Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones

by Reinhold, Margaret;

  Mr Porter half knew he was defeating himself as well as Dr Katzenheimer. Again and again, he resolved he would be more open with her the next time he saw her—but the next time was like the first time. Time was, in any case, not important to Mr Porter. He was simply trying to fill the intervals between one morsel of food and the next, between one bathroom session and the next, as tolerably as possible until the moment came when he could die. His analysis was to him both unbearable and necessary. Its only conscious benefit to him—although he would not admit this even to himself—was the small pleasure he obtained from thwarting or obstructing Dr Katzenheimer. Just occasionally she said something that held in it some precious meaning, which gave him fleeting hope that he might eventually find release.

  Release from what? he asked himself. He could not give himself an answer. Release turned into relief, just a feeling of release and relief, perhaps from the tormenting obsessions with food and bowels, although what else could life hold for him if these vanished? He could not even contemplate any other possibilities. Still, you never knew—there might as yet be undreamed of pleasure and pursuits.

  Sometimes, too, in the course of talking to Dr Katzenheimer, little unexpected re-enactments of a childhood mood, little memories of rare happiness in early life, shone and tinkled like broken glass in an old attic, suddenly illuminated and brushed by a ghostly hand. The faint music of those fragments, the rainbow glitter of them, were intriguing—even entrancing. The larger, more important tragedies of his life were well known to him. They needed no resurrection and were almost as painful now as the first time around. Dr Katzenheimer was patient and restrained. She knew, of course, that Mr Porter played games with her, but she believed that she could outwit him in the end—that he, in fact, would trap himself into insight and improvement. She waited calmly. Much of what he told her she accepted as allegory, as fantasy. She believed his life to be utterly restricted, a leaden journey between bathroom and office and back again. In this she was wrong. Mr Porter had his moments. He could be impulsive, daring, courageous. When he was in a manic state, as sometimes happened, he liked to tantalise Dr Katzenheimer with glimpses of experiences he once, perhaps, had had, could have had, did have even now, when he chose—shadow-boxing with glamour, with city lights and starry women—conjuring tricks and magic, all-night dancing and parties on the river. His imagination soared when he was manic. His mania took him into another world.

  Four

  Professor Oscar Katzenheimer sat at his desk in his little study at the back of the house in Holland Park. Although it was midday, the room was dim on this autumn afternoon and the lamp on his desk was lit. Its bright ray fell only on the gold pen, the elegant old hand moving smoothly across the white page. At last, thought Oscar, he was coming to grips with his Lordenstrom Lecture which he was to give next June in Oslo. With any luck some of the material might go into his book, which was due at his publisher’s by the end of September. Just as he had found precisely the right words to express a particularly complex concept, a voice called from somewhere in the depths of the house. “Oscar” and again “Oscar!” The professor groaned irritably and wiped his hand across his forehead as if to wipe out the sound of his name. But “Oscar!!” cried the voice more imploringly and more penetratingly than before. He put his pen gently upon the desk surface. He leaned back in his chair. His thoughts, so precisely integrated a moment before, now scattered into defensive positions. “I am here, Gertrude,” he called reassuringly. “I am in the study.”

  A moment later his wife appeared in the open doorway. Realising that she had interrupted her husband’s work, Gertrude Katzenheimer paused, shook her head guiltily, and said “Oscar, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Of course you did, dear Gertrude,” he murmured urbanely. “What is it, my dear? No patient? Haven’t they turned up?”

  He glanced at the clock on the desk. Its digital pulse registered a quarter past twelve.

  “He has not arrived!” Gertrude announced solemnly. Her voice was cautious and controlled but Oscar could tell that she was nervous. She studied her watch for the twentieth time. “Who, Gertrude? Who has not arrived?”

  “Oscar!” She was determinedly patient but clearly under strain. “It is Wednesday. It is twelve twenty. For the first time in three years he is late!”

  Professor Katzenheimer glanced at his own wrist watch, as if to put an authoritative end to any discussion on the time, then asked “Who is late, my love?”

