The Revolt of Aphrodite: Tunc and Nunquam

by Lawrence Durrell

  But after that gambling outing she seemed to show an increased impatience with constraint, and I began to fear that she might take the law into her own hands. She said to Marchant, “In the long run you can’t deny me my freedom forever. I have the right to start to rethink out my career, to rebuild it if I decide I would like to.” Then she discovered that one of her teeth had been given a small filling which she could not remember having had placed by her dentist. It was just a passing cloud, so to speak, and she was easily persuaded that her memory had slipped. But she was right; when we had another look at the dentist’s jaw diagram we discovered out mistake. “How could I have forgotten,” she said “I who live in such terror of dentists? Ah well, my memory must be failing—it’s old age, darling Felix, that is what it is.”

  Ten days later I braked the car violently in the middle of the village; there was Iolanthe walking nonchalantly out of the door of the Gold Swan, lighting up a cigarette. She burst out laughing as she saw my alarmed face. “I couldn’t resist” she said. “I gave Henny the slip and trotted down for a whisky.” Like the real Iolanthe, who had had so much trouble from her public, she had taken to a brown wig which completely transformed her face. In this way no fans would pester her. I didn’t know what to say; it seemed ridiculous to chide her. After all there was nothing intrinsically dangerous or harmful in what she had done—it was just an agreeable escapade for her. But it made me think. I had a long confabulation with Marchant. We wondered perhaps whether it might be time to move her into a large hotel, say, where there would be plenty of movement, plenty of life around her. Or whether we should buy her a dog—no, but like the real Iolanthe she wasn’t keen on dogs because of the infernal quarantine restrictions in Britain. Well then, what?

  “Felix,” she said “I’ve had a strange feeling growing up inside me that I must change everything—make a break for liberty.” This is what I had been fearing; but she went on in a low infinitely touching tone: “The awful thing is that the inevitable has happened—I always knew it would.” She paused, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. She put her hand on my arm and said, “My dear friend, the worst that could happen—I have fallen in love with Julian. That is what frightens me so much. I was always ferociously independent, as you know. I feel now that I mustn’t sink any deeper into this adoration. I must, so to speak, negotiate from a position of strength. But he won’t help to set me free; he wants me bound and gagged, and at his mercy.”

  She walked slowly up and down the room with her hands in her armpits, thinking. On the table lay a fat bundle of five-pound notes and a specimen signature-card form such as bank managers present when one opens an account. She caught my gaze upon it and smiled. “I was going to open an account but I’ve changed my mind. It’s better to have the cash in hand. Funny thing is that when I’m with Julian, when he bets for me, I turn tremendously lucky. Did he tell you? We won a fortune.” She groped for her slippers and sat down in a chair, frowning and preoccupied. “You see,” she said at last “I must envisage some way of remaining myself, of not being engulfed; I’ve played snakes and ladders with the firm long enough—and at the moment I am snaked out, so to speak, sent to the very bottom of the board. But I can’t stay there; so long as I have health enough and will enough I must try and climb. Unfortunately this is not what Julian wants. It makes him angry. Do you know he even insulted me? He called me ‘the parody of a woman’, said I wasn’t real, that I had a heart of steel wool…. That sort of thing has never been in Julian’s repertoire has it? Well, it just goes to show that we are both under some strain. Felix, something’s got to change to make it all right between us.” O! God!

  Naturally all this talk made me feel ineffectual and distracted, for I could not image any practical changes in her “life” which might meet with these inherited feelings—feelings which belonged to the dead woman whose mind and body he had had foisted upon her in so Faustian a fashion. “But what?” I said vaguely, noting with another part of my mind that her signature was perfect—I mean that it was unmistakably Iolanthe’s handwriting. No professional forger could have produced such a perfect copy. “Let’s not do anything impetuous” I said in the feebly admonishing tone which would be bound, I knew, to irritate her, to fill her with impatience “until you are quite clear of Dr. Marchant. Then we’ll really go over the whole position. By that time perhaps Julian will have thought of something; he may invite you away on the yacht, he may take you to the villa in Ischia or Baalbek. Don’t be too impatient and hasty, that is all I beg.”

