A Long Silence

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘No, Dicky,’ in his friendliest tones, ‘be advised by someone of more experience than yourself. Take a nice, long, quiet walk – it’s a fine evening. Don’t dramatize the situation. If this woman, or any of these other absurd comedians, makes a further appearance you may be well advised to let me handle them. And Richard … avoid the adolescent temptation to melodrama. You might be attracted by some emotionally satisfying scheme like jumping down the well and leaving a cunning little note behind – just recall that cutting off your nose in order to spite your face is not going to improve your features. Put your jacket on. Have a pleasant stroll. Remind yourself that you are a young man of promise. That you have your foot upon a ladder leading to fortune. That you only have to keep your nerve. Oh, and by the way, Dick – should you find any of these zealous seekers after retribution hanging about, since they seem to be dogging your path – you’ll remember what I told you, won’t you. No more little fits of hysterics – the one is reparable, and you can safely leave me to deal with it. But a few more unguarded outpourings of your sensitive nature, and one might not be able to guarantee quite so optimistic a prognosis. Bear it in mind.’

  Dick was sitting with quiet docility, the strained wild look gone from his face. He looked soothed and reassured.

  ‘Well, you’ve got me in a basket, haven’t you?’

  ‘True, but that’s not the way to look at it. A basket can be a very comfortable conveyance. You’ve done well, Dick, you’ve got promise. Accept the idea of a setback here and there; accept that there is a price to pay for all success. Instead of getting tangled in these childish guilt-feelings, turn your energies towards advancement. And learn patience, Dick. Take a leaf out of old Louis’s book.’

  ‘Huh?’ The boy was surprised.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ nodding gently. ‘I’m not going to give away any little family secrets, and you needn’t waste time in speculation. He’s an old man now. Looked up to. Admired. Respected. Has a very pleasant existence. Could have had a great deal more, but had no ambition. Patience. Objectivity. The ability to accept small constraints. And you’re a very young man. You can go a great deal further. There, I’ve given you a few themes for meditation. Buzz off now, Dick, like a good boy: I want to be left in peace.’

  The boy got up and walked to the door, turned with his hand on the knob and said, ‘But if these people come hanging round the shop …?’ Saint was giving an example now of patience. He looked up from the New York Times, which seemed again to be getting his full attention, and said calmly, ‘I’ll be spending a few days in the shop, Dicky. Don’t worry about anything at all. You know that you can rely upon me. You understand that it won’t be in my interest to get myself lumbered with these well-meaning persons who have imaginary grievances. I’ll get that tidied up. You can relax completely. And in a little while – you’ve been working very hard and it is natural that you should be feeling the results of overstrain a little – you can start making plans for a really delightful holiday. There – I’ve given you a few serious subjects for thought. There’s a more pleasant one for your mind to occupy itself. Off you go now.’

  And with perfect docility, the boy opened the door and closed it softly behind him. Saint listened till he heard the thump of the street door below, smiled, put down the paper and began carefully to mix himself another drink.

  *

  There is something comic, almost ludicrous, about the idea of those two human beings walking on a fine spring evening around the pavements of Amsterdam, working on the same problem, unaware of one another. They both tacked to and fro undecidedly, something like two chess players on a problem. Now and then one would pick up a queen, or a knight, and move it thoughtfully to a new square, ponder for a moment, shake their head and put it back. If so, then so, and if not so then also so. Difficult. But they were not playing against one another, and there was plenty of time. It was only eight-thirty. All night ahead of them. And though both had had a long day, and had suffered a nervous crisis, both had reserves of nervous energy, and were not yet wearied out. They came, several times, quite close to one another at street crossings without ever actually meeting. Even if they had met they might not have noticed; both saw very little of what was going on around them. As for Mr Saint, uppermost in both minds, he was working in very much the same way. He had been going to go out, and phoned to cancel the appointment. He made himself comfortable instead with a tin of jellied duck, for like a prudent man, he always had something in the refrigerator. Afterwards he made himself a cup of coffee with his little Vesuvius machine, and glanced over the street from the darkened window of his bedroom before drawing the curtains and going back to the brightly-shimmering comfortable living-room, gay with sprays of flowers and the reflections from the many mirrors, where he stirred his coffee thoughtfully and began to walk softly up and down, preoccupied with the pattern of his carpet and moving chess pieces here and there across it, his hands in his pockets according to his habit, fingering and turning pieces of small change between his supple fingers.