  She gave an exasperated click. “Wednesday is one of Mr Porter’s days. Surely you know that by now? You’ve seen him often enough! Unwisely, in my opinion, as you know. I don’t believe my patients should bump into you in the corridor, as I’ve told you so often. However—” She shrugged her broad shoulders and stood waiting for his suggestions. She was a handsome woman, made impressive by a pile of thick hair, dyed an unusual shade of red. “He has never been late before,” she repeated.

  “In that case, congratulations, my dear Gertrude! At last you have released him from his obsessionalism, from his fears about his aggression …”

  “I am worried, Oscar” she said reproachfully. “His aggression is not quite controlled, in any case; and recently he has been very depressed. He is quite capable of …”

  “Trudi, Trudi!” The benign professor shook his head.

  “I think it is your aggression that is troubling you. You would like to kill him off! I’m not surprised, after all these years. A difficult patient! But in Heaven’s name, a little insight, Gertrude!”

  She allowed herself to be teased and smiled uncomfortably. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s just that his fantasies can be so violent—and he is so angry.”

  The professor continued to smile but took up his pen and drew a page of his writing towards him. His wife withdrew. She returned to her room and went to the window to stare at the autumn trees and the street below. The room was sparsely furnished in pale limpid colours. Its cool calm contrasted strongly with the vivid personality of Dr Katzenheimer. She was known by all her patients for her warmth and for her expressive hands with which she gestured freely. “That red hair—and those hands!” Mr Porter had thought with aversion when first he met her, but her kind intelligence soon helped him to accommodate himself to her.

  Now, to her immediate relief, there was a prolonged and agitated peal of the front door bell. She heard Helga, the secretary, go to the door. Then she went herself to the hall to greet her patient. Mr Porter entered, carrying a large umbrella in one gloved hand and a neat attaché case in the other. He made a vague gesture to remove his widebrimmed hat, first with the hand holding the umbrella, then with the hand clasping the attaché case, but of course he could not get near it. He nodded to Dr Katzenheimer, a tight-lipped, white-faced nod meant as a polite greeting. He was, however, so tense that the greeting seemed cold, almost hostile. He moved forward without hesitating, going towards Dr Katzenheimer’s consulting room like a well-trained rat in a familiar maze.

  Passing through a small vestibule, he placed his umbrella on one chair, his attaché case on another. Then he pulled off his gloves, carefully removed his hat, undid the belt of his thick navy coat, took off the coat, and assembled his things tidily on a third chair.

  Gertrude, following him as he made doggedly for the consulting room, said brightly, “Good morning, Mr Porter!”

  “Good morning,” he replied sombrely, in a low voice. He glanced at her without meeting her eyes. His long nose looked pinched and shiny.

  She thought: “Not a good day. No success, I suppose.”

  They sat down facing one another, each in an accustomed chair. Mr Porter studied the rug. There was silence. Then he slowly cleared his throat. Dr Katzenheimer waited. Mr Porter gathered his forces. “I must apologise,” he said hoarsely, “for my lateness.”

  She said, sympathetically, “I was hoping you might find it a little easier to be late these days.”

  Mr Porter shook his head. His eyes burned unhappily. “N
o,” he said, “not that …” In fact, what had happened (but he was too ashamed to tell her), was this: he had had a successful morning in the bathroom, a good evacuation of his bowels and a pleasant “tub,” as he called his bath. Feeling jaunty, he had dressed himself quickly, but lingered rather long over a second cup of tea with a bran biscuit, which, under the circumstances, he felt he could allow himself. Out into the street he went, hatted and gloved, when suddenly he thought he had better have a glance at the time. This necessitated putting his attaché case on the pavement, laying down his umbrella beside it, and removing one huge gauntleted glove. He stared at his watch in disbelief. “Good Lord! I’m late! Better take a cab. Can’t remember if my watch is three-quarters-of-an-hour fast or only half-an-hour. Better jump in a cab …” Peering out of the cab window at the clock over the doorway of a shop, he cried “Damnation. I’m about an hour fast. Could’ve walked—done me good—served me right! Oh! The folly of keeping a watch with the wrong time! I’m worse than a fool! I’m a madman—why I go on I don’t know …”

  He stared out at the streets in gloomy rage, then tapped on the driver’s window. “I’ll get out,” he thought, “and take a turn round the shops and get there on time instead of early.”

