Ben, in the World. Doris Lessing

hotel was no problem. Ben understood what it was, and stood in front of the reception desk with confidence. Then – and Alex saw what was happening and was angry with himself – it was a new language, it was Portuguese, and Ben had become accustomed to at least the sounds of French.

      ‘What is it?’ he asked Alex, rough, sorrowful, angry. ‘What are they saying?’

      Alex explained. He had spent a lot of time telling Ben about Brazil, about Rio, how beautiful; about forests, beaches, the sea everywhere, but he had not thought to say that people would be talking Portuguese.

      Alex would have liked a room to himself, but he had been afraid to let Ben loose in the mysteries of this new hotel, so they were sharing a room. Only for one night: it is not difficult to rent a flat in Rio, and the next day they would move into one.

      Alex was desperate to sleep, having stayed awake on the plane to keep an eye on Ben, but knew he must remain awake, for now Ben who had slept and was fresh was moving about this room like an animal taking the measure of a new place, trying the bathroom – the shower, the lavatory – opening and shutting cupboards and drawers. They were high up in the hotel, and Ben looked out and down and did not seem upset, although he had not liked the lift. He lay down on his bed and got up again, while Alex watched, in a daze of jet lag.

      ‘I’m hungry,’ said Ben.

      Room service brought steaks and Ben ate Alex’s as well as his. This was a country of wonderful fruit, and Alex ordered some. Ben grunted with pleasure over the pineapple but got the juice all over himself. Alex was impressed that he took himself off to the shower, without being told, and there he stayed a long time. Alex listened to sounds – what were they? Was that singing? That rough grunting chant? The water splashed about everywhere, and Alex had to mop it up.

      It was still only midday.

      Alex began telephoning friends. He had many in this city. Some he had worked with on the play he had done, some had been with him on the film, done in Colombia and Chile. Some were friends of friends. He had to keep awake. He knew that if he fell asleep, he would not wake until tomorrow. An early dinner was arranged. Meanwhile Alex and Ben would see the town. It was hot, light bouncing off the sea, and Ben stumbled along, clutching at Alex, his eyes almost closed. So Alex took him back again to the hotel, having elucidated from Ben that in Nice they had gone for walks in the evenings, and once, when it was cloudy, in the day. They sat at a table outside the hotel, and drank fruit juices, and Ben huddled there in his chair, not grinning – Alex was thankful to see – but so intent, his head turning this way, that way, as deep in the shade of the sun umbrella as he could get, sizing up these new people, trying to understand the new sounds. As people came and went, or sat at the other tables, just as everywhere Ben had been, they tried to comprehend what they saw. A first casual general glance taking in the scene – but left in their minds was something not assimilated, a question. A second look, much longer: well, that’s just a big man, that’s all – no crime to be large, to be bulky – but what shoulders, say what you like, those shoulders… Having turned away, a third look, surreptitious, quick. Yes, that’s all it is, he’s built big, but he’s no beauty. And then a final open unconcealed stare, as if Ben’s strangeness licensed the bad manners of staring. Yes, but what is it? Just what am I looking at? The hot afternoon went past, and Alex was being tortured by the need to sleep. Then, he couldn’t stand it, and made Ben go with him back to the room. Ben did not want to go, he liked it there, watching, listening, and besides, there were females who smiled at him.

      In the room Alex flung himself on the bed and was asleep. He had not even taken off his shoes.

      And now Ben was on his own bed, but did not lie down. He sat on its edge and stared at Alex. He had not shared a room since the old lady, and he had not needed to examine her, or stare: the night Rita had allowed him to stay he had been too grateful to want anything but be there. But this was a male, who had brought him here, to this place, where he never asked to be. He did not like Alex, though he seemed to be kind: Ben felt that Alex had tricked him.

      The defenceless man lay with his arms flung out, legs apart, face turned towards Ben, eyes so lightly closed he seemed to be watching Ben. Ben could kill him as he lay and Alex would never know it. Ben could feel the rage, fed by sorrow, strengthening in his shoulders, his arms, his fists. He could lean forward and bite hard into that throat that was presented to him there… But Ben knew he must not, must control himself. Even while rage darkened his eyes, another voice was telling him, ‘Stop. You must not. It’s dangerous. They could kill you for it.’

      But Ben sat on there, letting the sorrowful rage sink down while his fists unclenched.

      He was thinking of Richard: now it seemed to him that Richard had been a real friend, and that he liked him.

      Ben sat a long time, legs apart, fists on his knees, leaning forward, looking. Once he held out an arm, the thick arm with big fists, and put it close to Alex’s arm, that was lying loose there, so close. Alex’s legs were hidden inside his jeans, but Ben knew that his own legs were like tree trunks in comparison, filling trouser legs. That face there: compared to his own it was so small and so fine; the chest visible in the carelessly closed shirt had little hair on it. They were so similar, this Alex and he, and yet so different… For one thing, he could crush Alex in his two arms and Alex would not be able even to move.

      Ben stood at the window. It hurt to look into the glittering caverns of the sky, so he looked down. Five storeys up, they were. Not as high as the old woman. Down there people were moving about, and they were using the new language, a slushy slurry way of talking, like sugar in the mouth.

      The telephone rang. Alex did not stir. It went on ringing. Ben picked up the receiver and said in English, ‘Alex is asleep.’ A voice, a woman’s voice, said that she had heard Alex was in town and she was coming over. Alex woke. Ben said that a woman called Teresa was coming. Alex, though he was still deep in tiredness, jumped up saying, ‘Oh, Teresa, wonderful, that’s just great.’ He showered and came back in clean clothes. It was about six. Alex took Ben down to the foyer, and there people came, more and more, until eleven of them set off to the restaurant that Alex said Ben would like, because it served mostly meat.

      All of them tried to talk to Ben. Where are you from? Are you working with Alex? Have you worked on film or in the theatre? – that kind of thing, and Ben’s replies silenced them because they were not to the point. For instance, asked where he was from he said, from the Excelsior Hotel in Nice, and when this friendly and curious person persisted, said he wasn’t from Scotland, but didn’t know the name of his home town. So they all treated Ben carefully, though kindly, trying not to stare at him. But Teresa, Ben knew, was really kind: he could feel she was.

      It was the kind of restaurant they have in Rio where on the tables are already waiting plates of tomato, pickles, sauces, but it was meat that people went there for, with haunches and joints of every kind of meat, but mostly beef, displayed on platters or on skewers. Ben had never seen such a variety and amount of meat, and he was pleased, but his unhappiness was too strong for him really to enjoy himself. He felt out of things, the chattering, the embraces, the talk he did not understand, when it was in Portuguese, and even the English was mutilated and hard to follow. Soon it was over, and then he was in a car with Alex and some of the others. They were sweeping along the sea front, with the moonlight moving on the waves, and tall buildings pouring out light. At the hotel he heard arrangements being made for the days ahead: all these people were happy Alex was here, and it was as if they were expecting a holiday.

      In the hotel room Ben took off his clothes, remembered to put them on hangers, and climbed, as usual, naked into bed. He watched Alex putting on pyjamas: clothes to go to bed in. Like his parents. Like himself when he was very small, but he had hated them. He fell asleep.

      Now Alex did what Ben had, earlier. He sat on his bed’s edge and bent forward to stare. He even held out an arm, as Ben had, and pulled up his pyjama leg to match it with Ben’s, that lay outside the bedclothes, because it was so hot. Ben had a sheet pulled across his middle. Alex thought, So he has an instinct to hide his private parts – that’s strange for an animal. But he’s not an animal. But if he is not an animal then… This soliloquy seemed in