Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “Like truth?” Frank frowned. “I don’t agree. Truth cannot be changed. Truth is—one and indivisible, isn’t it? I’ve always thought that truth was very simple.”

  He had spoken with a certain impatience then, that closed look returning to his face. Seeing that it had been a mistake to quote Constance again, I said no more. I would have liked what he said to be right, but I did not agree with him.

  Now, walking south, still with no free cabs in sight, I took his arm. I thought of that commission in France; of his work in a laboratory.

  “It’s just that I think sometimes,” I went on. “I think that there’re so many differences between us. Your work is vital, and mine is a luxury. I know that. I do it because I like it—and because it’s the only thing I can do well. But it must seem trivial to you. And sometimes … sometimes I think …”

  Frank stopped. He turned me toward him and cradled my face in his hands. He forced me to look at him. “Is this serious? Darling, tell me what you sometimes think.”

  “Well, I think … that you must want someone who understands your work better than I do. Someone with whom you could discuss it. Look at me. I never went to school. As far as science is concerned, I know nothing. I can’t play chess. I’m lousy at bridge. I’m not even a good cook—what can I cook, except spaghetti? What can I do? Decorate a room. It’s not an awful lot, is it?”

  “Anything else that you can’t do?” He looked at me with gentle amusement.

  “Give me time. I’m sure I’ll think of a few other things—”

  “No, you won’t. Instead, I will tell you a few of the other things you do well. You can be kind—well. You can show understanding—well. You can talk, and think—well. You can touch—well. And you can love—well.” He kissed my forehead. “Not so very many people have those gifts, especially the last. Don’t you know that?”

  “Frank, you do mean that? You are sure?”

  “Sure about what?”

  “Sure about me. I mean, I would understand. In time, if you found that what you needed was, well, a different kind of woman. A scientist, say, someone like that—”

  “Oh, you would understand that, would you?”

  “No. Well, I might understand it. I’d bloody well hate it, but—”

  “That’s better. Now. Take my arm, and as we walk along I shall tell you about my ideal woman, yes?” He turned. “Now, let me see … Well, she is a nuclear physicist, I think. She explains where Einstein went wrong while she cooks my breakfast eggs. Eggs Benedict perhaps—she cooks them very well, but then she is a cordon bleu chef. She took lessons, when she was also learning Russian—”

  “Russian?”

  “Oh, of course. Also Chinese, I think. Such a woman! Bobby Fischer learned from her, at chess. And then she is very beautiful….”

  “She is?”

  “She looks like … Let me think, what does she look like? One of those very strange women you see on the covers of magazines. She has skin like china and an expression of haughty surprise. In bed she is a tiger and a seductress—”

  “Will you stop this?”

  “—famed on three continents for her charm. In fact, there is only one thing wrong with this woman, with this ridiculous woman.” He stopped and turned me once more to look at him. We were, I saw, outside the Pierre Hotel at last. Frank’s manner was now absolutely serious.

  “She is not you—you understand? And it is you that I love. Never say that to me again—never, you hear? I know who put those thoughts in your head. I know who it is who likes to make you think you are inadequate—and it is going to stop. We draw the line, you see, here, outside this hotel. Now, come in. It’s time you met your godmother’s husband.”

  Stern’s rooms were much as Frank had described them. They were paneled, dimly lit, their quiet atmosphere that of a gentleman’s club. Looking at the worn leather chairs, the gleam of leather bindings, the fine rugs, at the masculinity of them, at the elderly manservant, I felt that Frank had been wrong about only one thing. Yes, the clock had stopped here, but long before 1930.

  I was wrong—I know that now. Frank had been accurate in the date he selected. Then, I felt I had been transported back to the time of my grandfather, and that the room I entered, like the man who rose courteously to greet me, was Edwardian.