  He became absorbed gazing into the window of The Scotch House; then, looking up, found the time on the clock in Oxford Street to be well after twelve. The first clock must have been slow, if not stationary. He cursed vigorously and launched himself on to a pedestrian crossing, waving his umbrella threateningly at an infuriated motorist. Luckily he found a cab almost immediately. Never, in all his years in treatment, had he been so much as five minutes late for a consultation. Today, half-an-hour after he was due, he faced Dr Katzenheimer in an abject state. She tried to soothe him, congratulating him on his ability to be late, at last. But there was nothing for it, but to compensate her in the form of giving her information about himself. “Two brothers” he said, rather loudly. “I’ve met two brothers, or rather one and the other one’s wife!” Dr Katzenheimer glanced at him curiously. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, there are these two brothers called Jones, I believe, both in love with the same woman.”

  Fact or fantasy? Dr Katzenheimer could not, as usual, determine. She waited. After a long pause, she enquired gently, “Did you say Jones?”

  “The names are irrelevant,” said Mr Porter testily. “One is married to the woman. To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether he loves her or not. The other one certainly does. In my view, the woman is dangerous.”

  Dr Katzenheimer opted for fantasy. She drifted along with him. “Dangerous!” She nodded. “What does that mean?”

  “She is promiscuous. Jerome—one of the brothers—is not her only lover. I’m convinced of that. The way she looked at me, and all the others. She’s bound to be treacherous. She’s like that other woman—the one I told you about …”

  He looked at Dr Katzenheimer with an expression of keen challenge. Now he had her. But he hadn’t.

  “The other woman? The one on the train?”

  He was amazed and chagrined. “Yes, that one.” Her memory was boringly good.

  “In what way is she dangerous, apart from being promiscuous (if that is dangerous, by the way)?”

  “She is a woman who is connected with violence. She could kill—or be killed …” He felt the need to impress, exaggerate.

  Dr Katzenheimer pursed her lips. “I believe you think all women are dangerous,” she said playfully, “including me!” She folded the file of his notes, indicating the session was coming to an end.

  Mr Porter was furious. He wanted to shout “I don’t think you’re dangerous, you stupid old cow! You’re not dangerous at all! You’re too stupid, fat, and old to be dangerous.” Instead, he rose to his feet, compressing himself, as always, into the smallest possible cubic space.

  “We shall see,” was all he said before he went on his way.

  In the corridor Dr Katzenheimer met the Professor. “Porter has just left,” she said. “We are getting somewhere. He has admitted that he thinks all women are dangerous!” She gave a little giggle and Otto nodded wisely. “Good!” he said. “Good. Clever girl!” and patted her fondly.

  That night Mr Porter was in torment. Tea, prunes, bran—nothing would make his bowels shift a millimetre. Tisane, grapes, hot lemon—nothing. It’s the cheese, he hissed to himself, vicious towards the cheese, vicious towards his bowels.

  He could not sleep. Anguished, he paced the floor. His stomach felt solid—a ball of lead on which nothing would ever impinge again. His dressing gown wrapped around him, his feet deep into his leather slippers, he stared down into the silent streets, cursing.

  Towards dawn he fell asleep. He woke an hour later and, by the mercy of God, his bowels moved.

  Two nights after his meeting with Jerome, Mr Porter had just settled down with a glass of beer in one hand and a piece of Brie, rather soft and runny, in the other when his telephone rang. He watched it with annoyance. The thing kept ringing. Anger mounted. It was no use, he’d have to answer it. His contemplative absorption in food and drink was completely disrupted. Whoever this was would ring again and again unless he took the instrument off the hook. He put down his beer and wiped his hand on a paper napkin. The telephone continued to ring. He picked it up.

  “Hullo,” he said icily.

  “Mr Porter.” It was Jerome. “Mr Porter, it occurred to me you might want to telephone me some time.”

  “Why should I?” Mr Porter sounded extremely cold.

  “Well, she—Lilac—might be around again—she might expect me … I wonder—would you mind terribly letting me know?”

  “I would mind. However, I’ll take your number.” He reached among the bric-à-brac for a pencil—a note pad—and scrawled the number. He was too preoccupied to work out the rights and wrongs of this exchange at this particular moment.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve got that—and now, excuse me please, you interrupted my supper.”

