“Really?”
“Yes. Their livers contain lethal doses of vitamin A. They’re very efficient at making it, polar bears are. They need to be, up there. Poor things. Their ice floes are melting.”
“And people shoot them,” Martin observed.
Dee was puzzled. “Do they? Or do they just shoot grizzly bears?”
Martin adjusted the position of one of the remaining bottles of cod liver oil on the shelf. “I don’t know. But could you sleep at night, if you were a bear, in the knowledge that people were out there, prowling around, hoping to shoot you?”
“Why do they do it?” Dee mused. “Why does anybody shoot anything for pleasure, Martin? Do you understand it? You, being a man, does it make more sense to you?”
It did not. “Of course not,” he said. “But it’s not just men, Dee. There are some women who shoot too. They approve of shooting creatures to death. Ending their lives, which is all they’ve got. Even if they’re just bears, their lives are all they’ve got.”
It was a defence of men that Martin felt he needed to make. Many of the shop’s customers assumed that men did not understand, and Martin resented this. He understood.
Dee did too. “No,” she said, “you’re right. Women can be as bad as men, I suppose. Not normally, of course, but sometimes. They have fewer toxins than men, you know. That makes a big difference to behaviour.”
Martin shifted on his feet. He was not sure that he wanted the conversation to drift onto toxins, but now it was too late. Dee was looking at him with renewed interest.
“On the subject,” she said, “have you thought about what I said yesterday? About colonic irrigation?”
“Not really,” he mumbled. This was not true, however; he had thought about it a great deal and had even looked the matter up on the Internet, where he had found numerous descriptions of the process, complete with diagrams.
“Well, you should think very seriously about it,” said Dee. “In fact, why don’t I do it tomorrow?”
Martin suppressed a shudder. “Do what?”
“Give you colonic irrigation,” said Dee. “You really need it, you know. When I gave you the iridological analysis it was sticking out a mile. You really need it. All those toxins …”
“I don’t think I’m particularly toxic,” Martin said.
“But you are, Martin! You are!” She reached out and took his arm. “Listen, Martin. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Come round to my place. Come round to Corduroy Mansions tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock, maybe. Round about then. And I’ll do it for you. I’ve got all the stuff there. All right?”
He looked about him wildly. “I don’t know—”
Dee cut him off. “You’re in denial, you know, Martin.”
“I’m not—”
“There you are—denying.”
“I’m denying that I’m in denial. That’s not denial.”
“Well, if it isn’t denial, then what is it?” asked Dee. She did not wait for an answer. “So that’s settled then. Eleven tomorrow. Sunday’s a very good day to do it.”
Martin seemed defeated. He found it difficult to stand up to Dee and this, in spite of the intimacy of the subject, was no exception. Even if he did need colonic irrigation—and he had nothing against it in principle—he was not sure that it was something that one should have at the hands of somebody one knew.
“I’m sorry, Dee,” he said. “I know that I might need it but why don’t I go and get it from … from a colonic irrigation place? From somebody I don’t know.”
She stared at him. “And pay for it? Why? Why pay for it? I’m helping you to save money. You didn’t think I was going to charge you, did you?” She laughed at the sheer absurdity of charging a friend or, in this case, an employee, for colonic irrigation. Colonic irrigation could be a gift between friends; surely he knew that?
“It’s not the money,” Martin protested. “Money’s got nothing to do with it.”
Dee seemed puzzled. “Well, what is it then?” She paused, searching his expression for some clue. “You aren’t embarrassed, are you, Martin? Surely you aren’t embarrassed?” She smiled playfully. “It’s that, isn’t it?”
“Well …”
“Oh come on,” she said. “You won’t find it in the slightest bit embarrassing. Not after we start. I promise you. So don’t think twice about it. Really, don’t.” She looked at him. “Feeling better about it? Good. Tomorrow then. Eleven.”
