“Fatal!” said Mr Porter, shaking his head. “Love is fatal, anyway,” he added.
“What d’you mean?” demanded Jerome, “Love’s fatal?”
“Suffering—torment—inevitably.” Mr Porter gestured vaguely.
“I see.” Jerome sat downcast, gazing at his glass.
“Not worth it,” said Mr Porter firmly. “I’ve never known it to cause anything but trouble.”
“No—I suppose not—and yet—nothing ventured, faint heart and all that …”
“What have you got, when you have it?” asked Mr Porter vehemently, but obscurely. “Was there ever a truly fair lady? What have you got after venturing? Tell me.”
He stared challengingly at Jerome, who hesitated, nonplussed.
“What might you have?” went on Mr Porter. “That blonde girl? You should have seen the way she loitered along Wimpole Street. Every man stared at her. I’ve known it before. She even gave me the come-on.” Mr Porter shuddered slightly and stared gloomily down his nose.
“You think … you mean …?”
“If she’s done it with you, you can be quite sure she’ll do it again sometime, with someone else.”
Mr Porter slowly shook his head. He felt sorry for this young man, trapped by a siren.
Jerome became even more agitated. “You think she will?”
“Beyond doubt. You’re much better out of it.”
Mr Porter peered at his left knee and brushed it with his gloved hand as if to remove a speck of dust. “I have to go,” he said. After all, I have my own life to live, he told himself silently. There is my supper.
The idea of food filled him half with excitement, half with apprehension. His thoughts roamed from olives to cheese, to those lucent, honeyed globes of grapes which the grocer had put aside for him—sweet, sweet, secret joy.
He stood up urgently. He would allow himself, he thought, one extra slice of cheese, a mango, if one was ripe, and, most tempting of all, one marron glacé. Could he, once the box was opened, stick to one and only one? That was indeed a challenge. He tested his control. Was it safe? Was he safe? Should he open the box at all? Lost in the turbulence of this thought, he momentarily forgot Jerome.
He stood still, absentmindedly easing his fingers further and further into his large leather gloves, gazing down, seeing nothing.
Jerome looked at him uncertainly. He, too, stood up. “I’m grateful to you,” he said haltingly. “You’ve truly helped me. Thank you.”
Mr Porter didn’t hear him. How many marrons were there in the box? If he went berserk, what was the degree of likely damage? He had to reckon on the risk against the pleasure now, before he lost his head; now, while he could still prevent himself from opening the box. And what of the night? Even if he could manage to restrict himself to a single chestnut now, could he guarantee that, later, he would not be tempted, in the small hours, to sneak into the sitting room and guzzle the lot? An open box of anything left him infinitely vulnerable, not only on the first night, but for days or weeks afterwards until the contents were eaten or thrown away. These particular marrons, prepared by a high-class confiserie in Switzerland, were especially luscious, subtle and succulent, the chestnut taste not overwhelmed by the sugar.
He made a resolution. He would give the box unopened, to his sister Vera tomorrow. His state of self-control was not, he thought, inviolable tonight. The marrons might be too much for it. And yet—he wavered—well, he would see. Suddenly he became aware that he was standing in The Herald and Duck, facing Jerome who looked at him awkwardly, wondering what was going on.
Mr Porter apologised. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My mind was wandering. I was thinking about marrons glacés. Here is my card. Telephone if you need me. Good night.” He extracted a card from his wallet and put it in Jerome’s hand.
He made his earnest way through the merry crowd and reached the swinging doors—a narrow, slightly comic figure with his large hat, his neatly belted dark coat of excellent quality, his huge gloves, his long nose, his bag with the beer.
A little spurt of affection and laughter rose in Jerome when he saw Mr Porter glare with pure hatred at a large man who obstructed him in the doorway. There was a brief exchange, Jerome saw, before Mr Porter made a dignified exit into the street.
