, of course. She had been someone’s sister, not particularly attractive but with a reputation among the young men of that circle. He was glad that she had managed to find a husband in spite of the reputation (which had turned out to be justified, he recalled). He had liked her, really. She had been a good scout, in spite of the other thing. She had oppressed him, though, by the intensity of her feeling for him, and that was the principal thing he now remembered about her. She had had a tendency to hug him violently, squeezing the air out of his lungs—it’s distressing to be squeezed very hard if you are not trying to squeeze the other person back. One feels trapped. The Major had felt trapped. As to what had inspired this passion he had no idea; in those days, not long after leaving school, he had been an intolerably stuck-up young prig. Well, perhaps that was what women liked. Insufferable young prigs striking attitudes. “But no, I mustn’t be bitter. And the insufferable young prig was me! That should make a difference.” Well! But women liked other kinds of men too. The thought of Edward crossed his mind again. “Women have appalling taste in men,” he decided gloomily.
The Major sat down then and there and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen, thinking how strange it was that all this time a girl, whom he could still only think of as someone’s sister, should have been harbouring fond thoughts of him and now, after so many years, should send him a letter saying she hoped he didn’t mind that she was going to get married.
He wrote to her immediately. He said that of course he minded (after all, one could hardly say that one didn’t mind in the least), but he hoped that nevertheless she would be very happy. In fact—he wrote, warming to the task—in fact, he was positively gnashing his teeth with despair, but richly deserved to be passed over in favour of someone who was, without a doubt, a better man than he. It served him right—he wrote, feeling a flood of compassion for this other person wandering, like himself, at large in the minefields—that she should choose someone else and leave him for ever outside in the cold and clammy darkness. And, it went without saying, he would always cherish his memories of the good times they had had together. He remained, with devotion, her Lieutenant Brendan Archer.
He sealed this letter and posted it. As he retired to the residents’ lounge to wait and watch for Sarah he wondered lugubriously how it was that the tyrant one moment could become the slave the next. Moreover, certain misgivings began to awaken. Had he not written with too much haste and warmth?
“My God, supposing she regards it as a counter-proposal, calls off the wedding and comes over here to get me!”