  Stern’s figure was now a little stooped. He moved slowly. Constance had once described his loud taste in waistcoats, but he wore nothing of that kind; his clothes, including a dark velvet smoking jacket, were dated but not vulgar. Approaching me, he bowed over my hand; when he spoke I could still hear that accent I remembered: English, but with traces of central Europe.

  “My dear. I am so glad you were able to come. I have looked forward to meeting you. I must apologize—I regretted the postponements. At my age they are a fact of life, I am afraid. I cannot always plan ahead, as I used to.” It was said in a dry way, almost as if the thought amused him.

  With urbanity he took command of the situation; he seemed to be playing the role of the practiced host, conducting two much younger people on a journey back to a former era. There, conversation proceeded at a measured pace, gently steered by Stern so that each person in turn should have the opportunity both to speak and to listen. Indeed, there was only one thing odd about this conversation: It was entirely impersonal.

  Neither before dinner, nor during it, was my godmother mentioned. Whenever the conversation might have ventured in her direction—when there was mention of shared friends or of my work as a decorator—Stern would give it, I noticed, the gentlest of tugs: The subject would be changed, and the reins of the conversation remained in his hands.

  Frank did not attempt to forestall this polite evasion—indeed, I sometimes thought he assisted it. This surprised me. I had expected that Stern would speak of Constance, at least ask after her; I had even assumed that it was because of my connection with her that he had wished us to meet.

  Toward eleven, when the meal was over, Frank took his leave. The problems at the Institute had been explained earlier, and Stern showed no sign of disappointment that his dinner was being curtailed in this way. Thinking he might be tiring, I suggested that I, too, might leave, but Stern insisted I remain a short while longer.

  “Please, my dear. I hate to take my coffee alone—and it is very excellent coffee. Won’t you stay and keep me company? I generally allow myself a cigar after dinner. You wouldn’t object? My doctors do, I fear—but then, that is the function of doctors, don’t you find? To make objections long after they are useful.”

  It was clear to me that this invitation, made with some charm, was not to be refused. I could feel the force of Stern’s will, palpable across the table.

  We remained there while the manservant brought us coffee. Stern lit a cigar and drew upon it with evident pleasure.

  “Such a pity,” he said, “that Frank had to leave us. I admire him—I would like you to know that. There was a time, once …” He paused. “I would have liked to have had a son. Unfortunately, that never happened. Had I done so, I would have liked a son like Frank Gerhard.”

  There was a pause. “However,” he continued smoothly, “I’m sure I have no need to recount his qualities to you. I know you will be aware of them. I am very glad, my dear—very glad that he has found you. There was a time, some years ago, when I first met him, when I feared he would not be so fortunate. However, that is past. You must tell me about yourself. What has happened to Winterscombe? I have the very happiest memories of Winterscombe.”

  I told him what had happened to the house; I mentioned my uncles Steenie and Freddie. As I talked I noticed that Stern’s marked reserve was diminishing. He became more inclined to match story with story, anecdote with anecdote; he relaxed, I thought, and it seemed to give him pleasure to speak of the distant past. He encouraged me to speak of my childhood, and even of my parents.

  “So you see,” I said. “I feel that in some ways I almost know you. Aunt Maud often spoke of you, and of course—” I stopped just
in time. I had been about to add that Constance, too, often spoke of him. That admission, I felt sure, would have brought a swift curtailment to the evening.

  “Yes?” Stern said. “Do continue.”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just about to say: it is so curious, when you know someone at second hand, via others. After all, it might have been so very different. If it hadn’t been for the quarrel with my parents, I should have met you long ago, at Winterscombe, and—”

  I stopped again. Stern’s eyes rested on my face; he was watching me now, I saw, with marked attention.

  “Quarrel? And which quarrel was that?”

  I was blushing. Having stepped into that particular pit, I could see no way of extricating myself. I looked at my watch.

  “It’s getting very late. I was just thinking, perhaps I ought to go.”

  “My dear, you were thinking no such thing. What quarrel?” It was said politely, but again I could feel the force of his will.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that it wasn’t the most tactful thing to have said—I can see that.”