  *

  Louis Prins was not an old man; he was only sixty and in good sound health. But he had had a long day, driving back all the way from Belgium: four weary hours in the seat of a car had given him an irritable fatigue, and a certain amount of dull pain which, he suspected uncomfortably, might be due to his prostate. He had been to look at a picture that might – just might – have been by Rogier van der Weyden and be worth trouble with the prostate. He had been pretty sure in advance that it wasn’t, and after looking at it felt quite satisfied that it was a good seventy years later just for a start, but he had bought it. One bought anything from that period, and only too pleased to have it. The price was high, and might have been a great deal higher but that it was, as he pointed out, quite unattributed. A simple matter; he kept such pictures for several years, so that he could never be accused of speculation. Meanwhile, he would gather a body of responsible opinion, which would quite certainly not be wasted. The panel was warped, and much of the paint terribly shaky and fragile, and in a couple of places exceedingly badly restored with crude overpainting, but he knew a very good man to see to such things.

  On the way back he had called at three houses from which people had written to him, saying they possessed seventeenth-century candlesticks, a ruby necklace (the collar of Préster John, to hear them talk!) and a Rubens. The one was nineteenth-century plate, but early, pretty, and not worn at all, so that no copper showed – but of course the marks told one at once. The second was heavy but finely-set Victorian garnets, lovely craftsmanship; modish stuff too now. The third was small and woolly but of the period – their guess hadn’t been so bad after all; came from the studio, he thought. He had bought the lot; not at all a bad day. He had even picked up some china. When in a house it was always a good rule to be extremely thorough, and rummage through the attic since one was there anyhow. They had thought nothing of it at all, but it was famille verte, and a piece or two not even chipped.

  In the rush-hour, on the road outside Amsterdam, he had pulled off to let the flood go by, and had had something to eat. Imitation Indonesian – oh well, it was healthier to eat rice than those detestable fried potatoes. No lover of golf, it was difficult for him to get enough exercise, but inside the city of Amsterdam he walked everywhere, and that kept his stomach within bounds. He wasn’t old! Still had that powerful appetite for little girls … Had had to keep the taste for very little girls within extremely careful bounds since the extremely unpleasant episode from which he had only got extracted by the help of that … no, he had learned that it was no use calling the fellow names. A dreadful fellow, and indeed, Louis had decided more recently, a damned unpleasant piece of work. But at least he respected the agreement, and left one in peace. He showed signs nowadays of losing all interest in the business – except of course for his cut in the dividend; he didn’t neglect that! My god, his own sister’s son … No real family blood, knew nothing whatever about art. Monetary values, oh yes, hot on that, could
always tell you what a similar piece had fetched at Christie’s’ six months ago. Was showing signs now of wiping the Amsterdam dust off his elegant shoes, good thing too. By all means go to wherever it was – Louis didn’t know. Saint Tropez or somewhere, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised. And welcome … He’d got that boy installed. Seemed to think the lad trustworthy … well, he was, on the whole.