Jerome looked at the card. On one side, in beautiful lettering was: Samuel Porter, Antiques and Fine Art and an address on Wimpole Street. On the other side it said: Porter, Porter & Co., New and Used Cars, and an address in North London.
Jerome smiled and tucked the card in his wallet. He finished his second sherry, then pulled on his coat and went out into the cold night.
The following Wednesday afternoon, Mr Porter found himself once again on the corner of New Cavendish Street and the Marylebone High Street. This time he was staggering slightly under the weight of another large cardboard box containing groceries and fruit. As if he had predicted the meeting, the blonde young woman came strolling along the street, glancing right and left, finally managing to brush against Mr Porter as he side-stepped to avoid her. He put down his box and glared at her. She stood with laughter in her eyes, fair hair blown against her face, sexually aglow, luring him like the Lorelei.
“Hullo!” she said. Her voice was curiously common—but that somehow increased the sexual appeal of her. “Haven’t we met before?” she cheekily enquired.
He said nothing and continued to glare at her with angry eyes. Then, “I know you,” he said accusingly. “I know of you and about you!” His voice was thick with disapproval.
“Oh, yes?” Her grey eyes searched his. Her pale, moulded, face that reminded him of a marble angel, showed disquiet. There was silence for a moment. Then she said, “Tell me more,” in a half-teasing voice. “What do you know? How do you know?”
“I think you had better go home,” said Mr Porter sternly. “I don’t think he will be coming.”
“Oh? How do you know? Why not?” She was instantly disconcerted and afraid. “Is anything wrong? What’s happened? And how do you know?”
“I don’t know. I guess,” said Mr Porter, preparing to hoist his box again.
She tensed with alarm. “You know something that I don’t, it seems!” she cried accusingly.
“Yes. No. Nothing has happened, I promise you. It’s just that perhaps your—friend—has had second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“About you. About meeting you here tonight. Now I have to go. Excuse me.”
He began to stagger forward with his load. She followed and caught up with him.
“Stop, please! Please stop!” The marble face was twisted by some profound disturbance: Anger? Or fear?
“What is it?” Mr Porter spoke more gently. By now the sky was almost dark and they faced one another in the orange glow of the street lamps.
“You know something about Jerome. Please tell me.” The colored light hardly diminished her pallor.
Once again Mr Porter painfully but sturdily deposited his grocery box on the pavement.
She peered searchingly into his face. Returning her stare, he pulled off a glove slowly in order to find a great white linen handkerchief. With this he mopped a drop of moisture from the end of his long nose.
“She has charm,” he said to himself, “of an indefinable nature. She’s not pretty. Her face isn’t symmetrical. She’s got a pretty figure. And good eyes. Each feature’s quite good in its own right—but they don’t fit together. There’s asymmetry.”
“Jerome!” she said urgently. Working class origins, Mr Porter told himself, not that there’s anything wrong with that. “How do you know he won’t be meeting me? Do you know him? Did he tell you? Look, I have to know. I’m desperate. Please, will you tell me?”
“Desperate?” His tone was sarcastic. Not for the likes of you, he thought, there’ll always be another to console you.
“Yes! Desperate …” She seemed distraught.
He relented. “I don’t know for certain that he won’t be coming. It’s
just that we—he—thought it might be better …”
“When did you decide this?” Tears, orange-tinted in the street lamps glow, gathered in her eyes. “You—you monster! What right have you to interfere?”
The end of Mr Porter’s nose twitched. His face gathered into thunder clouds. “How dare you lead him astray?” he bellowed at her across the grocery box. “You women are all the same! Treacherous! And then complaining!”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “He’s a grown man,” she sobbed, “or pretends to be …”
Confused by her distress he said, “Come on. You’d better walk with me.”
She walked beside him, her face buried in Kleenex.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
She gestured in the direction of Harley Street.
“Anyway,” she demanded suddenly, in a sniffly voice, “what business is it of yours?”