  “It was untactful? And why was that?”

  “Because you don’t want to speak of Constance,” I replied in a rush. “I can see that, and I respect that, and I didn’t intend to mention her—”

  “You did not mention her. You mentioned a quarrel.”

  “Yes, well, I know about that. There was a … disagreement about money, between you and my parents. It was why you and Constance never returned to Winterscombe. Constance explained all that to me. I understand. I’m sure it’s a bad idea, to borrow money from friends. It always leads to disagreements—”

  I stopped for a third time. Every addition to that embarrassed explanation was making things worse. Stern was now frowning with some displeasure.

  “But you are wrong,” he said in a cold voice. “I quite agree with you that to borrow from, or lend to, friends can be unwise. However, I never lent to your parents. Nor was I asked to. In fact”—the frown deepened—“I cannot recall having quarreled with them, on any occasion. I simply ceased to see them, after the end of my marriage.”

  I had risen to my feet. As he said this I sat down again. I said, in a miserable way:

  “Oh. I must have misunderstood. I am sorry.”

  Stern continued to look at me, his face thoughtful. He extinguished the cigar. He allowed the silence to continue, and then, as if coming to a sudden decision, he leaned forward.

  “Is something wrong, my dear? You look unhappy. What you have just said hardly justifies that expression. Whatever is wrong is rather more serious than a conversational faux pas, I think. Won’t you tell me? Wait.” He held up his hand and smiled. “If I am to be treated as a father confessor—and at my age I am quite used to that—then I must first have a brandy. You, too, my dear. No, don’t argue. You will like it. It is very good brandy.”

  It was very good brandy. It hit the back of my throat and warmed my stomach. I stared at the glass, wondering whether to speak or not.

  “If it helps you,” Stern began quietly, “consider my age. Consider my … position. I think you will find that there is very little you could say to me that would surprise me. Also …” He hesitated. “Frank speaks to me, you know. I am not unacquainted with his hopes—and with some of his worries.”

  “Frank confides in you?”

  “There is no need to look so fierce, my dear. Frank Gerhard, as I’m sure you know, is both loyal and—for his age—very discreet. He has said nothing to me about you, or anyone close to you, which he would not say to your face. However, I can draw certain conclusions of my own. So why not tell me what is worrying you? You need not be concerned—it will cause me no pain or embarrassment, should you wish to speak of my wife.”

  That last remark, I think, was not true. I am sure that it did cause Stern pain when I spoke of Constance—I could see it in his eyes. Nevertheless I did so. I hope I was not disloyal, but I was desperate for his advice. In many ways I can see now that the question I was asking him was the same question I had been asking all my life: Who is Constance, and what is she?

  I did not tell him the story of the Van Dynem twins or that moment of revelation in her drawing room. I can see now that I did not need to. What I said centered on Constance’s capacity for fiction. I tried to explain her interventions between Frank and me; I tried to explain her gift for turning truth inside out. I tried to explain the central issue: When I was with Constance, I did not know myself.

  Stern heard me out to the end.

  “You see,” I said finally, “I love Frank very much. I also love Constance. And I can see—she is going to make me choose between them. She will force a confrontation. And I’m afraid—I’m so very afraid—of that.”

  “I understand,” Stern said after a long silence. He looked across the room in an abstracted way, as if trying to decide something. The silence went on so long it seemed he had forgotten I was there. Then, just as I was about to suggest that I should leave after all, he roused himself.

  “Listen, my dear,” he said. “I shall tell you a story.”

  That story was about an apartment in New York, and I will tell it to you in due course. It was about the apartment where, all those years later, Constance would leave me her journals, with her little note: Here I am.

  I am certain it was a story Stern had never told before and would never tell again. I think he told it for his own sake as well as mine, as if it held a truth that he had to examine one last time. He did not say that. When he had finished, he made a dismissive remark about his wish that history should not repeat itself. I thought for a moment that he regretted having spoken.