  It was all too easily said, and secretly I rather echoed in my heart the impatient sign that she gave now as she sat, looking into my eyes like some distraught jungle-cat—a cheetah, perhaps. Nor did I see really why she should not be allowed to travel about a bit provided she always came back. Of course it would mean that she was out of the range of our monitors, and it was Marchant’s expressed intention to do some depth-findings in the memory-code of the doll’s “mind”—laborious and perhaps as unfruitful (for the most part) as Nash’s depth-analysis which kept people nailed to the horsehair sofa for years on end. She was talking again. “I have been very shaken these last weeks by the fact that Julian is so exactly what I knew, dreamed, felt, he would be. It gives me a strange feeling of unreality—as if he were an artificial man, constructed by my own mind, by my dreams or something…. When he speaks I feel I am listening to someone who is word-perfect reciting a part. It is very queer. But Felix, what a strange mind he has; what extraordinary passions—yet all locked up in steel strong-boxes inside his mind. He attracts and scares me at the same time.” Naturally this did not surprise me; I knew enough about him at first and second hand to gauge the impact of a character like his upon her. The real Iolanthe would not have been any different, of this I was sure. Were they not as alike as two signatures, the dummy and the dead memory?

  “He has offered to let me see all my old film successes again—there’s a projection room apparently in the labs. But that also scares me a little bit; at the moment the mirror seems to console me on the score of beauty—perhaps I should say still flatter? But I don’t really know if I am past it all, films, or whether there might be just a glimmer of chance about recovering my position. Have you any ideas on the subject?” I had none, naturally enough. If she were sufficiently lifelike to live in Claridge’s, surely she could act in front of the camera? What I couldn’t say was: “That would raise a capital problem for us—you see, you were once a world-famous screen star, your face was known to the whole world. But you died! It would take some explaining if you reappeared and competed for the crown all over again. You see, darling, it would put us in the jam of having to find an excuse for your being here. If we told the world you were a dummy you would find out the truth yourself and it would destroy your confidence in yourself, and in the esteem of the world. In fact, you might very well commit suicide or take to drugs—or adopt any other conventional form of self-abasement. In some ways, Io, you are all too human, despite the fine firm construction of you; you are still as affectively mentally fragile as any human counterpart.” All this I said in my own mind. “What are you mumbling about?” said Iolanthe peevishly. “Reciting the creed?” I blinked bashfully and stood up. It wasn’t far off the mark.

  As a matter of fact a muddled series of quotations had been bubbling about in my mind, among which was “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord God.” Where that came from I have no idea, I am not well up in Holy Writ. And then again a line—“freedom, freedom, prison of the free”—from the best of our modern poets.* But none of this provided a coherent frame of reference upon which we could base a discussion of her preoccupations. I had a feeling that everything was beginning to slip a bit; the feeling of ineffectuality grew and grew. I finished my drink and said that perhaps I ought to be going. “So you can’t think of anything?” she said with a touch of grimness. “If of course I am seriously ill and likely to die soon, and if you are simply keeping the truth from me….” It might hav
e offered a way out but in my naïve way I omitted to take the chance. “Far from it,” I said “you are healthier than you have ever been.”

  I took my leave, kissing her softly upon her impatient forehead; and I was glad to do so, in order to think things over a bit in the quietness of the cottage.