“None,” he admitted. “I am not involved. I have no wish to be involved. But I was asked. I was included, in a sense, without wishing to be. My interest, such as it was, is now dead.”
She wept again. “Help me!” she cried.
Mr Porter felt thoroughly out of his depth. Staggering under the weight of the groceries, he twitched his face in her direction.
“No,” he said firmly. “Work it out for yourselves. But I am here if you really need me.”
They had reached the front door of his house. He deposited his box on the doorstep and pulled off a glove. He delved into a pocket and came up with a key on a heavy gold chain.
“You can telephone me,” he said.
He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he made this offer of help. He certainly didn’t want anyone, anyone at all, to call on him, nor did he really want a telephone call from her. Or did he? He scrutinised her again. She had stopped crying and her lopsided face was composed again. She was certainly appealing. Well, he would see. Meanwhile he searched for and found an empty envelope in one of his pockets, and in another, a pen. He wrote down his telephone number and handed her the scrap of paper. They parted under the street light.
He unlocked the front door of his house with difficulty. After a sharp glance at the green plants in the hallway (had the caretaker over-watered them again?), he went upstairs.
Later in the evening, Mr Porter ate his supper in his comfortable chair from a tray beside him. He nibbled a sliver of cheese and took a slow sip of beer. Briefly he meditated on the evening’s encounters. At first glance, that young man might have seemed quite mild and conventional—but clearly, hidden fires burned in him of which he was probably unaware. That attraction for a “rough, tough wife, hysterical and jealous”: she obviously was the one who acted out his suppressed emotions for him. And then, the extraordinary affair with the sister-in-law. There had certainly seemed a touch of Romeo and Juliet about that couple, a faint aura of doom.
Calmly, Mr Porter peeled a large green grape and gently placed it in his mouth. Yes, Jerome was undoubtedly a dark horse …
While he lingered over the exquisite sweetness of the grape, Mr Porter’s mind turned to other matters.
Three
Ordinarily, Mr Porter woke each day at 6 a.m., lay awake tensely for an hour, and rose at 7 a.m. Having emptied his bladder he would make himself a cup of hot lemon tea which he slowly sipped. Then, after a short pause, he would go through a regular routine of exercises, concentrating on the abdominal muscles. At 8 a.m. he would eat breakfast. He ate nine stewed prunes, two tablespoons of Allbran or, alternatively, bran flakes sprinkled on apple compote, or two slices of bran loaf with a minimum of butter followed by an orange or apple or sugarless grapefruit. He would then drink another cup of hot lemon tea and wait.
He was desperately hoping for an evacuation of his bowels. The ensuing interval of time was, for Mr Porter, the most intensely important, absorbing, and agitating period of his day. Would he, could he? Would he not, could he not?
From the moment of waking, through the ritual drinking and eating and exercising, all his thoughts were concentrated on the forthcoming contest with his bowels.
The character of the day ahead hung on the result.
In the event of success, a huge cloud of guilt and gloom evaporated. He was purified and refreshed. He would be energetic, articulate, and masculine. He could face the day with optimism, knowing that he could cope with whatever came his way, even the dreary wrangles with his cousin Cyril and his sister Vera in the office.
But if, as so often happened, he failed in spite of a prolonged coaxing of his bowels, a dreaded day lay ahead. In the first place, he felt poisoned and unclean. He was weighed down with depression, dumb and numb. He felt like an outcast, not a man. He was doomed to crawl through miserable hours until nightfall when he might ask his bowels to try again. Nothing, nothing would help him until he could rid himself of the turds that he equated with evil.
His obsession with purification was utterly restricting and caused him untold misery. His whole life was ruled by it. He could never arrange to meet anyone before noon—and he could not reach the office before eleven at the earliest. He could not travel, he could not visit. He never knew what his mood might be. He had not found it possible in these circumstances to have a relationship with another human being—although he was fascinated by women—apart from his cousin Cyril and his sister Vera, with whom he worked in the family business. He resented Cyril, who found him irritating and baffling, but he was very involved with Vera. She despised him, he thought, perhaps sensing his sickness. Even his food was chosen within the framework of his obsession, although he was passionately fond of eating.
