One More River, page 8
Daffodil duly appeared, demure in a long skirt and lugging the travel-bag. Young enough, shy enough to be giggly.
“Ooh, the wonderful bathroom, I love baths, can I have one?”
I hadn’t paid any attention to the bedroom side of the room. I was going to take Susie—probably Zsuzsa—to bed, not so much for further dalliance since my capacities are limited but because I am betimes exceedingly physical in reaching out to touch. I was on the sofa with German poetry found in the bookshop that afternoon, next door to earrings for Susie. Insel Verlag, very nice.
‘Ich, Bertolt Brecht, bin aus den schwarzen Wäldern.’ And looking forward to
‘Als sie ertrunken war und hinunterschwamm
Von den Bächen in die grösseren en Flüsse
Schien der Opal des Himmels sehr wundersam’–
“Do you want to wash me?” Daffodil was shouting from next door.
Yes of course, and I’d rung the floor waiter for a bit of supper; champagne (Hungarian, French now being in bad taste) and caviare (red, but with black bread)—the chocolates were his initiative. Really it could have been anyone—I remember too a handyman who came to change a dud light bulb. But I am anticipating.
Few delights equal giving a bath to a new mistress; not that she was, naturally, but there is the soursweet of pretending. And thereafter I put the book down. Daffodil wrapped in a towelling hotel dressing-gown, fluffy and slightly moist from steam: she had played lavishly with the mini-this-and-thats they leave lying around hotel bathrooms; body lotions blah-blah.
“I’ll do your insteps shall I? And your back afterwards.” It would have been horrible to suspect Daff. I did, for a moment (wondering about that bag full of junk as well as her toothbrush); it was horrible.
But the Interlude (ludic, ludicrous—Se vuol ballare, Signor Contino?) had also moments of comic relief; somebody out of Kingsley Amis, possibly, muttering about The Weeping Pleiads Wester to keep in command of states threatening over-excitement, myself hovering between Daffodil’s mouth and lines by Bertolt Brecht; turning her over—they are quite right about the Hungarian ensellure. Pretty mousebush too, top and bottom—rich mouse, fine and soft, really the only ‘childish’ thing about her.
“Should I shave it?”
“Why not?” in a naughty frame of mind. “Or peroxide it.”
No, Kollo would be very cross. Furious this afternoon with a silly girl who’s cut hers heartshape, to fit into her swimpants. Shouting, ‘What will we do now, cut off bits of mine and glue them on?’
“You have to keep the schoolgirl look. For the nunnery, maybe … “
“I can’t make out why they make such a fuss. There was this piece in the paper, fifty per cent of Russian teenagers will do it, twenty-five for money and ten with other girls, me it’s a hundred all the way if I haven’t a stomachache.”
“Girls too?” Peculiar that this excites men, d’you think?
“As long as they enjoy. Times they piss and moan, something chronic.”
“Do you moan?”
“Like this, Oooooh?”
“No, Like Beu-euh.”
“Only in that awful castle which is filthy hot and stinking cold, your back the one and your front the other.”
She was—it’s sufficiently rare—streets beyond Barbie. Was it abject of me to wish she would change magically into Sibylle? My twenty-year-old and very stiff and virginal Sibylle, whom I filled to the brim with Pernod?
Then there came the moment when I wandered over bedward, looking where the chambermaid had put my pyjamas.
She’d left the little greeting-card on the pillow saying ‘Sleep well’—with two chocolates, either side. And right in the centre was a butcher’s knife, biggish one, upright, force used, straight down into the mattress. No message; the medium is the …
I was not frightened. Suddenly I was damned angry. But the appalling habit of writers, seeing everything as book material. I thought of Alan. Not mine, but Stevenson’s.
This too is very ‘writer’—we’re a contemptible crew—that in moments of emotion we’ll steal the words of our betters, and R.L. was both bad and very good … Without understanding a syllable, since her English is cocacola, poor Daff was terrorised. The children to whom I read it aloud knew it as I did by heart.