  Bright and smart and energetic. Knew absolutely nothing, but that, by and large, might be an advantage. A well-set-up young fellow, presentable, and what was a rarity nowadays nice manners. Called him by his first name – ‘Louis’ as bold as brass instead of ‘sir’ – but they all did nowadays. What he liked about the boy was a certain sensitivity. Not really a feeling for art, but at least a notion of what was beautiful, what was honourable. He himself was dishonourable, but not about art … Bosboom had understood that. He regretted Bosboom very much indeed: they had respected one another. This boy was a whippersnapper, but he did seem prepared to learn, to wish to understand. He didn’t think he knew it all already, like Larry. Larry! Wasn’t Leopold an honest enough name for him then? It had been good enough for the old king of the Belgians, a much abused man. It hadn’t been his fault that Astrid had died! And when invaded by those Germans, just look at the way the French had behaved! Gave one a respect for a monarchy. But they’d no one like old Wilhelmina now. The man of the family, Churchill had called her. Still, Juliana was a good woman, a fine woman. He didn’t regret coming back. He hadn’t liked Washington. Fine pictures there, though … oh he was tired. He put the car away. The big Citroen Safari stationwagon was an impossible thing in towns, and most of all in this one – this town had been progressively ruined, from the moment that ghastly burgomaster had taken the decision to fill in the Rozengracht – but it was a dam’ fine car on the road. And you could get anything into it – right up to one of those great massive rustic armoires. The cabinetmakers gave good money for those nowadays – cannibalized the wood. That was an old tradition. As far back as before the war he recalled a cabinet-maker in one of those little streets in the Pijp who used to copy Empire and even eighteenth-century pieces in old wood. What was his name? Nice old man, wonderful craftsman. Van der Velde, Van der Vliet – he couldn’t recall. It was so very long ago. Amsterdam had changed so utterly, and was it the loss of the Jews? That extraordinary ant-heap around the Waterlooplein, or the Jonas Daniel Meyerplein – there’s a good honest name for you. Those Amsterdam Jewish names … Komkommer, Augurkiesman! Why, when he was a boy, one of his first girls had been called Bloemetje Visschoonmaker! Little-Flower Fish-Cleaner!

  Louis went up his stairs, puffing now and heavy, fumbled with the landing light, the flat-door key, took off his coat, washed his hands and went to the lavatory – reminded again, unpleasantly, of his prostate gland. One would have to go to Sussman for that – oh well, there were still good doctors in the world. It wasn’t a difficult or dangerous operation nowadays. He set down the Flemish painting with great care. That panel was ready to split, and the paint is loose as hell. And it’s a very well-made piece, with a lovely feeling. Just look at that little Rubenesque canvas. Not bad – the draperies are quite well painted. But trash, by comparison with the other.

  The flat was very still. His old housekeeper was long since gone. In the kitchen he found an apple tart – dear old girl, she wanted to give him pleasure, and knew how he loved apple tart. He would have a piece of that.

  And suddenly the street-door bell went. What was that? He never had visitors. Except for girls, and they came by appointment! A mistake, no doubt. He moved over to the speakbox set by the kitchen door, pressed the switch and said heavily, still a scrap out of breath from the steep stairs,

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Richard.’ Distorted by the microphone, the boy’s voice sounded breathy and squeaky; for a moment indeed Louis found himself wondering who Richard was. Devil take it, he was in no mood to be bothered with nonsense.

  ‘Mm,’ grudgingly. ‘Come on up then.’ He pushed the release button for the street door in no very sweet frame of mind. Tiresome boy! He went to open the flat door and was shocked at the strained, haggard face.

  ‘Hallo, Richard – what’s up then? Something gone wrong with the shop?’

  ‘No – no – but can I see you, Mr Prins? – it’s more … it’s more – ‘The voice shot up and down, alarmingly. Louis scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘All right, Richard, all right, go on in. You just caught me – I’m hardly back ten minutes.’

  ‘I know – I tried earlier.’

  ‘Sit down, boy, then – cool off.’ The boy did cool off, heaven be thanked. The luxurious shabbiness of the room, the rather stuffy atmosphere, Louis’s solid, bulky presence, his trick of brushing along his moustache with a big square forefinger seemed to have a sedative effect that took hold at once. What began as a jerky, uncoordinated gabble with sudden shifts in time resolved itself at once into a coherent narrative which kept Louis still and silent until the flow exhausted itself. By then he had not only grasped the situation but knew – it was inevitable – what he had to do. The tale was lunatic – but the boy wasn’t. Saint, on the other hand, probably was. With this conclusion he got up and padded over to the decanter – it was nearly empty and he had to go to the corner cupboard for a full bottle. His conclusion was unexpectedly verified.

  ‘I think he’s off his head,’ Dick offered suddenly, to his back.

  He turned round slowly. He knew the story was all true. He uncapped the bottle slowly, poured himself a half-glass of whisky.

