Strangers: A Novel - Hardcover

Brookner, Anita

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1400068347 ISBN 13: 9781400068340

Publisher: Random House, 2009

Synopsis

Literary master Anita Brookner’s elegant style is manifest on every page of her brilliant new novel. Beautifully crafted and emotionally evocative, Strangers portrays the magic and depth of real life, telling the rich story of an ordinary man whose unexpected longings, doubts, and fears are universal.

Paul Sturgis is resigned to his bachelorhood and the quietude of his London flat. He occasionally pays obliging visits to his nearest living relative, Helena, his cousin’s widow and a doyenne of decorum who, like Paul, bears a tacit loneliness.
To avoid the impolite complications of turning down Helena’s Christmas invitation, Paul sets off for a holiday in Venice, where he meets Mrs. Vicky Gardner. Younger than Paul by several decades, the intriguing and lovely woman is in the midst of a divorce and at a crossroads in her life. Upon his return to England, a former girlfriend, Sarah, reenters Paul’s life. These two women reroute Paul’s introspections and spark a transformation within him.

Paul’s steady and preferred isolation now conflicts with the stark realization of his aloneness and his need for companionship in even the smallest degree. This awareness brings with it a torrent of feelings–reassessing his Venetian journey, desiring change, and fearing death. Ultimately, his discoveries about himself will lead Paul to make a shocking decision about his life.

About this title

About the Author:

Anita Brookner was born in London and, apart from several years in Paris, has lived there ever since. She trained as an art historian and taught at the Courtauld Institute of Art until 1988. Strangers is her twenty-fourth novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1
Sturgis had always known that it was his destiny to die among strangers. The childhood he remembered so dolefully had been darkened by fears which maturity had done nothing to alleviate. Now, in old age, his task was to arrange matters in as seemly a manner as possible in order to spare the feelings of those strangers whose pleasant faces he encountered every morning—in the supermarket, on the bus—and whom, even now, he was anxious not to offend.

He lived alone, in a flat which had once represented the pinnacle of attainment but which now depressed him beyond measure. Hence the urge to get out into the street, among those strangers who were in a way his familiars, but not, but never, his intimates. He exchanged pleasantries with these people, but had learned, painfully, never to stray outside certain limits. The weather was a safe topic: he listened carefully to weather forecasts in order to prepare himself for a greeting of sorts should the occasion arise, while recognizing the absurd anxiety that lay behind such preparations, and perhaps aware that his very assiduity counted against him, arousing irritation, even suspicion. But codes of conduct that had applied in his youth were now obsolete. Politeness was misconstrued these days, but in any event he had never learned to accommodate indifference. Indifference if anything made him more gallant, more courteous, and the offence was thus compounded. And these were the people he relied upon to see him out of this world! Exasperation might save him, though that too must be discreetly veiled, indulged only in private. Hence the problem of finding fault with those whose job it would be to dispose of him.

He had read somewhere that Stendhal, his one-time favourite writer, had collapsed in the street, been taken to a cousin’s house, and had died. That was the way to go, the relative, whether liked or disliked, put in charge. And the point being, not that the relative was held in fond esteem, or otherwise, but that he lived two minutes away from the accident. Thus had chance favoured the great writer who had surely never seen himself as an invalid, had in fact survived the retreat from Moscow. It was therefore essential to possess not only a relative but a relative who would prove to be near at hand. Sturgis had a relative, a cousin by marriage, but she (not a capable he) lived in north London, whereas he was in South Kensington, as distant as it was possible to be. He had even considered moving, particularly on days when the smiles faded from faces after his all too valiant greeting. Surely north London would be more festive, under the Jewish influence? His relative had on several occasions impressed him with stories of how well she was regarded in the neighbourhood, how obliging her acquaintances were, how respected she seemed to be. These attentions had made her not grateful but, rather, imperious, as if the favour were hers. What confidence, he marvelled. He visited her for the entertainment value: his presence, on such occasions of display, seemed to be acceptable, although he suspected she disliked him, as being not quite a man, too given to flattery. His defence against this was his perception that she might be lonely, her local eminence a fiction behind which she took shelter, and himself a useful idiot whose job it was to subscribe to the myth. Exasperation was also present on these occasions, but he was careful to control this until he was safely on his way home. The indifferent faces of his fellow passengers on the bus consoled him, since these were in a way familiar. His lot was ineluctably cast among them, though he trembled at the prospect, for the habit of trust had been lost many years ago, and had in any case been fugitive.