“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against the bright steel in the hands of Alan.” While picking up the telephone with a shaking hand I gave the naked girl with her enormous frightened eyes the second barrel.
“Before your jottering finger could find the trigger the hilt would dirl on your breastbone.” We speak of a ‘writer’s word’ the way a nurseryman will of ‘a plantsman’s flower’ and ‘jotter’ which contains dodder, totter, judder, is enviable. And pins me to the wall in the one thrust of the dirk.
I had trouble fingering those disgusting little buttons; more getting through. Probably Kollo was in some bordel, if with his mobile-phone glued to the collarbone. Struggle with your goddam collar-button, the girl he had just undressed told Ray Chandler. Detachment was creeping in.
“Listen, Kollo, anybody in your part of the world wanting to be funny and make me shit?”
“Not being hoitytoity is she? I’ll have her skull and bones if she starts overacting.”
“No no, she’s doing my back, she’s the Balinese temple girl. But this shop of yours has a peculiar line in pillow talk.” I made it as brief as I could; one has trouble being succinct under such circumstances. When Waugh (the father, of course) was a foreign correspondent the paper cabled him for confirmation of a rumour of atrocities. Red Cross personnel under shellfire; whatever? Rush instant full details.
He cabled back ‘Nurse Unupblown’. Few of us manage to be exact and laconic together.
Kollo was for once bereft of speech. A cliché that, but at least it’s short. At last he managed “I’ll be round inside an hour.” It’s a pity that ‘Round up the usual suspects’ should have become another: it is the fate of many good lines.
I was not though going to be like RL’s Uncle Ebenezer. I would tremble no longer. We’ve given that up. It would seem now that you, whoever You are, begin to concentrate on putting me in fear, I shall have to try and find means to broadcast a plain fact. Since you burned my house, I have stopped being frightened. Stimulated, and we’ll now put this to the proof. I put both hands on the girl’s bare breasts. She shakes and I don’t. Her nipples are receptive; I dare say I could find a better word but this is no longer the moment for being literary. For being upright; erect; vain of it. “Strike an attitude, Peaches.” Vulgar expression, picked up from Kollo no doubt. He arrived indignant.
“I’ll have a heartfelt word with the management here. Grilled the night porter already, place is full of whores but this passes understanding. We admit, our poor people are impoverished, open to bribery, but hotel help, porca madonna, don’t want to lose their good job. Don’t all work in an honest business like ours …”
“Damn, now I’ve run out of cigarettes.”
“Ring the floor waiter, Daff, tell him Gitanes filter and another bottle of champagne, let’s start with that bugger.” His tail coat was like himself, like the whole place, shiny with wear and a bit greasy. Stevenson’s words came back.
‘A clappermaclaw kind of look to ye, as if ye had stolen the coat from a potato bogle.’ And did it not apply to myself?
John, your life needs simplifying.
What, for example, is the point of all this reading and writing? Most of the human race doesn’t read: why bother? Decipher a few basic instructions; that’s enough.
‘Keep these pills out of the reach of children. Do not exceed the stated dose. Respect the instructions of your doctor or pharmacist.’
Which were oral. There’s no need to go on reading the small print, a whole paragraph about possible unpleasant side-effects, one of which is reading about them. That is for us, the printed-paper addicts.
One learns as children do, from oral instruction, from example, observation, and sitting next to Nellie. Most people are technically illiterate. Put them down in the city and the meaning of ‘Walk/Don’t Walk’ will soon appear. The computer says ‘Enter’. The ads have pretty pictures, and who speaks of an advertisement? Know Latin’n’everything, do we? The voice-over repeats the winning lotto numbers, slowly, clearly. John knew a successful business man who couldn’t read.
“I learned dodges. Shapes; intervals.”
“Like road signs? ‘Direction Porte d’lvry’?”
“That’s right. Like a Morse Code. And a secretary who reads.” He can look at a picture, a building, a landscape. He can hear music. Go to a theatre, a cinema. If he wants it he can get the book on tape, some actor reading it.
