Even during the best of holidays there comes a point when the fine balance between relaxation and boredom is disturbed; when the surfeit of leisure can no longer comfortably be contained; a time when – with as little warning as an earth tremor - we wake from the torpidity induced by the first few days of sun, wine and leisure to be oppressed by existential angst – just as though we had woken from deep sleep by the pressure of a full bladder. In this case, Agnes woke both with a dread of her mortality and an urgent need to urinate.
As she surfaced from sleep, Agnes became aware that it was not questioning the very foundations of her being nor yet that extra glass of wine that had awoken her, but the dull buzz of a distant doorbell, the clack of heeled shoes across the floor, the muffled voices and what appeared to be furniture being moved around.
‘Did you hear that? Hey, Tom, did you hear that?’
Tom stirred imperceptibly, muttered and slid easily back into sleep. Agnes dug him sharply in the ribs. She timed this expertly, calculating the exact moment when he would no longer be aware of what had awoken him. He grunted, rubbed his eyes and asked the time.
‘What does it matter what time it is, didn’t you hear that?’
‘Is it another tremor?’ he asks, with all the calm assurance of someone who had slept right through the earthquake the year before, even though the glass table lamp next to him had wobbled and fallen, shattering on the tiled floor.
‘I can’t believe you can’t hear it! Someone is moving around upstairs!’
Tom isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but give him time and the logical answer will come to him, just as a blunt saw will eventually part the wood with sufficient effort.
‘Well, don’t worry, darling, we are in an apartment, you know. They are moving around in their apartment, not ours.’
Agnes sighed with familiar exasperation. Logic, a mildly irritant necessity of her daytime hours was an implacable enemy of her nighttime terrors. She sighed again, with such vehemence that Tom could no longer slip effortlessly back to sleep. By this time even he could hear the noise. He was quite proud of doing so, as he hadn’t got his hearing in, the neglect of which was a source of minor marital discord. He analyzed the sound methodically. First the dull sound of a door buzzer, then a scraping, as though furniture were being dragged around, followed by high heels walking across a tiled floor. Then there was the sound of shoes being kicked off, a distant murmuring of voices and silence.
Tom reached across to cuddle and reassure Agnes. I’m good at this, he thought. She’ll be warmed up and asleep again in a matter of minutes.
‘Don’t, she hissed, ‘I need to go to the loo!’ He flopped back over and watched her rise. In the semi darkness, her rounded shape flattered by the silk nightdress, with her long white hair billowing behind her, she seemed girlishly fragile and insubstantial as slipped silently across the marble floor. He was vaguely aware of a rising desire, or maybe it was just a need to pee. Before he had worked this out, he had fallen asleep once more. Sleep is Tom’s natural habitat – he relaxes into it as a seal does into the ocean – after a tiresome day lumbering around on land he tumbles joyfully into drowsiness till slumber gratefully receives him, billowing around his weightless body and easy conscience in a buoyant symbiosis undisturbed until breakfast time.
Nighttime is an alien country for Agnes. She approaches it with mounting dread, finding excuses to extend the preparations, drinking cocoa like a drug, brushing her teeth for a full two minutes, suddenly remembering she must check her online bank balance, wondering if she has switched off all the lights, lying down and rising again for one final toilet visit. Sleep takes her, not to soothe and comfort, but to test with complex, vivid dreams. She’s fond of recounting these to Tom over breakfast. Sometimes he is not sure what is dream and what is reality. On holiday, she sleeps well the first week, but not the second. Despite the soothing warmth of Tom’s embrace, she lies, eyes wide open, listening to the repetition of sounds from above – the doorbell, the scraping, the footsteps, the unmistakable sound of person or persons flopping into bed.
The following day they sat in their favourite chiringuito on the beach, eating grilled sardines drinking wine and watching the sailing boats.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Tom, ‘Maybe we should book again for next year.’
‘Agreed, but not the same apartment. I don’t like the city centre. And talking about that, I’ve been thinking. I know what the noise is and why it happens every night.’
‘I thought it was just last night?’
‘It’s been four nights now. Don’t you remember? The first night we thought it was a party after the epiphany festival. Then we said it was maybe just because it was the weekend and everyone settling down after the holiday. But last night was Monday; everyone would be back to work, why would you be partying at 4 am on a Monday night?’
‘Maybe it’s someone who works night shifts?’
‘Exactly! But what kind of night shift? New people arriving every half hour? Ringing the door bell? Shoes being thrown off? And remember how we noticed that although it is a big building, we have never seen anyone coming and going during the day? It think it is a ..’ she paused, looking for a delicate way to talk about something almost unmentionable. She wondered if the couple at the next table were English speaking, but decided that they looked far too chic to be British and would not understand what she was about to say. ‘ I think it is a house of you – you know, ill repute.’ She looked at him intently, as though she’d find the answer buried in his moustache.
