The Driver's Seat by Muriel Spark Read Free Book Online

yellow cotton dress, whose
extremely wrinkled face is the only indication of her advanced age, follows Lise
to the pavement. She, too, wants a taxi, she says in a gentle voice, and she
suggests to Lise that they might share. Which way is Lise going? This woman
seems to see nothing strange about Lise, so confidently does she approach her.
And in fact, although this is not immediately apparent, the woman’s eyesight is
sufficiently dim, her hearing faint enough, to eliminate, for her, the garish
effect of Lise on normal perceptions.
    ‘Oh,’
says Lise, ‘I’m only going to the Centre. I’ve no definite plans. It’s foolish
to have plans.’ She laughs very loudly.
    ‘Thank
you, the Centre is fine for me,’ says the woman, taking Lise’s laugh for
acquiescence in the sharing of the taxi.
    And,
indeed, they do both load into the taxi and are off.
    ‘Are
you staying here long?’ says the woman.
    ‘This
will keep it safe,’ says Lise, stuffing her passport down the back of the seat,
stuffing it down till it is out of sight.
    The old
lady turns her spry nose towards this operation. She looks puzzled for an
instant, but soon complies with the action, moving forward to allow Lise more
scope in shoving the little booklet out of sight.
    ‘That’s
that,’ says Lise, leaning back, breathing deeply, and looking out of the
window. ‘What a lovely day!’
    The old
lady leans back too, as if leaning on the trusting confidence that Lise has
inspired. She says, ‘I left my passport in the hotel, with the Desk.’
    ‘It’s
according to your taste,’ Lise says opening the window to the slight breeze.
Her lips part blissfully as she breathes in the air of the wide street on the
city’s outskirts.
    Soon
they run into traffic. The driver inquires the precise point at which they wish
to be dropped.
    ‘The
Post Office,’ Lise says. Her companion nods.
    Lise
turns to her. ‘I’m going shopping. It’s the first thing I do on my holidays. I
go and buy the little presents for the family first, then that’s off my mind.’
    ‘Oh,
but in these days,’ says the old lady. She folds her gloves, pats them
on her lap, smiles at them.
    ‘There’s
a big department store near the Post Office,’ Lise says. ‘You can get
everything you want there.’
    ‘My
nephew is arriving this evening.’
    ‘The
traffic!’ says Lise.
    They
pass the Metropole Hotel. Lise says, ‘There’s a man in that hotel I’m trying to
avoid.’
    ‘Everything
is different,’ says the old lady.
    ‘A girl
isn’t made of cement,’ Lise says, ‘but everything is different now, it’s all
changed, believe me.’
    At the
Post Office they pay the fare, each meticulously contributing the unfamiliar
coins to the impatient, mottled and hillocky palm of the driver’s hand, adding coins
little by little, until the total is reached and the amount of the tip equally
agreed between them and deposited; then they stand on the pavement in the
centre of the foreign city, in need of coffee and a sandwich, accustoming
themselves to the lay-out, the traffic crossings, the busy residents, the
ambling tourists and the worried tourists, and such of the unencumbered youth
who swing and thread through the crowds like antelopes whose heads, invisibly
antlered, are airborne high to sniff the prevailing winds, and who so appear to
own the terrain beneath their feet that they never look at it. Lise looks down
at her clothes as if wondering if she is ostentatious enough.
    Then,
taking the old lady by the arm, she says, ‘Come and have a coffee. We’ll cross
by the lights.’
    All
perky for the adventure, the old lady lets Lise guide her to the
street-crossing where they wait for the lights to change and where, while
waiting, the old lady gives a little gasp and a jerk of shock; she says, ‘You
left your passport in the taxi!’
    ‘Well,
I left it there for safety. Don’t worry,’ Lise says. ‘It’s taken care of.’
    ‘Oh, I
see.’ The old lady relaxes, and she crosses