These damn notebooks; I’ve carried them around, virtually since I can remember. Everything I ever wrote took initial shape here. There must be fifty or more, at home. No there aren’t; not any longer. American universities won’t get them, now. Too bad … And since the beginning of tins—call it this Adventure—call it what you like, call it ‘Kidnapped’ (one could make something of this title; wasn’t the drift now towards a kidnapping of his life, his personality, his character—a subtle dictation of what he might or should or could do next?) he had put a lot of it between the covers. Lifelong habit, raw material, it might turn into a book. This morning (having nothing else to read) Mr Charles had been turning pages. Taking books away from an addict was, he supposed, very similar to kicking heroin cold-turkey; lock him up and feed him Mars Bars.
Startling, and shocking; on every page, be they scribbles in telegraphese or quite carefully composed passages, were citations, references, paraphrases, from other writers. To be sure, one had always done this. Somebody said, thought, wrote; someone put it neatly, found a good cadence, an original image, a striking coinage. One has relied upon a capacious and retentive memory, now worsening rapidly but at his age, hell, it was to be expected. So that more and more the bits of literature went into the aide-mémoire with the unspoken injunction to look them up when at home and verify.
But this—the addiction had become a grovelling dependence. There was no more home. There must be no more literature. He was in the world now, alone, and could reach out no longer for the comforting hands.
He was reminded now of Roger. Roger is not a writer. Roger is a SDF. It takes so long to say things in French that the wretches put everything in this form; a good language has decayed. Stands for Sans Domicile Fixe; we’d just say homeless, roofless, or on his uppers. According to Roger’s Papers, which might be bogus but he doesn’t know himself, he is thirty. That would be about right. His face is handsome and intelligent; his physique was pretty good when he was picked up. Badly marked by exposure and malnutrition, but healthy enough. Negative on tuberculosis, AIDS, and alcoholism, which isn’t bad for a start. The medical examiner thinks his intelligence is normal. He is well co-ordinated. The police report says ‘unaggressive’. Indeed gentle, with an attractive smile. When found he had no possessions but the clothes he stood up in, and a football, in a plastic bag.
Problem; Roger doesn’t talk. Roger has only two sentences.
‘J’suis tout seul’. ‘J’tape dans le ballon’. Mostly he runs the two together. ‘I’m all alone and I kick the ball about.’
Who is Roger? The social-assistant did her best with the resources she has. I know her; a gentle and sensitive girl. She’s overworked and underpaid; her job is underfunded, undersupported. She has excellent qualifications, is highly experienced. I haven’t the time nor energy for a tirade against the City of Paris and nor has she.
She could make little of Roger because he has been obliterated. Misfortune, misery, suffering and want. There’s a lot of it about.
Roger knows nothing of himself. Had he a wife, children, parents or relatives? He cannot say. Skills, talents? Beginnings—a birthplace, a home ground? An educational level? He is puzzled. ‘J’suis seul, et j’tape dans le ballon.’
We won’t, since we needn’t, discuss the shortcomings of the City. It has still much beauty, and a unique atmosphere. It’s true that every other city looks like a slum in comparison. It is marvellously administered, competent and very clean. It is extremely corrupt; it still makes fewer balls-ups than any comparable city I have ever seen. The poor, on the whole, are pretty well cared for. Were I a clochard—the word comes from ‘clocher’, to limp or be awry—better to be limpy here than anywhere else. What can they do for Roger?
There’s a sickening inevitability to that nothing; thinking too of the generation to come, the ten- and twelve-year-olds. As hopeless, and far more cynical.
Look at me. All the difference in the world. Privilege, money, the safety net. I will not be picked up by the police. Visible resources, a small talent, which I have done little to merit. Knowing a few people. Losing your house—Alan said it; what importance has it?
There’s still more resemblance than I’d care to admit. Since Sibylle left me—J’suis seul, et j’tape dans le ballon. Within my income, of course.
