Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  ‘He’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t lose some money tonight,’ she said.

  Conrad walked around the table and took a chair between them. When the waiter came, he ordered a whisky. She ordered another glass of champagne. Bristow declined.

  ‘What business are you in, then, Rainer?’ Bristow asked, a little too directly.

  ‘I’m a barrister, Queen’s Counsel.’

  ‘Oh? What kind of cases do you do?’

  ‘Commercial.’

  ‘Really? Well, you never know, I may need you one of these days. I don’t tend to make many friends in my line of work. People are threatening to sue me all the time. My solicitors do very well out of me.’

  ‘It’s one of the hazards of doing business, of course,’ Conrad replied politely. ‘How about you, Greta?’

  She drew on her cigarette, smiling. ‘I don’t approve of work. It gets in the way of pleasure.’

  ‘So you’re German?’ he asked, after Bristow had left to lose his money in the Holland Room.

  She smiled again.

  ‘All I said was that my title should be Fräulein. I didn’t say I was German. I could be Austrian, Swiss even.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The accent’s wrong,’ he replied. ‘You’re German.’

  She nodded, putting out her cigarette.

  ‘I’m impressed. You have a good ear. Do you speak the language?’

  ‘Not very well. But I took German in school and I’ve spent some time in the German-speaking parts of Europe. I think my family has German roots – though they prefer not to talk about it.’

  ‘How boring of them.’

  ‘Yes. They like to think of themselves as the quintessential English family. But they called me Conrad – with a C, not a K, which isn’t very subtle – and I once saw some old family papers I wasn’t supposed to see, in which our name was given as Reiner rather than Rainer.’

  ‘How strange,’ she said, ‘to pretend to be something you’re not. I think that must make life far more difficult than it’s supposed to be. But I have noticed that the English have a tendency to want to be someone else – or at least, appear to be someone else. Why is that? Is it because you think it’s glamorous?’

  ‘It’s probably because we like to look down on foreigners, and you can’t do that if you suspect you may be a foreigner yourself.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Well, they must have a whale of a time looking down on me then. I’m from Leipzig, so I’m not only German, I’m a wicked communist German.’

  He laughed with her.

  ‘You don’t come across to me as a communist,’ he replied. ‘Not that I’ve met many communists, but you don’t quite have the hammer-and-sickle image.’

  ‘No, thank God. I escaped from all that seven years ago, and I have no intention of going back.’

  ‘Do you mean “escaped” in the literal sense?’

  ‘I didn’t climb over barbed wire fences with the Stasi shooting at me, if that’s what you mean,’ she replied. ‘My father was a diplomat, and my family had many connections, so it was all done by diplomacy rather than cloak and dagger stuff. It’s not hard if you know the right people. That’s true the world over, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter where you are. East Germany is supposed to be the workers’ paradise, but it’s just like anywhere else. If you are connected to those in power, you can do whatever you want. If you are a worker, you stay put and do what they tell you to do.’

  They sat silently for a minute or two.

  ‘And you don’t let work get in the way of pleasure? I’m sure that’s easier here than in the DDR.’

  ‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I have no intention of going back.’

  She lit another cigarette and looked at him.

  ‘I often take my pleasure downstairs,’ she said.

  ‘In the night club?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Annabel and Mark. They were among the first people I met when I came to London. They were very kind to me, and introduced me to many of their friends. That’s how I know people who are members of this Club.’

  She drew on her cigarette.

  ‘But I can’t come here unaccompanied, of course. So when I’m on my own, I go to Annabel’s. Perhaps you will come and meet me there one evening – when I’m not accompanied?’

  ‘I would like that,’ he said.

  23

  He found her in Annabel’s, unaccompanied, two nights later. On this evening, the cocktail dress and heels were a dark green. As he kissed her cheek, the image of the wild rose returned. He had arrived back at his flat at 7 o’clock, having finished his work in chambers, and relaxed with a glass or two of whisky before making himself a light supper. At 10.30 he called Deborah to tell her he was going to bed and wish her good night, and at 11 o’clock, he made his way to Berkeley Square. It was Friday, and the club was packed with smart-set young people, the in-crowd, celebrating the start of the weekend. They had to cling to a corner of the bar just to make enough space to talk, and even then, it was hard for them to hear each other above the animated hubbub.

  ‘I like to be taken to the Clermont Club,’ she said. ‘But as someone once said, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. Who was that?’

  ‘Blanche’, he replied, ‘in Streetcar – Tennessee Williams. But you’re no Blanche DuBois, and hopefully they are friends now, rather than strangers.’

  ‘Some of them are,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette and squeezing the butt out of the holder into the ashtray. ‘But you never really know. Some of them just like to have me with them as an accessory, to show me off, as if they own me.’

  ‘Even Jack Bristow?’

  ‘Especially Jack Bristow.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Greta, I’m sure –’

  ‘You don’t know the Clermont yet, Conrad. What do you think it’s all about? Do you think John Aspinall makes men members of the Clermont because he likes them, because they’re all friends? It’s not true – whatever he may tell you. He makes them members because they’re rich and powerful men, who can afford to lose a lot of money but can’t afford to be seen as losers. Believe me, they don’t care about me. They care about having a good-looking woman by their side when they gamble, because they think it makes them look even richer and more powerful than they are.’

