Free Incidents in the Rue Laugier by Anita Brookner
Authors: Anita Brookner
far more natural for Tyler to stay in a room like this for no cost than to spend money vulgarly on creature comforts. Compared with Tyler, Harrison felt like any
nouveau riche
, with his craven dependence on laundry and refreshments, and his longing—yes, that was what it was—for a courtesy, however unfairly acquired.
He supposed he must now stay here because Tyler had arranged it, and that he would have to wait for him in case he turned up. He berated himself for succumbing so easily to Tyler’s offhand kindness. There had been no need. But with Tyler it was almost a case of
noblesse oblige:
that is to say, Tyler’s nobility put everyone else under an obligation. There was a kind of flattery implied if Tyler spared one a thought. Andsomehow, if he were to move out now, as reason told him to, he would feel that he owed Tyler some sort of explanation, even apology. It would be unthinkable to reject this hospitality as being somehow not up to standard. Therefore he would have to stay here out of sheer embarrassment, reflecting that if he were Tyler, or someone of Tyler’s stature, someone not tormented by ideas of cleanliness and simple bourgeois comfort, he would find this dire room quite acceptable. In Tyler’s circle, he supposed, hotels were
infra dig
, refuges for conventionally minded people. Of whom I am one, he told himself. Nevertheless, after a wash he felt better. The presence of a telephone in the hall reassured him.
The following days were spent walking. Each morning he left his room with a sense of deliverance, vowing not to return there until he was so tired that all he had to do was go to bed. The weather was still glorious; on the street people congratulated each other, as if responsible for this prolonged sunshine. He found the café the concierge had indicated, had his breakfast, and walked down to the Louvre, his collar open, his jacket over his arm. He found himself going to the Louvre every morning, mainly because he could not think of anything else to do; he was entirely free, and freedom was beginning to breed a certain anxiety. He found to his dismay that he was almost indifferent to the paintings, but liked to linger by the glass cases containing Egyptian scarabs, tiny secretive fetishes which bred in him a fellow feeling for smallness of any kind. Paris was too big, it seemed to him. Everything was too big; the buildings were too big, the streets too wide, the people too severe. The worldly Egyptian smile, encountered several galleries away, seemed to him strangely young, as if worn by a girl or a boy, sophisticated beyond his imagining. It was with a sense of relief that he left the huge building and took the bus across the river to the Luxembourg Gardens.
This was the best part of his day. He drank another cup ofcoffee in the Place Saint-Sulpice and thought about his future. At this distance the shop seemed not such a bad idea as it had done at first, the prospect of travelling the world alone, like the Flying Dutchman, having lost some of its charm. Sitting in the hot sun, with the taste of coffee in his mouth, it occurred to Harrison to wonder whether this was all that was to be vouchsafed to him in the way of pleasure and contentment, whether those so distant dreams of his childhood gardens were merely Wordsworthian glimpses pointing to the glory that was lost rather than pointing forward to a joy that was to come. He was lonely, that was the truth of it. He had thought himself self-sufficient, and he had discovered that he was not. What mattered now, in the light of this revelation (for he had not felt this way before), was to create some sort of attachment for himself, not the spurious deferential attachment that drove him to the likes of Tyler, but a life containing some sort of affection, of stability.
He thought of the furnished flat that he had rented so speedily, without really looking at it, such had been his haste to get away. It would have to do for the time being, he
nouveau riche
, with his craven dependence on laundry and refreshments, and his longing—yes, that was what it was—for a courtesy, however unfairly acquired.
He supposed he must now stay here because Tyler had arranged it, and that he would have to wait for him in case he turned up. He berated himself for succumbing so easily to Tyler’s offhand kindness. There had been no need. But with Tyler it was almost a case of
noblesse oblige:
that is to say, Tyler’s nobility put everyone else under an obligation. There was a kind of flattery implied if Tyler spared one a thought. Andsomehow, if he were to move out now, as reason told him to, he would feel that he owed Tyler some sort of explanation, even apology. It would be unthinkable to reject this hospitality as being somehow not up to standard. Therefore he would have to stay here out of sheer embarrassment, reflecting that if he were Tyler, or someone of Tyler’s stature, someone not tormented by ideas of cleanliness and simple bourgeois comfort, he would find this dire room quite acceptable. In Tyler’s circle, he supposed, hotels were
infra dig
, refuges for conventionally minded people. Of whom I am one, he told himself. Nevertheless, after a wash he felt better. The presence of a telephone in the hall reassured him.
The following days were spent walking. Each morning he left his room with a sense of deliverance, vowing not to return there until he was so tired that all he had to do was go to bed. The weather was still glorious; on the street people congratulated each other, as if responsible for this prolonged sunshine. He found the café the concierge had indicated, had his breakfast, and walked down to the Louvre, his collar open, his jacket over his arm. He found himself going to the Louvre every morning, mainly because he could not think of anything else to do; he was entirely free, and freedom was beginning to breed a certain anxiety. He found to his dismay that he was almost indifferent to the paintings, but liked to linger by the glass cases containing Egyptian scarabs, tiny secretive fetishes which bred in him a fellow feeling for smallness of any kind. Paris was too big, it seemed to him. Everything was too big; the buildings were too big, the streets too wide, the people too severe. The worldly Egyptian smile, encountered several galleries away, seemed to him strangely young, as if worn by a girl or a boy, sophisticated beyond his imagining. It was with a sense of relief that he left the huge building and took the bus across the river to the Luxembourg Gardens.
This was the best part of his day. He drank another cup ofcoffee in the Place Saint-Sulpice and thought about his future. At this distance the shop seemed not such a bad idea as it had done at first, the prospect of travelling the world alone, like the Flying Dutchman, having lost some of its charm. Sitting in the hot sun, with the taste of coffee in his mouth, it occurred to Harrison to wonder whether this was all that was to be vouchsafed to him in the way of pleasure and contentment, whether those so distant dreams of his childhood gardens were merely Wordsworthian glimpses pointing to the glory that was lost rather than pointing forward to a joy that was to come. He was lonely, that was the truth of it. He had thought himself self-sufficient, and he had discovered that he was not. What mattered now, in the light of this revelation (for he had not felt this way before), was to create some sort of attachment for himself, not the spurious deferential attachment that drove him to the likes of Tyler, but a life containing some sort of affection, of stability.
He thought of the furnished flat that he had rented so speedily, without really looking at it, such had been his haste to get away. It would have to do for the time being, he