The Unforgiving Minute (9 page)

room, I was terribly depressed. Was a love like theirs the thing

I’d been searching for my whole life? I thought it might be.

The comedy was pleasant and enjoyable. The humor was

totally comprehensible to an American. I loved the London

theater. Most of the theaters were quite small and the seats

were usually never really bad. The prices were much better than

New York. There were several differences. In London, you had to

buy a program in contrast to the free playbill you received at

New York theaters. In London, you could usually buy chocolates

or other such refreshments from your seat. I decided to take the

Underground back to the hotel. The London Underground is the

equivalent of New York’s subway. There, the similarity stops.

The Underground is clean, comfortable, reasonably safe, and is

easy to navigate. It consists of many different lines, crossing

each other in various locations, making transfer from line to

line easy. You pay by destination, purchasing a ticket at your

point of departure and presenting it at your destination. Most

of the stations are so far underground that you reach them by

escalator or elevator.

It was my day for experiences that I’ll remember the rest

of my life. This one has racked me with guilt for years. I

stepped on the train at a stop about a half a block from the

theater. The train was crowded, so I was obliged to stand. I

didn’t mind because the trip to the hotel was short and involved

one transfer. At the very next stop, the doors opened. On the

platform, obviously waiting for a different train, was a middle-aged couple, I suppose about my age. He was wearing a bowler hat

and a sedate dark blue suit, she, a white ruffled dress.

Suddenly, while the doors were still open, the man turned

a pale, yellowish white and collapsed to the platform. No one on

the train moved to help. The woman screamed and cried

hysterically, “Oh my God, help, please, oh my God, oh God, God.”

Still, no one moved. I stood there frozen; I don’t know why.

Maybe I was waiting for someone else to move. The expressions on

the riders didn’t change. It was as if everyone was making

believe it wasn’t happening.

I have been trained in cardio-pulmonary resuscitation at

our local firehouse on Long Island and could have done something.

I finally started to move toward the doors when they closed. I

looked around. Still, the expressions were the same. It was

like a dream. I looked out the window and the man was lying

there. Finally, some new arrivals on the platform started to

give help. From the looks of the man, he was probably dead when

he hit the ground, but that didn’t assuage my guilt. The other

people on the train acted as if nothing happened. There was not

even the buzzing of frantic conversation. As far as they were

concerned, it never happened. I’ve been a New Yorker all my life

and I know the reputation of New Yorkers, but I couldn’t imagine

that happening there. I exited at Oxford Street for the short

walk back to the hotel and I was in a state of extreme

depression. It hurts me now even to tell this story. I looked

in the paper the next day but something like that isn’t really

news in a big city and the newspapers in England are all of a

national nature even though they may be called the London Times

or Manchester Guardian.

That’s why you can never find a local movie schedule in a

British paper. I was so upset when I got back to my room that I

forgot I hadn’t eaten dinner. I looked for a book to read and

laughingly realized that since I started the trip I had read six

pages of Madame Bovary. How was I going to start a book to give

me a flavor of England, when I hadn’t fulfilled my promise to

read the French classics in France? I picked up Madame Bovary

and started to read it again. I read about three more pages and

said to myself, “Oh great, Bob, now we’re reading a book about

adultery. This will never do.” Wasn’t there some other subject

I could get into? I threw the book across the room, still

agitated over my traumatic experience of the evening. I kept on

torturing myself. Why didn’t I move for the door faster? Why

did I have to be such a sheep and do what everyone else did? I

reached for the vodka bottle and poured myself about three

fingers, neat. I gulped it down and waited for the blessed

anesthesia of the alcohol to envelope my body. When it didn’t, I

poured about half a drinking glass full. I staggered to the

radio and put on some classical music. Through my haze it

sounded like Wagner or Mahler, I couldn’t tell which. It was a

great combination; alcohol, a depressant, the depressing events

of the evening, and Wagnerian music, another depressant. I

peeled off my clothing, put on my pajamas, and fell face down on

the bed. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, I cried

myself to sleep.

I slept fitfully, waking up several times in a pool of

sweat. I awakened at about seven a.m., unable to sleep any

longer. I was lonely and depressed and considered going home

very strongly. I decided instead to spend the evening with the

Dinsmores and leave as soon as possible for a spa to get my body

and mind in shape. I was sure the Dinsmores would know the name

of a good one. My immediate problem was how to fill up today. I

wasn’t due at the Dinsmores until seven p.m., so I had twelve

hours to kill in a city I had been to at least twenty times. I

steeped myself in a hot bath and read the London Times, which had

been slipped under my door earlier. After bathing, shaving, and

dressing, I managed to kill an hour and a half. I breakfasted in

the hotel dining room. There were several other diners there,

both single males and couples, and I wished someone would strike

up a conversation. I tried to make small talk with the gentleman

at the next table but to no avail. Between eating and reading,

another hour passed. I went back to the room in a state of

nervous agitation. I could not remember ever feeling so nervous.

I didn’t know if it was the incident on the Underground or my

extreme loneliness. I desperately wanted the crutch of speaking

to Ann Marie, but I knew that it would not be wise to call her.

I wanted to write to the kids, but I wasn’t in the mood. What I

really wanted was Jane. I missed her constant company very much.

I realized that Jane had replaced Laura totally. This was

telling me a lot about myself.

