Invisible. Jonathan Buckley

high up, at the level of his head. His hands, groping, find a broad stone bowl that is fringed with slime. The shower is rapidly becoming heavier: the surface of the water in the bowl is burbling now, and the foliage of a nearby tree, a high tree, has begun to seethe. On the paving stones the rain raises a roar like a ceiling fan revolving at speed. It is a downpour now, but he does not move. Feeling the cold moss on his fingertips, and the cold water dribbling across his scalp, and the cold wet fabric on his chest and thighs, he senses the boundaries of his body, the contours of his invisible body, the dimensions of himself. All around him the garden is defined by tones and textures of sound, a continuum of sounds that give to the place in which he stands a continuous depth, a cohesion that the world presents to him infrequently. Avidly he listens, standing at the water bowl like a pilgrim with his hand on the foot of a miraculous statue.

      

      Eloni looks out of the window of the dining room and sees Mr Morton walking along the path to the rose garden. His hair has been flattened by the rain and his jacket hangs over one shoulder like a used towel. His shirt is so wet that it looks as though his skin has been covered with clear plastic, but he is smiling as he walks along, turning his face this way and that, like somebody who is admiring the flowers. At the wooden arch of the rose garden he seems to change his mind. He lifts his face into the rain and wipes a hand down it, from his hairline to his chin. For a minute or longer he stays there, facing the clouds, then he moves off towards the hotel entrance, and his mouth is moving. He is talking to himself, calmly, continuously, as if having a discussion on his own. ‘Mr Caldecott,’ she calls, not raising her voice. She points at Mr Morton, who has gone up to one of the stone animals and is patting its head, smiling as you would smile at your pet dog. Mr Caldecott puts down the knife he was polishing and moves nearer to the window to watch what is happening, but at that very moment, as though he knew they were spying on him, Mr Morton stops what he was doing and crosses the path to the front door. ‘Do you think he is all right?’ she asks. Hearing the clang of the front door, Mr Caldecott goes out into the hall.

      She finishes preparing the tables, recalling the old man who was mad. From morning to dusk some days he would stand by the fountain with his bag of apples and sing the same English song over and over again. His father was a duke, he said, and the pockets of his jacket were crammed with letters he said were from his father, but the letters made no sense at all, she was told. And on Sundays he walked all day, pressing a Bible to his heart, talking to himself as he walked, like Mr Morton was doing, and when he comes into the room for breakfast Mr Morton does look a bit mad, because he is grinning as if he has just met a friend in the hall, and he has rubbed his hair so it looks like straw sticking out of a sack, and his shirt is only half tucked into his waistband and has damp patches all over it.

      He crosses the room, towards a chair that has been left out of place. Before she can move it he has knocked against its leg and stumbled. An expression of panic flashes on his face; his hand is on the back of the chair, gripping it as though it were a railing on the edge of a cliff. She runs up to him, and his eyes seem to trace shapes in the air around her head. ‘I am sorry,’ she says. ‘Let me, please.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he says, and his hand moves up and closes gently on her shoulder. ‘I’m clumsy this morning,’ he apologises. ‘I think I have water in my ears. I got caught in the rain,’ he explains, with a small laugh.

      ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It was bad.’

      ‘It was quite something,’ he replies. ‘I enjoy a good deluge. Wakes me up,’ he says, making his eyebrows go up and down. ‘And now I’m in the mood for a huge volume of food,’ he smiles, lowering himself into the chair that she has pulled out for him. Speaking clearly and courteously, he tells her what he would like to have for breakfast, and then, toying with a spoon, he remarks: ‘I didn’t catch your name. Yesterday, when I asked you –’

      ‘Eloni,’ she responds, retreating half a pace, and she adds, in the same breath: ‘I bring your coffee.’

      ‘And where are you from?’ he asks. Smiling directly at her face, he waits for her to answer. ‘Do you mind my asking?’

      ‘No. No. I come from Greece.’

      ‘From where, exactly?’

      ‘Ioannina.’

      ‘Ioannina,’ he repeats, pronouncing the name exactly. ‘Ioannina. Forgive me. I don’t recognise it. Where is Ioannina?’

      ‘The north.’

      ‘East or west?’

      ‘West.’

      ‘Up in the mountains?’

      ‘By the mountains.’

      ‘Is it a big town?’

      ‘A big town, yes.’

      ‘I see,’ says Mr Morton solemnly. ‘I apologise for my ignorance. I haven’t been to Greece and I haven’t read an atlas for a very long time.’ With the edge of his hand he pushes a shallow wave across the tablecloth. Just as she is turning to go, he asks: ‘And how long have you been here?’

      ‘In England?’

      ‘In England. At the hotel. Either.’

      ‘Some months.’

      ‘And do you like England?’ he asks with a smile that does not seem to be the smile of someone who is trying to trick her.

      ‘I like it, yes.’

      ‘But it rains.’

      ‘Everywhere it rains. It is not so bad.’

      ‘True, true. Everywhere it rains,’ he laughs, nodding his head, and then suddenly he says: ‘You have an intriguing voice.’ He says it plainly, as if her voice were something in the room, as if he were making a comment on the colour of the carpet. ‘It’s very nice to hear,’ he continues. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so.’

      ‘No,’ she replies.

      ‘Good,’ says Mr Morton. ‘Sometimes I misjudge.’ He rubs his jaw, and it is obvious that he is thinking about what she has told him. ‘Forgotten to shave,’ he remarks, scowling at his hand. ‘I mustn’t keep you. You have other things to do, I’m sure.’

      She turns away from Mr Morton’s smile, believing that he knows she is lying. At the door of the kitchen she looks back, to see him rubbing his chin thoughtfully, like a detective thinking about a clue. He turns his face towards her, and her skin goes hot and then cold. She steps backwards into the kitchen, certain now that he knows she is lying. When she takes his pot of coffee to his table she is afraid to look at him; she pretends to be busy so as to avoid having to talk. Through the window in the door she watches Mr Morton as he eats his breakfast. From time to time he stops, holding his fork upright and lifting his head as though listening to someone speak. Her heart is beating out of rhythm as she watches Mr Morton, and long after he has gone back upstairs it still feels as if something heavy and small, like a little block of lead, is turning inside her chest. Annie is telling her about something she saw on television last night, but she cannot listen properly to what Annie is saying. To control the shaking of her hands she washes some pans that did not need to be washed; she mops an area of unstained floor. At the bang of the kitchen’s inner door an attack of dread turns her muscles to water. She cannot move, but it is only Mr Caldecott, who is calling her into his office.

      He closes the door of the office and shows her the chair she should sit on. He does not sit down himself, but leans against his desk, with a serious expression and his arms folded, just as he did on the morning she first saw this room, after she had told him the truth about where she was born.

      ‘Mr Morton seemed OK to me. Did he seem OK to you?’ he asks her.

      ‘Yes. He is OK.’

      ‘He seems a nice man.’

      ‘Yes,’ she says, but Mr Caldecott is not looking at her now. He is gazing into the garden, as if waiting for somebody to arrive with news that may not be good. With a blink he cuts off the thought that is troubling him and turns back