For instance, he permitted himself a yoghurt, six olives, five prunes, a thin slice of cheese, a dry biscuit, and a small bunch of grapes for his supper. This was followed by a glass of beer, which he considered to be beneficial to the movement of his bowels.
He worked out what he could eat in terms of what he imagined might be incorporated in his body, or later, lie in his intestinal tract. Food and sin were somehow connected. The more luxurious and lavish the food, the more wicked he felt it, and thus himself, to be. He could spend ages outside a food shop, selecting the sparse but ravishing fruits he allowed himself—a single peach, a nectarine, a perfect pear, those irresistible grapes. The lemons used in his tea and hot water drinks had to be unblemished. The orange must be at the peak of its season, an aristocrat of its variety. Then, the cheese. He would linger in the shop, slowly selecting the small piece of cheese of which, later, he would allow himself one meagre slice.
Yet, Mr Porter who, as a rule, permitted himself neither chocolate nor sweets of any kind, bought, with distaste, boxes and boxes of the most handsome luscious hand-made chocolates which he intended to give to those to whom he felt indebted. He had a pile of such boxes stored in his flat, ready for use. Very occasionally, in a mood of manic despair, he would break into one and sample the contents. One chocolate was enough. Letting the rich taste linger on his tongue, licking his way interminably to the centre, Mr Porter felt as anguished as if he had committed the most serious crime.
Many years earlier, Mr Porter had been directed by his family doctor to a psychoanalyst. Since that time he had been under the care of a series of psychiatrists and analysts—each of whom he had gone to for a few years before moving on.
He remembered that the first person he had seen, Dr Clark, was a strict Freudian with whom he had passed years, he thought, recumbent, in almost total silence. Then there was a Jungian, a friendly woman with whom he had discussed dreams, then another Freudian—or was he, perhaps, a Kleinian?
There were other kinds of therapists, some less orthodox than others—and now, after a lapse of a year or two, he was with Dr Gertrude Katzenheimer. The treatment had not helped him, but he persisted with it, always hoping for cure, he believed, but, in fact, resisting his doctors.
With Dr Katzenheimer in particular he had entered into a lively contest. Yet she was the one who might finally get under his guard. She was extremely vigorous
and enthusiastic and followed no orthodox line.
“I must warn you,” she insisted during her first session with Mr Porter, “I am not your ordinary analyst. I am eclectic—and I am flexible—and quite outspoken, you’ll find.”
Later she told him, “I don’t believe that the theories we use in analysis are a religion; they are a guideline. And I do not set myself up as God.”
“I admit I am fallible!” she often roundly declared. (But Mr Porter, in the course of his treatment, felt she deceived herself there.) He was now in his third year with her. There had certainly been an improvement in insight. Dr Katzenheimer, as good as her word, explained explicitly certain matters at which his other analysts had only hinted.
“You mean you feel full of shit,” she had jovially exclaimed in the early days of Mr Porter’s treatment with her.
While she believed herself to be uttering a contemporary commonplace and was rather pleased with herself, he recoiled at this. His old-maidish fastidiousness wouldn’t allow him to accept the language, let alone the concept. He was silent and disapproving.
She tried again.
“Your obsession with shit—feces—is a symptom, not an illness in its own right. It is symbolic, for you—your shit. I believe it has to do with aggression—your fear of your aggression: you do not want to let it out and yet you want to be free of it. When you shit you are losing your aggression, but of course, it all comes back the next day.”
He shrank away from this crudeness. He felt it was time to score.
“I had a dream last night,” he hesitated, tantalising her.
She waited.
“But I’ve forgotten it.”
With this sharply spoken he glared at her and felt he had won the round.
Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones Page 3