At least one good thing had been accomplished on this

trip. I was getting a good look at Robert Boyd, and I didn’t

particularly like what I was seeing.

I decided to spend a few hours strolling through Hyde

Park. There has always been something relaxing about Hyde Park.

Aside from the fact that it is tranquil and pretty, it is

colorful and steeped in tradition. On the northeast corner is

“Speakers Corner,” where just about anyone who cares to can get

up on his soapbox and carry on about any subject. On the west

side along Kensington is the Albert Monument, a garish piece of

architecture built by Queen Victoria in memory of her husband,

Prince Albert. On the south is the Wellington Monument in memory

of the Duke of Wellington. There is also a band shell and

several small lakes.

I walked west from the hotel to Park Lane and turned north

to find a subway. (A walking tunnel under the road.) The one I

found took me to Speakers Corner. I stood with a small crowd of

people and watched a scruffy-bearded young man rave and rant

about nuclear armament. In another part of the Corner, which is

quite large, a rather well-dressed, professorial type was

speaking on “Save the Elephant.” In addition, there were several

evangelists and a Hare Krishna group. It was immensely

entertaining to go from group to group and listen. I’ve always

wanted to film it on video tape. I think it would make a great

short subject.

After an hour had passed, I tired of Speakers Corner and

set out for Hyde Park itself. It was another lovely day and I

enjoyed watching people. There were nannies and young mothers

pushing baby carriages, children playing, elderly people

strolling leisurely, and all varieties of third-world people who

seemed to have converged on London in recent years. There are

canvas chairs liberally spread through the park that are

available for lounging. Each time I saw them I always wondered

how long they would last in Central Park. My guess was no more

than five minutes. As I watched joggers going through their

routine, I again thought about how much I missed exercise. I had

a renewed desire to work on my body and looked forward to the

next phase of my trip. I looked around and noted that most

people my age or older who weren’t indulging in some exercise

were dressed, as I was, in coat and tie. The younger people,

however, were just as informal, perhaps more so than in America.

The punk haircut with shaved temples and hair dyed in shades of

green, blue and purple seemed to be an ever-growing fad. Some of

them even had tatoos where the hair was shaved from their

temples. Both the male and female of this species seemed to wear

large earrings and dress in the most outlandish manner. Some of

them seemed to be ruining what should have been good looks with

this get-up. I prayed that this was just a fad and wouldn’t gain

large acceptance as long hair did in the sixties and seventies.

There were football (soccer) games going on and I stopped

to watch from time to time. When I looked at my watch, I was

gratified to see that it was after two o’clock. I decided to

walk to Harrod’s Department Store in Knightsbridge and pick up a

gift to bring to the Dinsmores this evening. I exited the park

on the south side and walked west to Harrod’s. The walk took

about fifteen minutes and, as usual, I was awed by the sight of

the famous department store. The store was about a block square

and its style of architecture was Byzantine. Minarets protruded

from its roof line prominently. The inside was like no other

department store in the world. In addition to the usual articles

one would find in a department store, there was a food department

which featured one of the largest butcher shops I’ve ever seen.

I mean a real butcher shop, not one with wrapped meat as found in

a super-market. There was floor after floor, section after

section, of the most exotic items. It was like spending time in

a museum. Finally, just before leaving, I picked up a basket of

candies, nuts, and dried fruit to take to the Dinsmores. As I

headed back to the hotel in a cab I realized that I couldn’t

spend another day doing what I was doing without going completely

crazy. I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want lunch and was suddenly

very tired from lack of sleep the night before. When I returned

to my room, I took off my clothes and slid beneath the sheets for

a few hours of badly needed sleep.

The Dinsmores lived in a town house in the Baker Street

area, near the University of London. As I sat in their cozy

living room sipping an excellent cognac, I looked at the

comfortable surroundings. The room was furnished in what

appeared to be mid-Victorian. The seating was replete with soft,

comfortable cushions that all but embraced you as you sat. The

color scheme was burgundy with hints of tan. The lamps had a

touch of India and the lighting was soft and on the dim side.

The curtains were of fabrics that had a hint of the Orient. The

cognac was poured from a cut-glass decanter that was an object of

art. I sat in a deep chair that was so comfortable I had trouble

staying alert. The Dinsmores sat, slightly apart, on a large

sofa. Christine spoke.

“Well, Robert, you said you would explain why Julie isn’t

with you and you sounded very strained. Is something wrong?”

“I really don’t know how to explain this,” I said. “It’s

like … like … well, we’re kind of separated.”

Both of them seemed to straighten up in their seats and

they looked at me with disbelief.

“I don’t believe it,” John said. “You looked like the

happiest couple.”

“Well, how can I say it? What you see in public is not

always the real story.”

I proceeded to tell the whole story, leaving out the

amorous adventures. As far as they knew, I was wandering around

Europe alone.

“I think we’ve been good friends long enough for me to say

this, so I hope you’re not offended,” John said with a look of

pensive concern. “You probably need professional help. You

should have sought a good psychotherapist before taking on this

madness. You understand, don’t you, that this is a rash and

impulsive act?”

For some reason, I didn’t expect to be reprimanded. I

thought I would get total support and sympathy. My first impulse

was to bolt and run in a fit of pique.

“Really, I know what it looks like, but I’ve given this a

lot of thought for a long time and I think it’s the only way I