  In view of this steady development towards some attempt to claim a margin of freedom for herself, I was not unduly surprised to find her sitting in the garden one morning in a bathing costume, half asleep in a deck chair, and radiating a high good humour. She chuckled with pleasure as she said: “Henniker is not on speaking terms with me. She is furious, Felix, and swears she will report me to you and Dr. Marchant. I ask you, report; I was astonished by the choice of a word, it belongs to prisons or girls’ schools. And all just because I spent half the day in London without telling her. I knew she wouldn’t let me go—why should I tell her? And whose permission should I have sought? Yours?” As a matter of fact, yes; she should have told somebody. But I said nothing. She looked at me quizzically, uncertain whether to scold me or to remain aggrieved, defensive. “I had to see this new film of Escroz. He is one of my oldest friends. So I went. The bus service is very convenient. And I was back by seven. I’ve sent him a telegram to tell him I am well again. I’d like to see him if he could get down here.” I made a mental note of this; Escroz had been at the funeral of the real Iolanthe, and may not have realised that she was once more in the land of the living so to speak. “How was it?” I said, more to conceal my sense of misgiving than anything else. “Not too strong,” she said “but some lovely camera work as usual. He’s marvellous on atmosphere.”

  I coughed. “I’ve had a word with Dr. Marchant,” I said “and we were wondering whether you would not be happier in a hotel like Claridge’s or the Dorchester, with a bit of life and movement around you; you could finish all your tests there for a while and at least get about, shop, and so on.” She was suddenly contrite. She put a hand on my arm. “I’m not trying to be a trouble, Felix,” she said. “It’s just that everything is going so slowly and my health seems wonderful; and I have been made a bit impatient by these meetings with Julian. He is coming back from New York on Saturday. That’s all. A very nominal freedom would satisfy me and cure my boredom for the present; later of course I shall decide what I will and won’t do, naturally.” I did not quite know whether to like or dislike the tone of this last sentence. “You were always an impatient soul” I said, and she nodded humbly. Then she produced something which, considering the terms of reference, sounded out of character. “Last night I hardly slept a wink, and had to take a sleeping tablet or two. I hope it isn’t a return of the old migraine I had in Athens long ago. What a supplice.” Of course it was part of the old memory-code coming back, and from that point of view unexceptionable; nevertheless it hinted at strain of some kind. She had taken a very strong dose of M.I.S.T.2 I presumed the taking was an imaginary act, for the tablet could not by any conceivable manner of means have had any effect on her body as it was then constituted. “Did you sleep at last?” She nodded. “But I had palpitations and nausea and so on.”

  Beside her on the lawn lay a long gunny sack full of her fan-mail. (I had a whole department busy writing nothing else; they were part of our verisimilitude-team, as we called them, filling in and reviving the quotidian life of the Ur-Iolanthe.) The letters were of course all fabrications; any answers that she wrote back to these imaginary fans came straight back to us for analysis. Henniker spent a part of every evening taking letters destined for fans and sending out signed photographs and so on. All this part of her life worked impeccably so far, it seemed. A mountain of glossy screen-stills lay neatly stacked on the rack above her writing desk with its many pictures of leading men in silver frames. There was one empty photograph-frame among them which I knew was going to be destined for a picture of Julian (she had asked for one and he had promised to have one sent to her). But which Julian—that was rather the point? Yes, which?

  * * * * *

  You will appreciate that I am simply recording all this matter of fact as I can for the record—both personal and scientific, I suppose. I don’t remember being particularly surprised by the dénouement when it started to work out—I mean the sudden fugue and disappearance of Iolanthe; but just about the same time other events started to impact themselves so that when I think back upon this period I see a succession of juxtaposed images rather than a straight chronology of events. But the whole thing led up in a steady series of small surprises to St. Paul’s. Benedicta is sitting beside me following the recording; from time to time I switch off to debate a date or an event with her. It’s taken a hell of a while, and in this summary I am of course dealing with quite a long extent of serial time. Since Iolanthe disappeared, of course, all our monitoring preoccupations were so much wasted machine-food. Marchant and I, Julian and Benedicta, we seemed to spend all our time on the phone; and every time it rang it was something to do with her, some polite hint, or a tip-off from a friend.

