“I go to an office every day,” said Mr Porter. “I do a certain amount of work there.”
“Oh, do you have one of those very gorgeous offices with all-over carpet and plants and lots of secretaries?”
“No,” said Mr Porter, “it’s not like that.”
Suddenly, to his surprise, he found himself telling Lilac about his cousin Cyril and Vera, his sister.
“We’re all in competition with one another. Sometimes one sides with another against the third—at the moment it’s Vera and Cyril against me—but there have been times when Vera was my ally against Cyril. I love Vera, you see, I’ve always loved her—but she spurns my love—or, rather, she’s indifferent to me. More tea? Then, if you don’t mind …”
Lilac jumped to her feet, quick to respond to dismissal.
“May I come again?”
“If you telephone first. I have moods. If my mood is bad you will get an unpleasant surprise.”
She nodded. “I understand. Of course. I’ll phone. Thank you for the tea. I really enjoyed it.”
She extended a little white paw of a hand, more animal than human in the fear and trust it conveyed.
As he said goodbye, watching her descend the stairs, a mysterious and haunting sense of nostalgia and sorrow came over him.
“Goodbye. Goodbye—or au revoir I hope.” From the bottom of the stairs she called and waved to him, white face upturned, a questioning, child-like, clumsiness in her stance.
He waited till she had left. Why, he wondered, did he always feel so strongly that Lilac was doomed? Was it really his own unconscious aggression against her in her role as temptress—as Dr Katzenheimer had suggested—or was there something about her that prophesied a violent death?
Six
Saturday turned out to be a momentous day. He hadn’t had a visitor in the country for years. Before leaving London on Friday, he had bought a picnic ham, a selection of cheeses and bread, a melon, fresh unsalted butter, lettuce, mayonnaise, biscuits, and a small chocolate cake. He dared not have any more in the place, in case he should be tempted to eat it after Jerome had gone—but he did rather irritably snatch up one box of chocolates from the pile in his sitting room, just as he was leaving.
When Jerome arrived, he made him eat before they talked. At last the two of them were settled comfortably in front of the fire, with Bimbo, the sheepdog, stretched out between them.
“Tell me,” said Mr Porter, “what happened.”
Now that the scene had been so carefully set, Jerome felt constrained—but the burden on him was so great that no sooner had he started than the story came out with a rush.
From time to time Mr Porter put another log on the fire, first carefully dusting it to dislodge any spider or other living creature before he placed it in the flames. He sat in the crackling silence and stared straight ahead at the flickering wood.
His impassive face belied the buzz of his thoughts as painful excitement built up within him.
“We have a house in Italy,” began Jerome. “My mother left it to us, to me and Joshua, equally shared. She built it. It’s in the far south, south of Naples. It’s on a hill above the sea—a very beautiful place—and it’s a lovely house. After Beatrice and I had married, and our children were born, we used to go there for the summer holidays. Joshua used to come with us, before he married Lilac—and after they were married and Emily was born, the arrangement continued. For some reason or other, it was agreed that Lilac and I would drive down together with the heavy luggage and open up the house. Then Joshua and Beatrice would follow by air, bringing the children; and we’d meet them at the airport. I think this started because one of our boys, Gideon, gets very carsick and Joshua dislikes long car journeys. Also, Emily was so small it seemed better for her to fly down and Joshua is good at managing her—almost better than Lilac. The arrangement had always worked without the faintest thought … risk … possibility of me and Lilac being anything else than friendly in-laws, you could call it …”
They set off early one July morning, waved on as usual by Beatrice and Joshua, who had driven Lilac to his brother’s house in Clapham. Lilac and Jerome had a strict arrangement regarding the driving and rests and overnight stops so as to avoid getting too tired and having an accident. Each drove for an hour. They’d stop for coffee or a lemonade every two hours. They spent two nights in hotels on the way, one in France and one in Italy. They expected to reach the house on the morning of the third day.
After seeing them off, Joshua returned home to spend a little time with his daughter, Emily, who was breakfasting with her Nanny and was behaving badly. But on seeing her father, she immediately became charming. Emily enchanted Joshua and she responded warmly to his love. For all his slightly forbidding aspect and cool detachment, Joshua felt strong compassion for the weak, the underdog, and for small and helpless creatures.
