‘What favour?’
‘You said you were attacked, didn’t you?’
Joe nodded.
‘Your laptop was taken, you said.’
‘Right. But what’s this…’
‘If you’re not there tonight and these people who attacked you…’
‘So?’
He hated interrupting the virtually face-to-face interrogation and the moist-eyed earnestness, not to mention the overwhelming perfume.
‘So it’s like this.’ Billy drew back in respect both to the interruption and the need to persuade. ‘Uncle Ronnie hates being alone at night, you know. But I don’t want to be there tonight ’cos my girlfriend, that’s Sonia, got an invite to something ritzy – well, that’s what she calls it. Anyhow, she wants me to be there with her. So I saw you here and I was thinking wouldn’t it be safer for you if you had the bedroom we’ve just been decorating in my uncle’s flat to stay in, you know, if there’s any danger you could be attacked again is what I mean. Will you?’
It was a try-on, a real try-on, spoken in the kind of gabbled shorthand made polite for the occasion that almost defied query or contradiction, though behind the mask of boyishness the features wore an experienced sensitivity. They exchanged long looks. Joe pulled at the lobe of his ear. The words Do take care kept on thrusting themselves into his thoughts. So now, as he raised his spoon, he looked straight into Billy’s eyes.
‘What makes you think I’m going to be attacked again?’
‘Look, mister… What can I call you?’
‘Call me Joe.’
‘Look, Joe, you got attacked, didn’t you? So you need to be safe, don’t you?’ The question was posed with a certain acid reasonableness, but was followed by two sideways darting looks of the dark brown eyes. ‘As I’ve said, there’s that room in my uncle’s, you know, the one we’ve been painting.’ With hardly the flicker of an eyelid, his expression quite serious, the boy leaned even further forward as if selling a piece of real estate. ‘It’s got everything in it now. A bed, table, wardrobe, a basin, hot and cold running water, you know – everything! He’d let you have it for tonight, I’m sure, if I asked.’
He could disappear into it for a short time, Joe supposed, like Ben had disappeared. He’d be out of range of Old Believers. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
The assurance was not surprising. It was as strong as the boy’s perfume. ‘Why do you wear that stuff?’
Joe waved the smell away, amazed that no offence was taken.
‘I like it. I’ve always worn stuff.’ The expression of Billy’s ultra-bright eyes hardened slightly as did the line of the lips. A little pugnaciously he thrust his chin forward. ‘I know Uncle Ronnie hates it, so that’s mostly why. You don’t like it?’
‘It’s strong. What’s it called?’
‘Gulliver’s Manhattan.’
‘So it travels, right?’
‘Sure it travels! It lasts!’ Billy smirked proudly. ‘Look, this room, it’s quiet, lovely, right at the back. You’ll like it. And you’ll be safe, Uncle Ronnie’s alarm’ll make sure they won’t be able to attack you there. I mean, you know, your lip, the side of your face. It shows, you know.’
Perhaps that was the clincher. Joe nodded. He knew it could easily happen again.
‘There’s a lovely tree out at the back.’ Billy eagerly developed his salesman’s pitch. ‘I don’t know why it’s there, that tree, right in the middle of London. You’ll see it, though, when you wake up. I’ll go and talk to Uncle Ronnie, shall I? I’ll call you. Just tell me your number.’
It took barely fifteen minutes for him to negotiate the arrangement with his uncle. Joe knew he had been manipulated by this teenage hoodie of a nephew into freeloading and was amazed how adroitly it had been done. As for the highly praised room, it was still smelling faintly of emulsion paint when Ronald Salisbury opened the door to show him. As an example of one of those strange feats common to domestic architecture that dictated it should be at a slightly lower level, accessible down a short flight of four steps, it had one un-curtained window that indeed showed the outline of a large tree visible through the dusk. The furnishings included a small washbasin, a built-in wardrobe and a neat chest-of-drawers. There was an old bed (a new one had been ordered), a table and upright chair. Ronald Salisbury’s reaction to having a guest for the night was unexpectedly welcoming. Devoid of the comic paper hat and any sign of recently applied emulsion paint, he was temporarily in a smart casual outfit of beige twill trousers, cardigan and blue shirt.