  “I’m so sorry!” cried Jerome penitently. “Please forgive me.”

  Mr Porter replaced the receiver, then thoughtfully took it off its cradle and laid it on the marble table top. With a luxurious sigh he turned his attention once more to the Brie and his beer.

  Nearly a fortnight later, Mr Porter met Lilac again. He was returning home from the office, quite late in the evening, when she emerged from her parked car and hurried towards him.

  She seemed rather anxious, he thought, but was wearing a bright alluring smile. Her teeth, he saw, were remarkably pearly and even—capped perhaps, but was that likely? he wondered.

  She said, “You told me I could get in touch with you. Well, here I am.”

  He stood defensively at his front door and inspected her.

  She said “May I come in?”

  “I don’t usually have visitors.” Mr Porter was grumpy and defensive.

  “I’m not a formal visitor.” She gave him a smile, both shy and enticing.

  “I’m not influenced by your smile,” he told her. “Smiles have never influenced me—and there’s nothing special about yours. I dislike visitors—not,” he added “that I dislike you. It’s in the context of visiting—intruding into my flat. I can’t bear it. However, on this occasion I happen to be in a reasonable mood, so you may come in for five minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Like an inquisitive cat, she sped up the stairs ahead of him.

  “Wait a moment,” he commanded. “I’ll go first.” He opened the door, cautiously peered into the flat, then stood back to allow her to pass.

  Mr Porter lived in a large flat but inhabited only two rooms. One was the sitting room, the other the bedroom. The sitting room, into which Lilac now peered, was huge, dim, often in the shade of the drawn curtains. Pictures lined the walls—oil paintings, large and small, many in the style of the old Dutch masters. Books and papers were piled high in great bookcases. Neat stacks of newspapers and magazines were placed here and ther
e—on occasional tables, in groups on the floor. There were paintings too, leaning against table legs, against the bookcases, some still encased in cardboard wrappings.

  There were two very large and beautiful antique chairs, tapestry-covered, and a third, in bad repair, with the springs bulging. The carpet was vast—a majestic treasure from Ispahan. Pieces of glass, of china, of pottery, littered the small empty areas on top of bookcases, jostling for place among the newspapers on the tables, filling a huge, glazed cabinet.

  Yet there was no true chaos. There was, instead, prolific control, a complex careful organisation in the room. The wallpaper was ancient and faded, the curtains were pallid and frail, but the wooden surfaces were free of dust—shining, in fact, with daily polish. The paintings and the objets d’art were an extraordinary mixture of good and bad taste. They varied from the genuinely excellent to the atrocious.

  The owner of the room was, it was clear, uncertain as to his likes and dislikes. Among priceless ornaments of antiquity were pieces of seaside souvenir pottery or monstrous Victorian monuments in glass. Among the paintings was a small and beautiful Constable, a Breughel sketch and a Fragonard. There were also a huge and hideous copy of a Rembrandt self-portrait and a modern, badly drawn picture of a flower market in Nice.

  On the other side of the corridor was a large bedroom. Here, too, the light was dim, the curtains drawn. Here, too, books and papers spilled from shelves to floor and the walls were obscured by paintings. There was a huge bed, simply covered, and a row of enormous cupboards in which exquisite order and a high standard of luxury prevailed. They contained the unworn hoard of a meticulous and self-indulgent dandy. Suits, shirts, socks, ties—silk and mohair, cashmere and finest cotton. The paint on the doors was cracking, London dust grimed the wallpaper, the curtains were almost shredded with age; but the cupboards held new and sumptuous treasure.

  Beyond the bedroom was a vast, elaborate bathroom. The floor was marble, the bath sunken and deep. Great Turkish towels hung from heated rails. There were heavy textured rugs and jars of scented oils, bath salts, ointments and creams. In addition to the luxurious comforts of bathing, there was a large marble-topped table placed immediately in front of the lavatory. On this table were neat piles of books, newspapers, cups, glasses, a thermos flask, a lemon, sugar lumps in a bowl, and a telephone. The room was brightly lit and very warm. It was here that Mr Porter performed the elaborate rituals of his secret neurosis.