At the office, where he practised as a highly respected and successful solicitor, many of his clients doted on him, having received not only excellent advice but great kindness from him. Thorough, intelligent, and considerate, Joshua was at his best in a professional situation. At home, with Lilac, he found himself constantly criticising her, constantly irritated by her inadequacies, worried that she was out of control. (Perhaps the disturbing aspect of Lilac was she seemed to be out of his control.) Control was important for Joshua, as it was for Mr Porter. He felt that the proper functioning of society depended on it.
On the first night, having journeyed through France, Jerome and Lilac stopped at a grand hotel.
“We had two separate rooms, quite properly. It was a warm night and there was a swimming pool. The lights came on.”
“Let’s have a swim before dinner,” cried Lilac.
“I was tired,” said Jerome, “and I got out of the water before she did. I stood on the grass at the side of the pool, drying myself and watching Lilac. Other people watched Lilac too—people standing on their balconies and others strolling by the pool. Lilac swam and swam, wearing a very small bikini, not exerting herself very much but drifting slowly up and down … I noticed a bat fluttering along the length of the hotel—at the same pace as Lilac. I suppose it was collecting insects that were attracted to the lights on the balconies.”
For a while Jerome watched the bat, then turned again to watch Lilac. He was not alone. He noticed other men staring at her. She attracted them, he thought, like the lights attracted the moths and the moths the bat. A mysterious, compelling attraction. Jerome became aware of the smell of a good cigar. A small red point glowed in the dark, as a stout, predatory man, strolling to the pool’s edge, puffed and blew.
Warm air, night air, flower scents, cigar … Lilac’s curious ability to create sexual tension … and the tiny bat, swiftly voracious as it sailed along the lighted balconies … Jerome felt as if under a spell—disturbed, excited, apprehensive, happy. The fat man puffed on his cigar, looking as if he too might swoop on Lilac with dark wings. Then Lilac broke the spell with a cry, in her pleasantly common voice, “Jerome! I’m cold. I’ll get out, I think. Would you mind bringing me my towel?” She clambered from the water and stretched out her thin dripping arm: “Thanks!”
“Lovely,” she said. “Makes me hungry,” She gave her little breathless laugh, both charming and meaningless.
“We dressed and went in to dinner. It was all matter-of-fact and friendly. We had a short stroll and went to bed in our separate rooms and there was no more magic. But then, the next night …”
They had been on the road for eight hours, taking it in turns, an hour each, strictly adhering to the rules. Every two hours they stopped briefly at a motorway cafe. In the middle of the day they had a longish rest, eating ham and cheese rolls (“Delicious,” said Lilac), and a large cup of coffee. Lilac roved around, restless, acquisitive, among the toys and the sweets and the plastic ornaments. Jerome said firmly, “Come on, you don’t want any of those. Let’s get on.”
He took her arm and piloted her back to the car. She peered int
o his face, laughing, and with a thrill of physical excitement, pressed herself against his body. He drew back—but gently so that she felt no snub—and they drove away down the long heartless road.
In the late afternoon he asked her, “Where shall we stop?”
“Oh, let’s drive off the motorway, please! I’m so bored with it—we’ll find somewhere to stay.”
“It’s getting late, Lilac! Where d’you think we should sleep? Have a look at the map.”
“Let’s go somewhere different and new—some little place.”
Jerome paused. “Did we both know then, I wonder? We took a road down to the coast and drove on, along the sea. It began to get dark. I was driving …”
“Shall we find somewhere now, Lilac? I think we’d better. We’re tired. There’s no point in driving in the dark.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, let’s.”
In the end, they came in darkness to a small fishing village. They drove down, through steep narrow streets, to a little harbor. Lights shone in the sea and the water lapped upon stone walls. Most of the fishing boats were out at sea. Their lonely lights could be seen, circles of splashing radiance far out on the dark water. There was a sense of great remoteness, as if they had found themselves in a far, alien land among strangers who averted their eyes.
Lilac clutched his arm when they got out of the car. The air was warm and soft and heavy with sea scent. Mountains rose sharply behind the village and, above the peaks, stars shone in a dark blue sky.
