The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [117]
“At the first favourable moment I shall propose and the business will be settled one way or the other.” But his efforts to lead up to the subject were constantly disappointed. It seemed as if Sarah could hardly hear the word “marriage” even in the most theoretical and general way without being seized by one of her cruel moods. Naturally the Major was dismayed, but persevered nevertheless, telling himself that it was just a question of finding the right mood.
One afternoon, sitting on a sofa in the residents’ lounge and screened by an ornamental pillar, he almost brought himself to broach the subject. They were at the farthest extreme from the ladies playing whist by the fire. Sarah had been unusually warm and affectionate following a dire clash the day before (stimulated by some observations the Major had attempted to make about the Islamic wedding ceremony). For some moments they had been sunk in a contented silence, Sarah had idly slipped her hand into his, nothing was happening, she seemed rather sleepy. There was unlikely to be a better opportunity, so the Major cleared his throat.
“Look here...” he began (he had chosen his words days ago and knew them by heart). But at that moment a blue-veined, bony hand, fingers bright with diamonds, appeared from behind a bay tree in a tub (a refugee from the Palm Court next door, brought into the lounge on Edward’s instructions so that it could “breathe”). The hand knocked rather sharply against the ornamental pillar, then caressed it. A moment later old Mrs Rappaport was standing there, her head on one side, listening.
“Is that you, Edward?”
“No, Mrs Rappaport, it’s me, Brendan Archer.”
“I could hear you breathing.”
The old lady stepped forward; her other hand, dry and freckled, held a walking-stick. She advanced cautiously until she was standing beside the Major, looking down at him with her empty, unfocusing orbs.
“Angela’s Major,” she breathed, reaching forward with her free hand. “Where are you, my dear?” The Major frowned with annoyance but grasped her hand and guided it rather roughly (he was still keyed up from his attempt to propose) on to the top of his head, where it remained for some moments. He glanced at Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She was grinning at his discomfiture.
“Angela will be so glad you’ve come,” the old lady murmured, and her hand, delicate as a moth, began to model the Major’s features. “How handsome you are, Major!” she whispered, fingers spreading like cream over his forehead, rimming his eyes and returning to slither down his nose, smoothing outwards over the firmly clipped bristles of his moustache and on to the jawbone. She paused again, still holding the Major’s chin lightly between finger and thumb, listening.
“There’s someone with you. It’s not Angela, is it?” Her hand left the Major’s face and began to make slow sweeps beside him, reaping the air, nearer and nearer to Sarah. The Major got to his feet. Sarah was looking up at Mrs Rappaport with an expression of revulsion, mesmerized by the bony diamond-clad fingers that were groping towards her.
“There’s no one there, Mrs Rappaport,” the Major said abruptly, taking her by the elbow. But she shook off his hand and edged nearer to Sarah, her fingers still desperately trawling back and forth through the empty air. Sarah was shrinking right back now, holding her breath, unable to retreat further.
“Come along now. Let me show you to the fire.” Grasping the old lady’s arm firmly, he pulled her away, still clawing at the air. As they made their way across the lounge the corners of Mrs Rappaport’s mouth came down and a single tear stole over her powdered cheek. When she had been deposited in her seat by the fire the Major hastened back to the sofa hoping to resume his proposal. But Sarah was no longer there.
The glass