Tom took a thoughtful forkful of sardines, chewed slowly and delicately removed some bones.
‘So, what do you think, could it be - you know – she glanced around furtively and whispered, ‘Could they be prostitutes?’
‘How would I know?
‘Well, would this be the sort of place that could be a house of you know what? I mean there isn’t a sign, or do they even have signs? How do people get to know where they are?’
Tom motioned the waiter over and ordered more wine. This was going to be a long lunch and he wasn’t sure he could cope with it entirely sober. The waiter nodded as he deftly served the next table with two very large plates with two very small portions of what appeared to be large eyeballed crustaceans. Tom’s stomach lurched as he noted Manuel and Juanita (Tom always named strangers, especially those of a higher social class – it made them appear less intimidating) picked up their forks with patrician dignity.
‘Well?’ demanded Agnes.
‘I have no idea. These grilled sardines are quite good, aren’t they? Who would have thought that burning fish would make it so tasty?’
‘Oh, stop changing the subject! I’m asking a simple question – how do these places operate? I mean they can hardly put up a sign, can they? How do you know where they are?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders and cast his hands wide in what he believed was Mediterranean expression of carefree ignorance. He was as proud of this gesture as he was of being able to order wine in Spanish. Clearly, the aristocratic couple understood his body language better than his Glasgow accent. Manuel smiled conspiratorially and Juanita glanced briefly at Agnes, managing gently to convey a perfect blend of pity and female solidarity.
‘Because…for God’s sake, ’ Agnes hissed loudly, ‘You are a man!’
Tom smiled; partly to stop Manuel and Juanita from thinking they were having an argument, but mostly because the notion of him being the sort of man who might know how to navigate the nightlife of the city was somewhat flattering. He squared his rounded shoulders, puffed out his chest slightly, took a deep breath and announced that Agnes should no longer worry her charming little head about the nighttime mystery. He, Tom Archibald, of Archibald Fine Jams and Marmalades, would solve it.
‘Just leave it to me, sweetheart, I’ll have the answer by dinnertime and then you will sleep easy tonight. Now, how about I order some ice cream?’
Any belief Agnes had that her husband was man enough to solve any practical problem had been swept away on their honeymoon when he had failed to mend the dripping tap in the horrible hotel bedroom in Rothesay. While Tom snored peacefully, she had lain all night listening the steady drip and wondering why she had not married Billy Mathieson instead. As the years passed the question no longer troubled her. Affection for Tom grew steadily, even as the business empire he had inherited faded into a steady, yet gracious decline.
As she surfaced from sleep, Agnes became aware that it was not questioning the very foundations of her being nor yet that extra glass of wine that had awoken her, but the dull buzz of a distant doorbell, the clack of heeled shoes across the floor, the muffled voices and what appeared to be furniture being moved around.
‘Did you hear that? Hey, Tom, did you hear that?’
Tom stirred imperceptibly, muttered and slid easily back into sleep. Agnes dug him sharply in the ribs. She timed this expertly, calculating the exact moment when he would no longer be aware of what had awoken him. He grunted, rubbed his eyes and asked the time.
‘What does it matter what time it is, didn’t you hear that?’
‘Is it another tremor?’ he asks, with all the calm assurance of someone who had slept right through the earthquake the year before, even though the glass table lamp next to him had wobbled and fallen, shattering on the tiled floor.
‘I can’t believe you can’t hear it! Someone is moving around upstairs!’
Tom isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but give him time and the logical answer will come to him, just as a blunt saw will eventually part the wood with sufficient effort.
‘Well, don’t worry, darling, we are in an apartment, you know. They are moving around in their apartment, not ours.’
Agnes sighed with familiar exasperation. Logic, a mildly irritant necessity of her daytime hours was an implacable enemy of her nighttime terrors. She sighed again, with such vehemence that Tom could no longer slip effortlessly back to sleep. By this time even he could hear the noise. He was quite proud of doing so, as he hadn’t got his hearing in, the neglect of which was a source of minor marital discord. He analyzed the sound methodically. First the dull sound of a door buzzer, then a scraping, as though furniture were being dragged around, followed by high heels walking across a tiled floor. Then there was the sound of shoes being kicked off, a distant murmuring of voices and silence.
Tom reached across to cuddle and reassure Agnes. I’m good at this, he thought. She’ll be warmed up and asleep again in a matter of minutes.