A few people walked in the sparsely lit streets. Near the harbor there was a bar with an open door and its bright lights fell upon the pavement. Here Jerome asked for a hotel and was directed with pointings and wavings out of the village, along the coast. Yes, yes, not far. No, not far. Two kilometers—at the beach.
They were both exhausted when they stood at the reception desk of that little hotel on the seashore. A sleepy desk clerk gave them adjoining rooms, glancing first at one, then the other from half-closed eyes. They handed him their passports and Jerome helped a boy carry their suitcases to their rooms. Three flights of creaking stairs and the smell of floor polish and stale air. The rooms were charming, however, in that in each of them glass doors with louvered shutters led onto a little balcony looking out to sea.
Jerome and Lilac, in their separate rooms, each instantly pushed open the balcony doors and found themselves standing next to one another, each on his or her balcony, in the warm night air. Laughing, they stretched out hands to one another and lightly touched.
Their laughter dwindled into a huge silence. The only sound was the sea lapping the pebbly beach, stretching vast and glassy between them and the far horizon. The lights of the fishing boats shone in fractured reflections and mountains rose behind them, reaching into the starry sky. They seemed to have entered a dream, so unreal, so beautiful did the place seem.
Downstairs, they had a little indifferent food and a bottle of wine. Dizzy with alcohol and tiredness, they briefly kissed goodnight.
But when Jerome stood again on his balcony, Lilac came to hers and whispered, “Please—let me come to your room. It’s so strange here—and lonely. I’m scared. Please let me. I promise nothing will happen.” Her pale, pleading, face seemed magical in the light of the stars. She leaned towards him, extending an urgent hand to touch him, from balcony to balcony.
He said, shivering from that touch, “Lilac”—with passion thickening his voice.
“Please, Jerome, please …”
They made love in the dark, floating above the sea, held in a web of stars in the sky and water, warm air lapping their eager bodies. Then the moon rose and flooded the room with a blue and brilliant light as they lay wrapped together.
“That was how it happened,” said Jerome, “or rather, that’s how it began.”
In the morning, the sun woke him. Slowly he realised where he was, who was lying beside him. Lilac had fallen asleep only in the last hour, her arm across her face as if to shield herself. Jerome was overwhelmed with a mixture of guilt and horror, love and excitement. He eased himself quietly from the bed and went to the balcony. Confused thoughts raced through his mind. The sun, already hot, enveloped his nakedness. “Oh, my God,” breathed Jerome, staring out to the cloudless horizon, to the great sweep of silken sea. He turned again to look at gentle Lilac, so innocent in her sleep, sheltered beneath her arm. “What will happen next?” he wondered in dread.
“Before we left that place,” said Jerome, “I walked a little way along the beach. I tried to imprint it on my mind, to hold it forever …”
Mr Porter was listening as if hypnotised. He experienced, as Jerome talked, the most extraordinary sensation of déjà vu. He was familiar, he realised, with that scene. Somewhere, sometime, perhaps, he thought, in a previous incarnation, he had been in that place, had stood in the darkness on the balcony. He had seen that sea, the mountains, and the starry sky. Beside him, too, there had stood a visionary woman—but, what had happened? Strangely, at this point, Mr Porter became overwhelmed by a sense of desolation, loss, and—central to the feeling of loss—a strong sense of guilt.
He looked at Jerome in a puzzled way, trying to make sense of it all. But Jerome didn’t notice. He was saying something about “daylight.”
“By daylight,” said Jerome, “the magic had gone.”
“I never saw it in daylight,” said Mr Porter, as in a trance.
Jerome stopped his monologue and stared at him. “You’ve been there? At night?”
Mr Porter recollected himself. “No—yes—in a way. I seem to remember—something about it—or possibly it was somewhere else …”
Jerome hardly knew where the place was himself—somewhere on the wild coast of Italy, south of Naples. He had doubts as to whether Mr Porter could ever have been there. He decided that Mr Porter was confusing it with somewhere else and went on to say what had hurt him so much.
When he went to kiss Lilac that morning, she shrank away, poor Lilac, unable to sustain yesterday’s promise. Then she made a visible effort to brace herself and lightly returned his kiss, saying “We’d better get on, hadn’t we?”