Stevenson’s language—the children relished it. ‘There’s many a lying sneck-draw sits close in kirk, and stands well in the world’s eye, and maybe is a far worse man than you misguided shedder of man’s blood.’ Much can be laid at my door, but not that. Why does the man of blood pursue me?
John has thought of a possible reason; not perhaps as far-fetched as it seems. This lies far in the north, but to fly from Budapest to Stockholm is no more than a variation on getting back to Amsterdam where he has left the Audi, the faithful-truedog. And this might not be what the man-of-blood expects of him. A trail is left, and this time a deliberate trail. If there is an abscess, it must be lanced.
And here he has an ally; an old friend, a good friend. Brigitta is not an ex-mistress. They have slept together, but not so that it would become a comfort-habit. Brigitta does not suck her thumb. Nor did she like thumbsuckers. Had two sides to her head, and liked men who could stand up.
A big girl. She must be well past fifty by now. Big in several senses; quite a massive woman, big Swedish bones and a powerful bosom, lots of fair hair untidy and going grey; broad architectural forehead and wide cheekbones and apple-cheeked; she likes the sun and is always tanned, but not a lie-supine tan: a wind-and-sailingboat tan, and big competent hands and feet. With the promise of more strength, and one isn’t wrong to think so.
Stockholm: not a town I know well so I left the car in Hamburg, which I know better, flew in, took buses, took taxis. It is still not late for snowfall and there was plenty; still not late for winter, and the black-and-white city was sombre, still, quietened by the snow-discipline, the car-hysteria slowed and muffled, trying to lessen the pollution by putting brakes on sand and salt as well as speed.
I had phoned, of course. She is a widow, and she’s often away. Or there might be friends staying in the flat; there often are. But a tranquil voice answered. At home and much so, and alone, and hey, you’re very welcome, and hoy, is it that long a time since we saw one another?
A nice flat in a quiet apartment block and when you look out of these triple-glazed windows you catch glimpses of trees and water. Large, comfortable, untidy, like herself. Book-lined and penetrated by music. She used to be a writer, not a good one but a professional, highly readable, did well and invested wisely, does an agony column in some women’s weekly, quite a lot of social and travel journalism, has radio spots and does a bit of television; speaks good German and Danish as well as an effortless expressive English, which is not quite the commonplace people seem to imagine. I’m reaching my point rather slowly: I’ve much respect as well as liking. I asked her once why she stopped writing fiction. ‘Not good enough,’ she said, and how many writers who are making money will you hear say that?
Brigitta had on a bluish shift frock, simple.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” we both said together.
“Are we staying in or going out?” she asked.
“Don’t want to struggle with all that smoked reindeer today.” She threw her head back to laugh; her throat is lined but shapely.
“Meatballs and pea-soup for you then, stinker.” I wasn’t frightened; she’s a good cook, loves to eat and drink and will sink the single-malt with anyone.
“And Bourgogne.” Robust in all senses. “Come on in to the kitchen.” It’s a lovely eclectic living-room full of flowers and some good modern pictures she’s had cheap from the painters. The kitchen is scrubbed and Swedish. She produced a goodish bottle, with the promise of a better later, and a big ashtray, and vegetables for me to clean. Olga Havlova—there was a woman to be loved; was her kitchen like this? Smoked Spartas, which are cheap Czech cigarettes while peeling her potatoes, among her friends. Including her man, the Prez. “What’s the news then?”
“I am dropping down the ladder rung by rung.” She laughed.
So I told her, as simply as I could, what had been happening to me. She took it calm, coolly. Typically she made the point at once, which I have seen, but I’ve been circling round it, like an incompetent bomb-aimer.
“But this is your Winterreise. Your winter journey through yourself, of exploration and discovery. That it has a crime theme, rather fine that.”
“Nice of you to think so.” She paid no attention to that.
“Egoism and egotism, twined together, the one reasonable and the other base, ignoble; that’s for you to sort out.”
“Yes, well, it has its comic side. But suppose they follow me here, and someone flings a bomb and hits Brigitta, that won’t be quite so funny.”