  But her disappearance was very quietly and confidently planned; Henniker woke up at early light to find herself pinioned to the bed with a length of stout cord. Skilfully, too, for she could not free herself and had to wait for Marchant’s regular morning visit. Iolanthe was walking about the room chuckling in a rather sinister, disoriented way, and packing two of her pigskin suitcases with the most indispensable articles of wear. Clothes, wigs, personal notepaper, etc. etc. She was deaf to the protestations of Henniker who by now was almost beside herself with fury and anxiety. She tried to get her to say where she was going, but the busy figure would not even turn its head, let alone answer. She packed with miraculous speed and despatch, still making this queer crepitation. Henniker gritted her teeth and renewed her appeals. She wondered whether to scream for help—but who would have heard her at such an hour and in such a place? Useless! Once the task was complete Iolanthe drew the curtains and looked out, as if expecting someone, and the thought did cross Henniker’s mind that perhaps Julian might be abducting her. The clock struck. Quickly, like a master cracksman after a night’s work on a safe, Iolanthe made herself a cup of tea and drank it in imaginary fashion. She came and stood before the pinioned figure of her profoundest human friend, slowly sipping and staring down into her eyes, saying nothing, sunk apparently in the profoundest reflection. Then there came the sound of a car. Iolanthe was shaken by little sobs, tiny youthful little sobs, so separate, so painful. Nor could Henniker now restrain her own tears. “Iolanthe, don’t leave me.” But the mechanical maenad was already humping the two large suitcases to the door, and thence down the garden path to the car. Later we found that she had simply ordered the village taxi to come for her and take her into the town where she caught the morning train to London. That was that. It may well be imagined that this event threw us all into a frightful disarray. Marchant first flew into the most terrible rage and threw equipment about, and then sat down on a stool and cried. It was curious what we had come to feel for this creation; one felt a little as if one’s heart were broken.

  Julian appeared looking as if he were fresh from hell. An urgent conference was held; it was first necessary to try and work out the places she might visit, the people she might call on. But this was a task of the greatest complexity; Iolanthe was a citizen of the world. Besides, nothing could have prevented her from taking a plane to Paris or Rio—she even had Iolanthe’s old passport. It was necessary to invoke the aid of the police but on what terms? Could we ask them to watch the ports and air terminals by saying that she was wanted for some crime—larceny perhaps? An excuse must be found so that the law could weigh in and help us trace her. “She must be brought back alive and undamaged” Marchant kept repeating, somewhat absurdly I thought. Alive! The police when we finally alerted them were kindly, understanding and very efficient; and we did have a collection of pictures of Io in her various wigs. But it took a long time to try and formulate a story which might not seem too preposterous; somehow one didn’t dare to talk abo
ut a dummy which was at large. Yet there was hope; between the firm itself and the police force we managed to throw out a fairly effective net into which, with any luck, she might stray.

  Somewhere in the real world, freed from the dead sanctions of science, strayed the new Iolanthe, perfectly equipped to mix into the background of people and events without raising the smallest suspicion that she was not as others were. But it was a blow, and there was no disguising it; moreover until we were sure of her whereabouts, or indeed of her fate, we had no stomach for anything else; we had concentrated so deeply upon her that all other work of the firm seemed suddenly stale, profitless.

  She went to see her agent who reported the fact at once to Julian; but though we tried we could not trace her. However it proved that she had been in the London area and was still travelling about incognito in a wig—apparently fully aware that if her fans recognised her she risked being compromised with us. She was clever and agile. We could not watch all the cinemas and all the theatres, but we managed to keep an eye on some of them, and in particular those where likely films or plays were being put on. She was signalled as coming out of the Duchess one night; but if it were she, she slipped through the net once more. Other sightings were reported from various parts of the country now, as if she were moving about fairly quickly. Harrogate was a likely one—she had always liked Harrogate. But again we were too late. One day she even walked into the firm, though nobody saw her, and left a note on Julian’s desk.