  She lit another cigarette.

  ‘It’s all about image. In any case, I know my place. I’m not welcome in the Clermont for who I am; I’m tolerated because of who I’m with. I don’t fit in.’

  ‘Of course you do. You’re—

  ‘I’m a foreigner, Conrad. You said it yourself. The British love to look down on anyone who’s different, and those aristocratic types who run the Clermont are the worst of all. Do you think men like Jimmy Goldsmith and Kerry Packer would be allowed in if they weren’t made of money and didn’t mind losing it? Not a chance.’

  He signalled to the barman for more drinks. She smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to get started on all that. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you. Who is Conrad Rainer – other than a barrister from a family that wishes it wasn’t German?’

  He laughed.

  ‘That’s a good question. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought much about it. Once you get started at the Bar and the work starts to flow in, you don’t have time to breathe, much less think about questions like who you are.’

  ‘Well, let’s start with what you like to do in those rare moments when you’re not working. You know about Tennessee Williams, so I assume you like the theatre?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t remember when I last went.’

  ‘Books?’

  ‘Yes, but mostly stuff that’s easy to read these days, a thriller when I’m on holiday – which I almost never am.’

  ‘Music?’

>   ‘Yes, classical music, and some jazz, if it’s well done.’

  ‘Concerts?’

  ‘Not these days; on the radio. I went to the Proms a few times, years ago, but not any more.’

  ‘Eating well?’

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s one of the few cultural pursuits we do make time for as lawyers.’

  ‘So you do go to restaurants? Well that’s something. What sort of cuisine do you like? French?’

  ‘Yes, but also Italian – and Portuguese, which is very underrated.’

  ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘So, what have we established so far? I think we have established that you like good things but never make time for them: am I right?’

  They laughed together.

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Doesn’t your wife make sure you find some time to relax?’

  ‘My wife? I didn’t say I was married.’

  She almost choked, inhaling from her cigarette.

  ‘Oh, Conrad, please. The day I can’t tell whether a man is married is the day I go back to Leipzig.’

  They laughed together again.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘No… she can’t, you know…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. So… my wife. What can I say –?’

  She put out the cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know. What can you say? I think, if you could say anything about her to me, you would have said it already, and I conclude from this that your wife does not support you in the things you enjoy. Am I right?’

  He bowed his head. She did not rush him.

  ‘Deborah is very different from me. She’s very religious.’

  ‘In what way, religious?’

  ‘She’s a Baptist. She takes the Bible literally, she believes in heaven and hell, and she doesn’t hold with drinking, smoking, gambling, or anything else most people do to have a good time.’

  ‘So I would guess you’ve never brought her to Annabel’s?’

  ‘You would guess correctly.’

  ‘She’s not just religious, then: she’s a puritan?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. Yes.’

  ‘But, of course. Look, I know lots of religious people. Some of them are against certain pleasures of the flesh, some are against others, but very few are against all pleasures. For example, the Catholics I know are usually against sex unless it’s for making babies, but I know one or two Catholic bishops who could drink us both under the table before lunch and wouldn’t think twice about it. The Protestants would be horrified by that, but they can be quite happy to jump into bed with each other if they get the chance. How does your wife – Deborah, is it? – how does she feel about sex?’

  ‘Greta –’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I? It’s the one question you never ask anyone in England. Typical foreigner, you see. I told you, I don’t fit in. Never mind. Let’s talk about something else –’

  ‘No,’ he said. He paused for a few moments. ‘No, since you’ve asked, let’s talk about sex. Since you ask, she’s not very keen on it. We have an appointment every Sunday, after lunch. Once in a while, I can make an appointment at some other time if I show good cause, and it doesn’t get in the way of Bible study, or the church committee, or the youth group, or… whatever else may be going on. Once, in the missionary position, and she prefers to keep her nightdress on.’

  He suddenly banged his fist down on the bar and bowed his head.

  She finished her drink and looked at him carefully.

  ‘How old are you, Conrad?’

  He looked up. ‘I’m 53. Why?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Come with me, please,’ she said.

  She led him quickly to a discreet door behind the bar marked ‘Staff only’, rummaged through her handbag for a key, and opened it. The door led to a narrow corridor. She took Conrad’s hand and they began walking. A young man, wearing a chef’s white hat and apron and carrying an empty metal tray, was coming the other way.

  ‘Evening, Greta. All right?’

  ‘Hello, Bobby. I’m fine. You?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’

  She pushed open a door to her left, pulled him inside and bolted the door.

  He looked around, startled.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Quite obviously,’ she replied, ‘it’s a toilet. Don’t worry, it’s a ladies. It’s for the staff.’

  ‘But what if someone wants to come in?’

  ‘They’ll just have to wait, won’t they?’

  ‘But how can you…?’

