John Le Carre - The Naive and Sentimental Lover

He returned to the hotel in time for the afternoon mail.

Dear Aldo,

You asked me to write to you so I am doing so. I trust you are all right and I presume you do not wish me to join you as you originally suggested you might, but still. My real reason for writing is to tell you that last night Mummy and I were cleaning out the nursery and came upon a collection of pornography which I assume is yours. Please correct me if I'm wrong. You can imagine what Mummy said. I suppose it's no good my repeating to you yet again that I don't care what you do as long as you tell me. If I had known you liked pornography, which in some people is perfectly normal, I would have cleaned the nursery alone. If your soul is imprisoned by our marriage, go away. Though I must say, I'd like to see what you do with it when it isn't imprisoned. I have of course no objection to your keeping a mistress, if you are not already doing so. I would prefer not to know who it is, but if I do know it will make no difference. Mark's report enclosed.

Sandra

Conduct

Mark has shown a complacent, easy-going approach to life typical of the present British attitude of lazy fare which is affecting the whole nation, particularly the Unions. He picks and chooses his activities and leaves them off halfway, he is resentful when chased, beaten, or ticked off, he hates discipline.

These communications drove him back into the streets where for an hour he walked beside the Seine looking for a good place to jump in. When he returned, Shamus was lying on the bed, his face in the beret again, legs splayed, as if he had never left the island.

"Your passport's on the dresser," Cassidy said.

Ironed by loving hands.

"One of these days," said Shamus to the black beret, "I'll find a whore I like."

"Cassidy," said Shamus quietly, head once more buried in the pillow.

"Yes."

"Go on about your mother."

"I wasn't talking about my mother."

"Well go on about her all the same, will you?"

The death cell had no ormolu clock, but time had stood still for quite a while. They had had two drinks for certain-Shamus was on cognac and Perrier, he gave no reason for the change- but this was the first attempt that either of them had made to speak. Shamus was using his Haverdown voice, not quite the Irish but a little bantering. Tense, on an edge, and slipping to either side.

"She was a Frog. A tart, I think, knowing the old man."

"About how she left you. That's the bit I like."

"She left me when I was small. Seven."

"You said five before."

"Five then."

"What effect did this have on you, Cassidy?"

"Well... it made me lonely I suppose... it sort of robbed me of my childhood."

"What does that mean?" Shamus enquired, sitting bolt upright.

"What?" said Cassidy.

"What do you mean by being robbed of childhood?"

"Denied normal growth, I suppose," Cassidy faltered. "A sense of fun... I had no female reference, no one to make women... human."

"Normal sexual growth, in other words."

"Yes. It drove me in on myself. What's the matter with you?"

Placing the beret over his face, Shamus resumed his recumbent pose.

"We are not concerned with me, we are concerned with Cassidy. We are concerned with a man in whom the absence of maternal love has induced certain negative symptoms. I would describe these symptoms of Cassidy's as follows. One, timidity, right?"

"Right."

"Two, guilt. Guilt rising from Cassidy's secret conviction that he drove his mother forth from the household. Possible?"

"Oh yes," said Cassidy, as ever willing, when the subject was himself, to see the force of any argument.

"Three, insecurity. The female sex, represented by Mummy, at a crucial moment rejected him. He has felt her rejection ever since, and in various disguises he has made futile attempts to regain her favour. By making money for instance, and engendering little babies. Correct?"

"I don't know," said Cassidy, very confused. "I'm not sure."

"His relations with women arc accordingly apologetic, morbid, and frequently infantile. They are doomed. That is the substance, is it not, of your complaint? How was the whore?"

"Who?"

"Elise."

"You fucked her, did you?"

"Sure."

"She was satisfactory? She moved in mysterious ways for you? Or did you have her flog you with barbed wire?"

"Shamus, what is it? What's eating you?"

"Nothing is eating me. I am merely attempting a diagnosis."

Rolling on to his back he put the brandy bottle to his mouth and drank for a long time.

"That's all, lover," he said, Irish now; and gave a sudden, brilliant smile. "Just giving the devil a name, no offence. Surely to God we can't prescribe the treatment till we've diagnosed the symptoms now, can we?"

Cassidy wanted very much to ask about the two-hour telephone call to London, but he had learned by now that Shamus did not care to be questioned, so he wisely held his peace.

"You're my treatment," he said lightly. "Where shall we eat?"

After dinner, which passed largely in silence, Shamus returned to the theme of the Maternal Frog.

What did she look like, he enquired, striding purposefully at Cassidy's side through darkening streets, what were Cassidy's earliest memories of her, his last? What were her names, would he tell him; did Cassidy remember all her names?

Ella, said Cassidy.

"Did Ella have any distinguishing marks now, a walleye for instance," he required good-humouredly, but still using the Irish. "Did she have a walleye at all, the poor soul?"

They turned into a side alley.

"Not that I remember," said Cassidy laughing.

"Any mannerisms then? I'm trying to get a picture of her you see, after all Cassidy I am a writer of some stature, am I nor? My subject is man, after all, in all his rich variety and complexity. I mean did she pick her nose or scratch her arse in bed?"

"She wore cashmere pullovers," Cassidy said. "She loved pink, I remember. Can we leave her alone now Shamus? I'm a bit fed up with her to be honest."

Shamus did not hear, apparently. The3 were walking faster, Shamus was quickening the pace, looking upwards at the street signs as he strode ahead.

"Shamus, where are we going?"

They crossed a main road, plunged into another maze of little alleys.

A light over the door said "Bar." They went in, Shamus leading.

Girls sat on a horseshoe bench, drinking and looking inward at the mirrors, studying their bodies, their reflected ghosts. A few pimps, a few customers, a slot machine for pills to stop you smoking.

"Paging Mrs. Cassidy," Shamus called, drawing Cassidy after him by the wrist. Shamus' hand was wet, but its grasp was as strong as ever. "Her small son is looking for her." At the bar, a few faces lifted. "Is Mrs. Cassidy here now?" He turned to Cassidy. "See her, Oedipus?" he asked.

"Please, Shamus-"

"Is she Chinese at all, is that a possibility?" indicating a lady of South East Asian extraction. "Not mainland, of course, just the fringe islands, you know."

"Shamus I want to go."

"Should have thought of that before, shouldn't you? I'm not a guest in your life, you know. I'm here to stay. I warned you, lover, don't say I didn't."

"For God's sake, Shamus, they'll murder us."

"No Chinese blood. A pure Caucasian lady. Okay I'll take your word for it. Now, will you stop that jiggering please and pay attention. Maybe you'd better have a drink?" he suggested, forcing Cassidy's hand against the wrist as he backed him into the bar.

Two tall and rather handsome elderly ladies offered refreshment to the afflicted. Cassidy wondered whether they were sisters.

"I don't want a drink."

"Er, two homosexual whiskies please miss, one with milk and sugar."

There were seats empty but Shamus preferred to stand.