Trust also meant faith, but this he had never possessed. Throughout the obedient years of childhood he had privately observed that God was unjust, or, even worse than that, He was indifferent. To the pronouncement, I am that I am, went the unspoken addendum, Deal with it. Boasting to Job of His omnipotence, His superiority to Job’s peaceable sinless life, He offered no justification for any of this, merely issued a report. And Job had acceded, perhaps because it is preferable to be inside than outside, silently making his accommodation with the idea of injustice, of disproportion. And had been rewarded for his docility with the restoration of his fortune, as if he had agreed to let bygones be bygones. Perhaps he, Sturgis, might have been so tempted, had there been any sort of manifestation. That there never had been any such thing brought a certain comfort, but also an anxiety: was he not worthy? That was the feeling that had lasted, the true legacy of any attempt at a spiritual dimension to his existence. Thus he was truly bereft.

This Sunday, like all Sundays, was far too long. It was the prospect of the endless fading afternoon that had prompted the telephone call to Helena, his relative, the widow of a cousin on whom he had been on affectionate terms. He had felt sorry for her, knowing how difficult it is to live alone, thinking that women felt this more than men. He would have behaved towards her with all his customary, and customarily thwarted, affection had she not made it clear that his role was to be an inferior one, as a recipient rather than as an equal. So he usually resigned himself to a coolheaded appraisal of her folly (and of his), would listen to her accounts of her many friends, among whom was one she referred to as ‘my tame professor,’ and whose function in her life was unclear; there were also her partners at the bridge club—‘the girls’—and the neighbours who invited her to dinner (‘They make such a fuss of me I don’t like to let them down’). There was no need to reply to any of this, nor was there much possibility of doing so. He supposed that she received some reassurance from this recital. As for himself, it may have been something of a relief to spend time in her comfortable flat, to be served a cup of tea rather than to make one for himself, and even to note that this performance never varied. Yet he could see from her restless hands that she was as little at ease on these Sundays (and no doubt on other days) as he was, and that his visits served some sort of purpose. That, he supposed, was why they continued, were in fact seen as inevitable by both parties. They had respect for ancient contractual arrangements, if for nothing else.

And then he perceived the innocence behind such self-regard, the same innocence that fatally coloured his own character, his longing for reciprocity. He perceived it in Helena’s boast of her own desirability, even more in her absolute refusal to give weight to his own life and habits. His presence in her flat was her only sight of him, her only knowledge of him: beyond these apparitions he was assumed to dematerialize. He knew that any attempt to discuss matters of general interest would be thwarted; even his health was a taboo subject, since her own would naturally take priority. He could see that behind her greeting, which was genuine, was the wish that he would not stay long. He also knew that when he was safely on the threshold, his scarf wound round his neck, she would bestow the same lavish smile, clasp his hand firmly, kiss his cheek, and urge him to let her have news of him. Yet when the door closed and he could hear keys being inserted into locks he sensed gratitude for his departure.

But each was the other’s only relative, and somewhere in each consciousness was the memory of a family party or a celebration of some sort, now long gone. Tolerance was now the mode: there would be no sons or daughters round their deathbeds, a subject studiously avoided and valiantly concealed. Also they were the same age, give or take a few months, and in these latter days they would not altogether forgo one another, although they had become increasingly aware that love was lacking, or even friendship. This was an organic relationship, an attachment between survivors who happened to share one or two memories. In such situations feeling, or indeed sentiment of any sort, was secondary. Should either ever be so imprudent as to express sorrow or longing, an important breach in their civility would have taken place. So the polite pretence survived, more on his side than on hers, for he scarcely burdened her with a single thought of his own, knowing that her own preoccupations would occupy the time at their disposal, and each accounting the visit a success if nothing in the way of protest were evinced.

There was regret as well as relief in their leave-taking. They both knew that they might see no one until the following day, after a solitary night into which anguish had easy access. They made a mutual pact to behave well, though good behaviour was not now much appreciated. As soon as he left her dignified apartment building he imagined the smile fading from Helena’s face, as it would now fade from his own. Out in the street he made a conscious effort, always, to straighten his back, so as to appear resolute and confident should anyone be watching. But he was in the darkness of a winter evening and there was no one about. He was frugal with money and rejected the idea of a taxi: he had never been an enthusiastic driver. Besides, the bus was more companionable, more democratic; he liked to share some experiences, though not others. And urban landscapes had always thrilled him; he had spent all his holidays in cities, content with a glimpse of other people’s domesticity. A child on a skateboard, an elderly couple arm in arm, a mother and daughter deep in conversation would furnish him with material for reflection, though this was sometimes unwelcome. Such sights were somehow more picturesque when noted in Italy or France, but even in England there were plenty of lighted windows into which he was careful not to peer, though he could not always prevent himself from stealing a brief glance. His habits were ineradicably solitary, a fact he could not hide either from ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Random House
• Publication date: 2009
• ISBN 10: 1400068347
• ISBN 13: 9781400068340
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 256