‘We’ll strike a bargain, my dear chap. You use your whatever-you-call-it…’
Joe held up his laptop.
‘Very good, then. Your laptop. And I’ll keep my stereo down. We’ll get along fine, I think.’
When Joe said how grateful he was, his host adopted an air of total understanding.
‘Translating, you say? Russian?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know I’m ex-army, I suppose. Knew some Russians, army men, not political. Quite jolly chaps.’ Ronald Salisbury stood in the doorway of the back room, at the top of the four short steps. He was holding a glass of whisky or brandy. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like one?’
‘No, no thanks.’
‘Well, bear with me a moment, there’s a good chap. Come and have a decko.’
The schoolboyish jargon, a mark of the new chumminess assumed between them, was startling even if well meant. In deference to his host’s invitation, Joe followed him back down the short passageway along which they had come from the front door, past a bedroom, bathroom, loo and kitchenette and into an attractive small drawing-room. One wall had a couple of loudspeakers and a line of bookshelves, but opposite was an elaborately scrolled Victorian fireplace backed with blue tilework, above which hung a large framed oil painting of an extremely elegant woman in her thirties. An oval, strikingly beautiful face directed limpid grey eyes out of a fashionable arrangement of wavy black hair, pearl earrings and neat yellow scarf draped round a slender neck. Indeed, the room tended to serve as a shrine for this icon-like portrayal. Except that just beside it, though on a lower level next the fireplace, were ranged photograph after framed photograph of uniformed figures in formal poses and several rather more candid snapshots of small groups.
‘I wanted to show you my mother. At the peak of her beauty, you know. She died last year. Eighty-eight.’
They both stood in front of the painting for a moment’s admiring and worshipful silence.
‘I was devoted to her. This was her place. She had to go into a home shortly after I retired. That’s where she passed on.’
It was not hard to detect through the rather clipped, militarily brusque remarks the extent of Ronald Salisbury’s desolation, just as the room was testimony to the twin poles of his life, his love of a once beautiful mother and his commitment to a military past.
‘A beautiful woman, don’t you think?’
Joe agreed.
‘She got very crotchety. Do you see the resemblance to Billy?’
‘No.’
An explanation ensued about the relationship. It involved a few mutterings and raised eyebrows but eventually centred on a brother’s second marriage. There was apparently no need to elaborate.
‘Oh, and here’s an old snap of those Russkies I mentioned. Right lot of oddballs they were.’
The photograph in its glass frame was surprisingly bright and glossy, as if it were nearly brand-new. Its surface appearance contrasted in an odd way with the untidy assortment of soldiery standing in front of a pompous piece of Soviet-style municipal architecture. A younger, slimmer, rather dapper Captain Ronald Salisbury stood at the end of the front row.
‘Berlin,’ he announced. ‘Before the wall came down. A bit of liaising. You did say, didn’t you, that he was Russian, the one who attacked you? It’s hard to credit, don’t you think? Here in London, I mean, now we’re all such friends.’
It had to be admitted that one of his attac
kers the previous day had been Russian. Joe did not mention what had happened at the Waterloo hotel, but he inferred that there could be more trouble. This tickled his host.