‘Don’t, she hissed, ‘I need to go to the loo!’ He flopped back over and watched her rise. In the semi darkness, her rounded shape flattered by the silk nightdress, with her long white hair billowing behind her, she seemed girlishly fragile and insubstantial as slipped silently across the marble floor. He was vaguely aware of a rising desire, or maybe it was just a need to pee. Before he had worked this out, he had fallen asleep once more. Sleep is Tom’s natural habitat – he relaxes into it as a seal does into the ocean – after a tiresome day lumbering around on land he tumbles joyfully into drowsiness till slumber gratefully receives him, billowing around his weightless body and easy conscience in a buoyant symbiosis undisturbed until breakfast time.
Nighttime is an alien country for Agnes. She approaches it with mounting dread, finding excuses to extend the preparations, drinking cocoa like a drug, brushing her teeth for a full two minutes, suddenly remembering she must check her online bank balance, wondering if she has switched off all the lights, lying down and rising again for one final toilet visit. Sleep takes her, not to soothe and comfort, but to test with complex, vivid dreams. She’s fond of recounting these to Tom over breakfast. Sometimes he is not sure what is dream and what is reality. On holiday, she sleeps well the first week, but not the second. Despite the soothing warmth of Tom’s embrace, she lies, eyes wide open, listening to the repetition of sounds from above – the doorbell, the scraping, the footsteps, the unmistakable sound of person or persons flopping into bed.
The following day they sat in their favourite chiringuito on the beach, eating grilled sardines drinking wine and watching the sailing boats.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Tom, ‘Maybe we should book again for next year.’
‘Agreed, but not the same apartment. I don’t like the city centre. And talking about that, I’ve been thinking. I know what the noise is and why it happens every night.’
‘I thought it was just last night?’
‘It’s been four nights now. Don’t you remember? The first night we thought it was a party after the epiphany festival. Then we said it was maybe just because it was the weekend and everyone settling down after the holiday. But last night was Monday; everyone would be back to work, why would you be partying at 4 am on a Monday night?’
‘Maybe it’s someone who works night shifts?’
‘Exactly! But what kind of night shift? New people arriving every half hour? Ringing the door bell? Shoes being thrown off? And remember how we noticed that although it is a big building, we have never seen anyone coming and going during the day? It think it is a ..’ she paused, looking for a delicate way to talk about something almost unmentionable. She wondered if the couple at the next table were English speaking, but decided that they looked far too chic to be British and would not understand what she was about to say. ‘ I think it is a house of you – you know, ill repute.’ She looked at him intently, as though she’d find the answer buried in his moustache.
Tom took a thoughtful forkful of sardines, chewed slowly and delicately removed some bones.
‘So, what do you think, could it be - you know – she glanced around furtively and whispered, ‘Could they be prostitutes?’
‘How would I know?
‘Well, would this be the sort of place that could be a house of you know what? I mean there isn’t a sign, or do they even have signs? How do people get to know where they are?’
Tom motioned the waiter over and ordered more wine. This was going to be a long lunch and he wasn’t sure he could cope with it entirely sober. The waiter nodded as he deftly served the next table with two very large plates with two very small portions of what appeared to be large eyeballed crustaceans. Tom’s stomach lurched as he noted Manuel and Juanita (Tom always named strangers, especially those of a higher social class – it made them appear less intimidating) picked up their forks with patrician dignity.
‘Well?’ demanded Agnes.
‘I have no idea. These grilled sardines are quite good, aren’t they? Who would have thought that burning fish would make it so tasty?’
‘Oh, stop changing the subject! I’m asking a simple question – how do these places operate? I mean they can hardly put up a sign, can they? How do you know where they are?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders and cast his hands wide in what he believed was Mediterranean expression of carefree ignorance. He was as proud of this gesture as he was of being able to order wine in Spanish. Clearly, the aristocratic couple understood his body language better than his Glasgow accent. Manuel smiled conspiratorially and Juanita glanced briefly at Agnes, managing gently to convey a perfect blend of pity and female solidarity.
‘Because…for God’s sake, ’ Agnes hissed loudly, ‘You are a man!’
Tom smiled; partly to stop Manuel and Juanita from thinking they were having an argument, but mostly because the notion of him being the sort of man who might know how to navigate the nightlife of the city was somewhat flattering. He squared his rounded shoulders, puffed out his chest slightly, took a deep breath and announced that Agnes should no longer worry her charming little head about the nighttime mystery. He, Tom Archibald, of Archibald Fine Jams and Marmalades, would solve it.
‘Just leave it to me, sweetheart, I’ll have the answer by dinnertime and then you will sleep easy tonight. Now, how about I order some ice cream?’
Any belief Agnes had that her husband was man enough to solve any practical problem had been swept away on their honeymoon when he had failed to mend the dripping tap in the horrible hotel bedroom in Rothesay. While Tom snored peacefully, she had lain all night listening the steady drip and wondering why she had not married Billy Mathieson instead. As the years passed the question no longer troubled her. Affection for Tom grew steadily, even as the business empire he had inherited faded into a steady, yet gracious decline.