  Then he leaned across the table and took my hands in his. His dignity remained unimpaired, but the composure had gone; his face was marked, almost scarred, with the deepest emotion.

  “That was how, and why, my marriage ended,” he said. “I tell you this because I admire your friend who has just left us, and because, as far as he is concerned, you should not hesitate. If it comes to a choice, that is the choice you should make.” He paused. “And I tell you this for one other reason, because our predicaments are alike. No matter the circumstances, despite everything, I have always loved my wife.”

  Later the same evening I returned to Frank’s apartment. There, I told him the story that Stern had told me; he listened in silence, his back to me, looking out at the night sky from the window.

  “I knew he loved her,” he said when I had finished. “He rarely speaks of her. I still knew.”

  “She has lied to me, Frank. I can see that now. Not just little lies. Big ones. Lies that matter. Lies that go right to the heart of everything. She’s lied about my parents, about Winterscombe, the quarrel—”

  “Did Stern explain that?”

  “No, he didn’t. But she did lie. It was nothing to do with money—I can see that. She’s lied about her marriage, about Stern. She’s lied about herself. I feel I don’t know her anymore. I don’t know how to speak to her, how to trust her—”

  “I think … you’ve known that for some time.” He came back to me. “Darling, haven’t you?”

  “Perhaps. Half-known. Didn’t want to know. Refused to admit. All those things.”

  “Can I say something to you, something important? About her, and about those lies?”

  He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “It has to be said. Sooner or later. I had hoped … but I see now we cannot evade this.”

  There was a silence.

  “She took our letters,” he said at last, with a quiet reluctance. “Darling, you must know this. You must have realized. If she has lied to you, that was the worst lie of all. Are you listening to me? I know I’m right. She took the letters.”

  I stared at the floor. When had that possibility first occurred to me? When had I first acknowledged it? I knew the answer to that: It was the night Bobsy van Dynem died, when she gave that small dismissive nod to his brother, and I had understood—Con
stance liked to break people.

  “I’ve thought of it,” I said. “I even thought of asking her. But she would only deny it. It’s not something that I could ever prove.”

  “I know she took them.” He hesitated, frowning. “In some ways, I think I’ve always known, from the very first moment I met her. When she kissed me, that first day—do you remember? Then I told myself I was wrong—it was impossible. But it isn’t. It’s feasible, and … it’s in character.”

  “I can’t believe that—I still can’t believe that.” I turned to him imploringly. “She does love me, Frank.”

  “I know that. I don’t doubt it for one second. But what she loves, she destroys.” He stopped. “You do understand—she will destroy you, if you let her? She’ll break you down, and break you apart—step by step. And she’ll do it so skillfully, so sweetly, you’ll never feel it happening until it’s too late. That’s what will happen—if you let her.”

  “That isn’t true.” I stood up. “You shouldn’t say that. It makes me sound so weak.”

  “You are not weak.” He sounded resigned. “But she has one great advantage. You went to her as a child. You know what the Jesuits say? Give me the child, and I will give you the man.”

  “That’s not true either. I am not her woman—”

  “No, you are not. But a part of you belongs to her. When you doubt yourself, that is Constance, who wants you to doubt. When you know something to be true, and you doubt—that is Constance. When you doubt us, when you doubt me—that is Constance also.”

  I knew what he said was true, and the sadness with which he said it cut me.

  “Is it so wrong to doubt?” I said at last.

  “Sometimes. Very wrong. I think so. Maybe I am wrong—” He broke off. “But I believe, when we all have so very little time, maybe we shouldn’t waste too much of it. On doubts. Or on delays. And there I am at fault—I know that.”

  There was a pause. I saw him look around the apartment; then he turned back. “I thought we should wait—until circumstances were perfect. Until I could give you the things I thought you should have. I can see now that was wrong. I said I would make a speech—but now I think I won’t make this speech. I love you, and I want to marry you, Victoria.”