  ‘I told you on Wednesday. I’m a friend of Annabel’s.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Shut up, Conrad,’ she said. ‘Stand against the door.’

  He obeyed. She expertly undid his flies, and he felt his trousers slip down around his ankles. His underwear followed. He felt suddenly faint, but he noticed that without any conscious input from him, his penis had risen naturally to meet her hand. She held it firmly and kissed its tip.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he breathed hoarsely.

  ‘I’m doing what Deborah should have done, long before you reached the age of 53,’ she replied.

  Afterwards, she lit a cigarette.

  ‘Do you mind if I have one of those?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ She gave him a cigarette, and lit it for him. ‘I didn’t know you smoked. I haven’t seen you with a cigarette.’

  ‘I haven’t smoked since university,’ he replied. ‘But I’m thinking of starting again.’

  She smiled. ‘Good for you.’

  As they smoked silently, he ran his hand gently up inside her dress, feeling the top of her stocking.

  ‘I’d be happy to…’ he began.

  But she put her hand over his and held it still.

  ‘Yes, you will be happy to do that for me,’ she said, ‘but not now. We’ll have plenty of time later. Now, I want you to take me to the Clermont Club. As my friend.’

  24

  They had a drink and a cigarette in the bar to settle his nerves. Conrad’s life had changed in the space of ten minutes in a staff toilet at Annabel’s. Nothing felt the same as it had before he left the Barbican some three hours earlier. He had an image of himself as a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, testing its wings, learning to feel the caress of the wind and the touch of a flower. His body had transformed itself. His energy was running high; it made him feel light-headed, unfocused. He had the strangest desire to go outside into Berkeley Square and run into the night as fast as he could until his breath gave out. He was acutely conscious of his heartbeat, which seemed strong, but rather erratic. But he had the disquieting illusion that the Club staff, and even one or two of the members, were smiling at him in such a way as to suggest that they knew what had happened at Annabel’s a few minutes earlier; and it was so strong that he had an impulse to tell them himself rather than submit to the scrutiny of their suspicious smiles.

  All in all, he felt in no condition for a serious game of cards. Greta, on the other hand, was calm and composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She was her usual charming self, and wished everyone a good evening with her most winning smile. He sat back in his chair and allowed the warmth of the whisky to soothe him.

  It was after 2 o’clock in the morning now, but in the gaming rooms of the Clermont Club time was an irrelevance. In the Blue Room, Jean-Pascal was presiding over a game of chemin de fer with nine players. As they entered the room, he recognised Dominick Elwes, Dai Llewellyn, Lord Derby and Ian Maxwell-Scott. Susie was sitting with a drink on the far side of the room. When she saw him enter with Greta, she gave a look of mock horror, with both hands over her mouth, before turning up both her thumbs with a gleeful private smile. He smiled back, quite sure that he
must have looked like an adolescent confiding in a friend about an unexpected conquest, half triumphant, half embarrassed. Well, Susie knows now, Conrad thought, and if Susie knows, so will everyone else before the night is out. It was a thought that rocked him for a moment, but then, once the shock had subsided, rather pleased him.

  Ian waved him into the chair on his right. Two chairs to Ian’s left, Lord Derby had the bank, and to judge from his expression, and the quantity of chips in front of him, he was having a good night. To Lord Derby’s left, Dominick Elwes, who must have surrendered the bank to Lord Derby, gave no indication of having a good night. Even in his short time as a member of the Clermont, Conrad had heard the rumours that Dominick was allowed to lose as much as he wanted within reason, on the house, because his charm and wit brought people into the Club and kept them happy while they played. If so, he was giving little indication of charm or wit at the moment. Vicente had supplied Conrad with £500 worth of chips against his cheque. Greta briefly stood behind his chair and squeezed his shoulders, allowing her hair to brush against his head, before moving away to talk to Susie, who had approached the table to see how her husband was faring.

  ‘The bank wagers £500,’ Lord Derby announced with an air of authority.

  Dai Llewellyn, sitting to Lord Derby’s right, had the right of banco prime, but he shook his head.

  Conrad’s light-headedness had subsided enough for him to be aware that serious money was at stake now, and John Aspinall’s words returned to him: ‘Members here tend to play high, but you don’t have to try to match them. I’m sure you know what I mean’. Even with his lack of experience, Conrad knew that each table developed a life of its own as an evening wore on, and unless you joined early, you had to find a way of divining what that life was, and where it had led at the time you joined.

  He saw at once that he had joined the table at a critical moment. Lord Derby had kept the bank for some time, and he had done some major damage. He wouldn’t be starting out with a bet of £500; there was a history to it. The Clermont minimum was £100, and usually if the bank was winning, the banker would increase his bet in increments of £100, but there were some players who were far more aggressive. Lord Derby, Conrad felt sure, was throwing out a challenge to a fight to the death to opponents he had already beaten heavily. Every instinct Conrad had told him to stay out of it until he got the feel of the table. But he could still feel the blood racing through his veins, and there was a recklessness surging through him, which took him by surprise and yet, at the same time, felt entirely natural.