“One could say Lilac was the victim,” mused Mr Porter on the next occasion with Dr Katzenheimer, “and that Jerome should have restrained them both—but I see him as a puppet—both of them puppets—playing out what Beatrice and Joshua intended for them.”
“Do you see yourself like Jerome—a puppet?” asked Dr Katzenheimer.
“Yes,” he said vehemently. “I am a puppet of my body. My body holds the strings and I dance.”
He spoke with bitterness. Dr Katzenheimer gave an inward sigh. “You are a puppet of yourself, I think,” she said. “You’ve transferred power to your body, but the power originates in you …”
“Before we left that place,” Jerome was saying, “I tried to imprint it on my mind, to hold it forever.”
Mr Porter came to his senses. “What happened next?” he asked. He was anxious to know but Jerome hesitated. The story was painful to him. Also, he had promised Beatrice that he’d be back in time to take the boys to an early movie.
He said, “Please, may I tell you the rest another time? I promised my wife—Beatrice—” he slightly blushed, “I’d be back in time to see the children …”
“By all means,” said Mr Porter rather coldly. He became hostile when rejected and he felt a burst of irritation for a young man who, he thought, had behaved stupidly … and yet …
He recovered himself.
“Yes,” he said, “tell me the rest another time.”
He experienced, suddenly, relief at the thought of Jerome’s departure. He could relax, enjoy the company of Bimbo, plan his supper.
“When may I see you? Please, may I visit you in London tomorrow night?”
“Not tomorrow,” said Mr Porter hurriedly.
“The next day then, if that suits you.”
Nothing really suited Mr Porter, who might be in difficulties with his bowels by that time.
He watched Jerome drive off in the early dusk. He saw the lights of the car reach the main road and move swiftly on in the direction of London.
The house felt strangely empty. But the dog rose from where he had lain by the fire and came to Mr Porter, wagging his tail. Mr Porter smiled at him, put out a long thin hand and caressed the rough head.
In London again, his life went on. On Monday morning he turned up late at the office.
He did not go into the main office but called for his mail to be brought to him in the anteroom where he had ordered his desk to be moved as a gesture of rebellion against Cyril. From this position of isolation Mr Porter peered uneasily in the direction of the large office, trying to pick up snatches of conversation, only half intelligible, between Cyril and Vera. Sometimes Cyril strode contemptuously in his direction and flung a piece of paper—an invoice or letter—noisily on to his desk.
“Why do you have to sit here? Can’t you compromise? No, of course you can’t—never could—either black or white—no give in you—and a clown with it!”
Mr Porter sat in silence for once, feeling detached and unemotional, looking at Cyril’s image of him—a split-down-the-middle clown, black and white, white and black. In mysterious protest, he found himself working later and later.
At last, when everyone else had gone, he gathered his letters into neat piles in baskets. He shut his pens tidily in drawers, sat back and slowly relaxed his severe expression. Then he dressed himself with care in scarf, overboots, warm overcoat, gloves and hat. He grasped his attaché case firmly, took a deep breath, and slipped out gratefully into the waiting street. He locked the doors and looked about him. Slowly now, slowly—every moment prolongs the pleasure! Following his nose, he strode into freedom, the shining night, the millionaire glow of millions of watts—neon strip, frosted and clear—all for him, all waiting for him! He was marvellously alert. His keen gaze took in everything—every passing face, every object displayed in every shop window. Greedily, he inspected typewriters, screwdrivers, washing machines, ladies’ underwear, rainwear, sunwear, patent medicines, motorcycles, wallpaper, paints, and garden furniture. Dizzied, intoxicated, he moved on, to darker streets, where the only light came from the little restaurants and foreign food shops. At the Greek shop he paused, stared in the window, experienced in loving fantasy the taste of the olives, the cheese, fish in brine and fish in oil. Noone watching the grave, ascetic, faintly calculating face of Mr Porter would have guessed the orgies of reckless eating he joyously planned. He moved on. He knew of another shop, a Cypriot one, where the olives were sharper, the cheeses more pungent. He would allow himself a few small purchases this evening.
Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones Page 7