The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene [93]
‘Have a drink?’
‘No,’ Wilson said, ‘no. I must be’ off.’ He retrieved the keys with some difficulty and left the tail of his shirt dangling. He only discovered it when Harris pointed it out to him on his return to the Nissen, and he thought: that is how I looked while I walked away and they watched side by side.
2
‘What did he want?’ Scobie said.
‘He wanted to make love to me.’
‘Does he love you?’
‘He thinks he does. You can’t ask much more than that, can you?’
‘You seem to have hit him rather hard,’ Scobie said, ‘on the nose?’
‘He made me angry. He called you Ticki. Darling, he’s spying on you.’
‘I know that.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘He might be - under some circumstances. But then it would be my fault.’
‘Henry, do you never get furious at anyone? Don’t you mind him making love to me?’
He said,’ I’d be a hypocrite if I were angry at that. It’s the kind of thing that happens to people. You know, quite pleasant normal people do fall in love.’
‘Have you ever fallen in love?’
‘Oh yes, yes.’ He watched her closely while he excavated his smile. ‘You know I have.’
‘Henry, did you really feel ill this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t just an excuse?’
‘No.’
‘Then, darling, let’s go to communion together tomorrow morning.’
‘If you want to,’ he said. It was the moment he had known would come. With bravado, to show that his hand was not shaking, he took down a glass. ‘Drink?’
‘It’s too early, dear,’ Louise said; he knew she was watching him closely like all the others. He put the glass down and said, ‘I’ve just got to run back to the station for some papers. When I get back it will be time for drinks.’
He drove unsteadily down the road, his eyes blurred with nausea. O God, he thought, the decisions you force on people, suddenly, with no time to consider. I am too tired to think: this ought to be worked out on paper like a problem in mathematics, and the answer arrived at without pain. But the pain made him physically sick, so that he retched over the wheel. The trouble is, he thought, we know the answers - we Catholics are damned by our knowledge. There’s no need for me to work anything out - there is only one answer: to kneel down in the confessional and say, ‘Since my last confession I have committed adultery so many times etcetera etcetera’; to hear Father Rank telling me to avoid the occasion: never see the woman alone (speaking in those terrible abstract terms: Helen - the woman, the occasion, no longer the bewildered child clutching the stamp-album, listening to Bagster howling outside the door: that moment of peace and darkness and tenderness and pity ‘adultery’). And I to make my act of contrition, the promise ‘never more to offend thee’, and then tomorrow the communion: taking God in my mouth in what they call the state of grace. That’s the right answer - there is no other answer: to save my own soul and abandon her to Bagster and despair. One must be reasonable, he told himself, and recognize that despair doesn’t last (is that true?), that love doesn’t last (but isn’t that the very reason that despair does?), that in a few weeks or months she’ll be all right again. She has survived forty days in an open boat and the death of her husband and can’t she survive the mere death of love? As I can, as I know I can.
He drew up outside the church and sat hopelessly at the wheel. Death never comes when one desires it most. He thought: of course there’s the ordinary honest wrong answer, to leave Louise, forget that private vow, resign my job. To abandon Helen to Bagster or Louise to what? I am trapped, he told himself, catching sight of an expressionless stranger’s face in the driving mirror, trapped. Nevertheless he left the car and went into the church. While he was waiting for Father Rank to go into the confessional he knelt and prayed: the only prayer he could rake up. Even the words of the ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Hail Mary’ deserted him. He prayed for a miracle, ‘O God convince me, help me, convince me. Make me feel that I am more important than that girl,’ It was not Helen’s face he saw as he prayed but the dying