‘Oh, of course! That’s what Billy said. I pooh-pooh the whole thing, you know, if you don’t mind me saying so. He’s always got excuses, that lad has. My late brother’s boy, as I said. The child of a broken marriage, but clever, you know – he could sell you the Tower of London if he had a mind to! I suppose you think he’s, er…’ A faintly guilty, self-incriminating look attached to the shape of his smiling lips and narrowed eyes as he raised his glass and sipped. ‘Well, no, he’s not criminal, but a bit, you know, a bit of a lad! God knows what plagues of Egypt he may be incubating. He’s been keeping some pretty unsavoury company recently, that’s for sure. It’s just an old man’s fondness. Got a soft spot for him and we get on well enough. Promised the police, you know, I’d try and put a stop to some of his more casual behaviour.’ Then he paused and chewed his lips in a way that suddenly suggested he was already feeling his age. His voice quavered slightly as he added: ‘He’s a companion, you know. I’ve been grateful to him for coming here. And I don’t like spending the night alone here, you know. I don’t know exactly why, because there’s never been any trouble here. Except, of course, what happened with your place next door. As I told you, the boy used to stay in that place next door until they decided to tart it up and you moved in. Are you sure you won’t?’ He held up his half full glass.
‘No, thank you very much, I…’
‘Yes, yes, I mustn’t delay you. Just thought you’d be interested to see my mother.’
Joe knew his refusal of a drink was as ungrateful as it was unsociable. There was the danger now that politeness, which at any other time would have made him a willing audience, could lay him open to an hour or more of maudlin confession and reminiscence. He glanced towards the painting and was met by the direct gaze of the grey eyes. They tended to convey a craving for understanding of exactly the same kind as shone in Ronald Salisbury’s red-eyed look. The patrician voice added rather gruffly:
‘I’ll get tanked up a bit more before going to bed.’
The dismissive tone was chastening. Joe said good night and left. In retracing the few short steps down the passage he felt suddenly freed of the effort required for relationships. His new host was amiable enough, but somehow the pressures of polite neighbourliness seemed more challenging than the prospect of engaging with what now stood on the table in the newly decorated bedroom. So he sat down instantly at the table with the laptop in front of him and the sheets of printed text beside it still largely uncoiled from the cylindrical shape imposed by the thermos. It intrigued him to know what exactly Ben had been so keen to have translated, why it had to be done so speedily and, more intriguing still, how it could perhaps have any bearing on his own past, which is what had been hinted at. He looked through it. A cursory glance told him that he would be translating letters. A closer study told him the letters were extremely personal.
He fired up his laptop and began work.
Dear Mr Richter,
I have to start this letter by being very formal, as you insisted, since there is always the possibility that my father or someone who knows him, a patient perhaps or a servant, may see what I have written; so I will be as discreet as I can be.
You have asked me to give an account of what happened before I met you in Brittany. Of course, if there is a court case, it will be necessary. I will do this as best as I can.
Let me begin by expressing my feelings. I admire what you are doing and I share some of your ideals. You know I am of a passionate nature, so I am naturally drawn to passionate people. My feelings during that short stay in Brittany were such a mixture of anxiety and deep hurt and gratitude for any small mercy that I know I was a little out of my mind. I was helpless in submitting to what I can only suppose was a mutual passion.
But now I must make myself plain: MY FEELINGS ARE ENGAGED ELSEWHERE. That is the truth! And I am more certain than ever that I will submit to those feelings with all my heart and all my soul now that my circumstances have changed.
I was quite sure I would not meet you again. After all, you were gone so suddenly, without leaving any word, and I wandered through the whole village right down to the sea front and asked in every Pension whether you had been staying there. I had to comfort myself with the thought that you had said you were under surveillance and had to be always on your guard. I completely understood this. So at last I accepted that there must have been political reasons why you insisted you could not have a permanent address anywhere.
Of course, I had hoped against hope I might see you again. I confess it came as a complete surprise when it happened so soon, the result of our language lessons. They have taught me to respect your abilities, your powers of concentration and, above all, the depth of your commitment to the cause of your country’s freedom. So I am doing as you asked. Here is a completely honest account of what happened between me and G in the few months and days before I met you in Brittany:
He was my father’s assistant in the practice. At first I thought he was rather shy, so we didn’t speak much. There were always a lot of patients and I was never expected to be present during surgery hours. It began one morning two months after he had joined the practice when he approached me as I was reading in our sitting- room. I pretended at first not to notice, but he sat down on the settee beside me and at once started talking. Why, he asked, did I pay no attention to him? I thought this most impudent and told him so. He drew closer to me and I began to feel embarrassed. My father, had he come in, would have been extremely shocked.
