He had been told to get out there. The car would continue its journey outside London.
This was certainly London, but he realized now that reaching London wasn’t in itself an advantage; the idea of walking home from where he was was about as reasonable as doing it from Nr. Coulsdon. London was far too extensive.
The district was dark and seemed to be outlying. Having walked a little, he spotted an entrance to the Underground on the opposite pavement, closed with a metal barrier. He went over to see what station it was, in the hope that this detail might help to give him a sense of his bearings. Clapham North. He remembered this name from the Underground map. And so what?
He carried on walking.
Having gone past two streets, on reaching a crossroads, he came across a surprise. A few metres in front of him was a stationary bus with its engine running. The lights on both floors shone with feverish intensity; it was like an island of light. He ran towards it. He still had the strength to run, even in his overcoat. He reached the conductor just as he was taking his leave of an old man, who had the amusing appearance of a travelling salesman. He asked him if the bus was going to the centre of London, anywhere near Oxford Circus. The conductor answered confusedly, in a Cockney accent, perhaps, but favourably – he got this last bit, not the words themselves, just “Charing Cross”, he made those out very clearly.
He boarded the bus and occupied one of the seats at the back, with room for three people, which were attached to the bodywork of the vehicle. Then the conductor got on and the bus pulled away. Apart from him, there was only one other passenger halfway down the bus. He could see him from behind, also with his collar up, his head down, as if he was sleeping.
Strange bus, he thought. It must have been the only one driving around London at that time. What motives justified its existence? What was its function? It probably obeyed a regular, fixed timetable… The conductor stopped in front of him, turned the handle of the ticket machine that hung around the neck of all conductors – and always reminded him of a toy – and out popped a long, cardboard ticket, with that grating sound, through the corresponding slot. He paid with the coins he had left.
The bus raced along the empty streets. He felt overwhelmed by a desire to sleep…
After all, it was easy to understand why they placed so many obstacles and limitations, otherwise Great Britain, a relatively small island in terms of territory, would be entered, because of its economic power, by men of every race, in violent waves, perhaps, and the native population would be smothered…
He had got off, not without the conductor having pointed it out to him, in a street the atmosphere of which he recognized. In effect, he soon saw the bridge which led over the Thames to the Festival Hall. But he couldn’t quite get his bearings. From the Festival Hall, on the other hand, he had had the experience of walking home. There was nothing to stop him doing the same thing now. The important thing was to get to the right departure point, not to start with uncertainty. He resolved to cross the bridge.
The main part of the bridge had been built for the railway, but next to it, at a slightly lower level, was a wooden walkway for foot passengers. His footsteps echoed drily on the wood. Below flowed the turbulent waters of the Thames, seemingly driven by a hidden force. The Thames wasn’t a river for swans. He had seen swans on it, and they always went about – swam about – with an air of unease.
He reached the vicinity of the Festival Hall. In that uninhabited area, the silence became more obvious. He climbed back on to the bridge. Now he could see the other side of the river, which he always associated with the Savoy Hotel – where he’d almost got a job – lit up as if for a party. The lights were splendid and tumbled into the void.
London was an enormous, superior personality, indifferent to the millions of people that lived there in every age. It was also the vast, grey, almost black clouds that stuck in the sky, giving that evening when he’d emerged from a café in Chelsea a special quality. And also a very large factory over in the distance, right next to the river, with a plethora of windows that reflected the sunset and an infernal concentration of noise, which he could faintly make out, of cranes and another thousand powerful machines. And…
If he did have to leave the United Kingdom, where would he go?
In the Finnish Embassy, during the first few minutes, everything had been straightforward. There had been some kind of important ceremony going on at Buckingham Palace – he’d seen men leaving the embassy in top hats and tails.
Things had turned nasty when they’d found out what it was he wanted: to work in Helsinki. Everything had gone pear-shaped, there had been only doubts and problems. In the end, it turned out those in the embassy – or was it a legation? – would have to consult those in the Finnish Foreign Office. All the same, they’d given him a printed piece of paper, which he’d lost.
That business about Finland had been out of curiosity, really. There were other nations about which he’d received more or less favourable reports. He had friends in all of them, though the fact some of them had very advantageous jobs couldn’t be taken as a general rule; it was normally just a question of chance, good fortune…
Germany, France, Switzerland…
Or back to sea.
Better not to think too much about the future, even if it was rather imminent…
On reaching the Strand, confident that he was now on familiar territory, he continued upwards, not very sure of his itinerary, but certain this would serve as a shortcut. He continued going up, unable to find a road he was sure he should turn down. When he finally understood he was close to the BBC building – Bush House, he’d gone looking there for a job as well – he turned around and decided to head back down to Trafalgar Square. This meant he’d taken a roundabout route, but he was fed up of blind alleys and didn’t want to risk going down another.
He couldn’t tell now whether it was still snowing or just raining. Snow or rain, the fact was the water didn’t bother him all that much, unlike normal. He felt as if he could keep on walking for hours.
From time to time, he passed in front of a policeman sheltering under the lintel of a closed door, rigid, all tense, as if focusing on adopting the posture of a statue or on withstanding the cold like a stone… As soon as he got to Piccadilly Circus, he reckoned his goal would be within reach. He would walk up Regent Street to Marble Arch, then go along Edgware Road; later, on the left, he would turn down Sussex Gardens and then, on the right, Westbourne Terrace and after that, on the left again, Craven Road… Everything was relative. Other times, the route from Sussex Gardens had struck him as long.
As he set foot in Piccadilly Circus, in a kind of illumination of his conscience, he remembered the key. He calmly examined the pocket where he usually put it. He then examined, walking all the while, all his pockets – those in his trousers, his jacket and coat. He must have left it in his workday suit. There could be no doubt. The worst thing was the front doorbell was out of order. He couldn’t help asking himself, in a fit of despair, full of rage, “Why this last, small but all-important setback?” He only had himself to blame. When he thought about it from a different perspective, though, the setback almost made him burst out laughing.
If only he had a couple of loose coins, he could ring them up, see if he could wake a member of Mr Strata’s family. But how was he to get change for a pound? For the first time in his life, much to his surprise, he wished there were night watchmen.
Perhaps, if he shouted out loud, he could wake Vicente. Luckily, the window of their bedroom faced the street.
It wasn’t long before he’d have to set out again for Queen’s Gate Gardens.