  ‘I see. And you came to me. Well, that was quite right.’

  ‘You’re being very patient,’ said the boy with a half-smile. ‘He said you were, too. He said I should copy you and be patient.’

  ‘Do you know what he meant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hm.’ He drank some whisky slowly. ‘I do, though.’

  ‘What?’ with a touching naivete.

  ‘You’ll probably learn, before very long,’ said the old man, grimly. ‘Very well, Richard, you’ve told me. Put your mind at rest. There’s nothing more you can do. I’ll handle this.’ He sat down again heavily, finished the whisky, staring over the rim of the glass at nothing; fell silent.

  ‘You don’t think I ought to go – to the police, I mean?’ timidly.

  Louis came back with a start.

  ‘The police – no. Or at least – not yet. You’ve shown me confidence, Richard, and I’m very grateful. This is your business too. But will you now trust me further – will you allow me to handle this my own way?’

  ‘Yes – yes of course. But what am I to do? I mean now.’ Louis had lit a cigar; it was not drawing very well. He puffed at it, took it out and looked at it with a mild irritation. Wrapper cracked – he threw it away.

  ‘Got any money?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Go to a hotel. Stay the night. Do nothing. Just go to the shop as usual, in the morning. Open it up as usual. You’ll see me, very shortly afterwards. I’ll tell you then, what I think best.’

  ‘Very well,’ much relieved. ‘Er – could I have a drink?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes of course. Help yourself. By the way – you still got the keys?’

  ‘Of the flat? Yes. But he said he’d change the locks, though he probably didn’t mean that. I think he feels sure of my coming back.’

  ‘He does, yes. But give them to me, would you?’ Boy looked as though he were only too glad to get rid of them.

  ‘Suppose he’s put the bolt on?’

  ‘Why then,’ said Louis reasonably, ‘I’ll ring e bell.’

  ‘Mr Prins … what about that woman?’

  ‘Never mind about the woman,’ irritably. ‘I’ve no doubt I’ll know how to find her. Go on now, R chard,’ impatiently, ‘I’ve a lot to do. Go to the movies.’ He managed to give the boy a smile, tapped him on the shoulder, assumed a hearty tone. ‘No further worries for now. Don’t bother. I’m an old man – I’ve seen more quee
r things in the course of my life. Just leave it to me.’ The boy got up uncertainly. ‘Everything will be all right,’ said Louis with a confidence that surprised him.

  Left alone, Louis drank another glass of whisky. It was all quite clear now. He no longer felt tired. He thought for a while, looking around the room and scratching the back of his neck before padding over to a big Régence commode. He opened the bottom drawer and scrabbled about. Awful lot of junk in here. Smoke was getting in his eye; he took his cigar out of his mouth and laid it carefully in an ashtray. There ought to be an oilcan somewhere; now where had he seen that last?

  *

  When the doorbell rang, Larry Saint was not surprised – he had been half-expecting something of the sort.

  ‘Yes?’ into the speakbox.

  ‘Is that Mr Saint?’ Not the boy – the woman! His smile got broader.

  ‘In person.’

  ‘This is Mrs van der Valk. Do I need to introduce myself?’

  ‘One moment please – I’ll be right down.’ He had blocked the street-door lock, because the little Dicky-boy still had keys, and there were plans made for the little Dicky-boy. But he was glad to see the woman – he’d been wondering where she’d got to! ‘So sorry, Mevrouw. I was expecting no further visitors. But you don’t disturb me at all. Would you like to come upstairs? You know the way, I believe, but permit me to go first. There we are. Do please sit down. And to answer your question – no, you don’t need to introduce yourself. It is, I’m afraid, rather belated of me, but I have found out who you are and why you are here. And you must permit me – again I fear very late in the day – to offer you my most sincere sorrows and sympathies.’

  Arlette sat down, where she had been sitting that evening – only three hours ago: what a lot has happened since. Or perhaps not that much. Theology! It had taken her far too long to understand that she was responsible for her own sins – not those of other people. And now that she had reached the final step – she wasn’t frightened, or confused, or even nervous.