I must make it clear to you that I had never given G or any other man any cause to think of me as a loose woman. I do not pretend that I am a model of good conduct, however priggish and silly that may sound. I had always had a natural reserve. But G took no hints. He placed his arm round my shoulders and told me I should allow all my youth and beauty to be admired and loved in the same way that the heroines of antiquity, like Helen of Troy and Cleopatra, had allowed men to love them. I replied that I did not regard myself as a heroine, let alone a heroine of antiquity and I said that I found everything he said rather silly. He laughed at that
Did I know, he then said, taking off his glasses, wiping them with his handkerchief and looking at me very seriously with his intensely bright blue eyes, did I know that science now agreed that kissing did not come naturally to human beings? I said I had never given it a thought.
He then started saying all sorts of things. I remember he said a child laughs naturally, but it has to be taught to kiss. I found this very strange. Then he claimed the sentiment that Musset expressed in the line ‘J’aime, et pour un baiser je donnerais la vie’ is unknown to the ancients. Catullus would never have given his life for a mere kiss, he said. For him a kiss was not Paradise itself, but only the key to it…Did I know this? I said I did not. I said I thought it was utter nonsense. But he leaned very close, so close I felt his moustache tickle my cheek, and he said that the ancients believed that by means of a kiss the souls of lovers mingle. I tried to make him withdraw his face from mine and at the same time I secretly desired such closeness. He then brought me closer to him and pressed his lips to mine and kissed me brazenly, as if he had a perfect right to do so.
Though this is what happened, I know it may seem like so much female prattle. You will say it is not human emotions that explain conduct, but human motives, and motives have to be logical to be understood. Though I cannot pretend for a moment that I have a great knowledge of the world, I have always been reasonably certain of my reactions in most circumstances. Of course this was not the first kiss I had received from a man, but it was the first kiss that made me aware of the powerful and uncontrollable passions latent in my heart or, perhaps, as you would say, in my soul.
I suddenly believed, you see, that our souls were mingling. He said it was what the ancient Egyptians believed – he was very keen on studying Egypt
ian history –but to me it was simply very personal, like the arousal of some very ancient, latent feeling in me that had not been stirred since my birth. I felt the strongest need for the fullest delights of love. It was as if I had been struck alight, a match touched into flame so that the fire greedily ate it up but was also totally consumed by the fullness of its own light and energy.
You will say, Surely you could have been stronger? Surely you could have resisted that feeling? And I would agree that I should have pushed G from me and not let his closeness and the pressure of his lips cause this deep arousal of feeling, save that the feeling itself was too strong and I recognised that I was not only physically weaker than him but weak and vulnerable in my body’s helpless desiring of his closeness.
It was so sudden. It could not possibly be love, I thought. No human being, let alone a man like G, should be able to take control of my feelings and so dominate them in this way. But resistance was unthinkable, literally unthinkable, and I am sure that if he had asked me to run naked out in to the street at that very moment I would have done it for his sake.
So I feel sure now that history (you remember how we talked about history in that little café?) is like human emotions. It is a story of sudden, often motiveless changes. I know you do not believe this, but I think you must expect the change when it comes to be revolutionary and to have a wildness and a violence far more extreme than anyone could reasonably expect. Because I think I felt exactly what revolution would be like when he kissed me.
He sensed, I think, how ready I was to succumb to him and very gently allowed me to withdraw from the embrace. Instead, as I straightened my hair and felt my cheeks burn like fireworks with embarrassment, though I did not say a word, he took my left hand, the one with the small silver ring with the turquoise stone surrounded by small diamonds – my mother used to wear it (you remember how you mentioned it when we first met?) – worn on the little finger, and asked me, Was I engaged?
Mr Frankenstein Page 12