55. The Late Isadora Duncan
AS THIS CONVERSATION was taking place between Dee and a reluctant and embarrassed Martin, Barbara Ragg’s thoughts could not have been further removed from vitamin D, polar bears, or indeed colonic irrigation. She was driving at the time, sweeping along the winding road from Rye in her British Racing Green sports car, with a young man in the passenger seat beside her. A cynic, standing by the roadside, contemplating the passing traffic, would have had no difficulty in describing the situation. He would have said, with all the snide innuendo that cynics so effortlessly muster, that here was a woman in her early thirties, prosperous—driving the fruit of last year’s bonus—accompanied by a trophy man a good few years younger. And the cynic would have observed that Barbara was driving, which underlined the status of the young man, who was nonetheless enjoying the trip greatly, a scarf trailing from his neck.
At the beginning of their journey, noticing the scarf, Barbara had warned him of the fate of Isadora Duncan.
“Remember Isadora Duncan,” she said as they drove out of the Mermaid Inn’s car park.
He looked at her blankly. “No, I don’t know her, I’m afraid.”
The car started down the cobbled street. “You wouldn’t,” said Barbara. “She died in 1927. In tragic circumstances that are brought to mind, I’m afraid, by your scarf.”
The young man frowned. “You’ve lost me,” he said.
Barbara explained. “The reason I know all about this is because I represented an author who wrote about Gertrude Stein. I’m a literary agent, you see. Anyway, Gertrude Stein, who was an American with a literary and artistic salon in Paris, said, ‘Affectations can be dangerous.’ She said it when she heard about the death of Isadora Duncan, who was a famous dancer and femme fatale.”
The young man was watching her as she spoke. There was a light in his eyes—the light of discovery that ignites when one encounters for the first time an intellectually stimulating companion. Barbara noticed this light, and responded. Oedipus Snark never listened to her—she could say the wittiest things and he would just ignore her. This young man, by contrast, appeared to be appreciating her, and she felt glad; one might sparkle before such an audience, and she had him to herself all the way to London, and after that … Well, it was possible. These things happened in fiction, and if they happened in fiction, then they might just happen in real life; just …
She turned the car at the bottom of Mermaid Street, noticing as she did so their reflection in a shop window nearby. Seeing one’s reflection in a window is a reminder of what one is; this is what one is in the eyes of others. And she was a woman in an expensive sports car with an attractive young man at her side. How satisfying.
“It’s rather a sad story,” Barbara went on. “Isadora was given a lovely long scarf by a Russian artist. She was taken for a ride in Nice in an Amilcar GS—a very nice little sports car of the time—by a very glamorous Italian mechanic, Benoît Falchetto.”
Barbara thought: What it would be to be invited to drive off with a glamorous young mechanic, and an Italian to boot! And one called Benoît Falchetto …
“Anyway,” she continued, “as they drove off, the scarf which Isadora had been wearing got caught in the back wheel of the sports car. It was made—the scarf—of very strong silk and when it wound round the wheel it tightened round Isadora Duncan’s neck. She was pulled out of the car and bumped along behind until the Italian mechanic stopped. But by then it was too late.”
She glanced at the young man. I haven’t even asked his name, she thought. I’
ve picked him up in the hotel car park and I have no idea what he’s called. Bruce? Andrew? Mark? …
The young man felt gingerly at his neck, loosening the scarf slightly. “Not a nice way to go.”
“No indeed. Even if it immortalises one.” Hugging the side of the road, Barbara put her foot down on the accelerator. “You know, I’ve always thought that immortality comes at a price. If you look at the career of anybody who’s achieved enough to be immortal, there’s a cost. Neglected family, a relentlessly demanding muse, deep, driving unhappiness—it’s all on the balance sheet.”
“I wouldn’t want it,” said the young man.
“No. Moi non plus.”
They were breasting a blind rise in the road. To the east, the land dropped away into a valley; cattle grazed, a tractor moved slowly across an as yet unploughed field. As Auden observed in his “Musée des Beaux Arts,” disaster always took place against a background of very ordinary life: Icarus fell from the sky while a ship went innocently on its way, while a farmer tilled his fields. So too, against a backdrop of the quotidian, did the knot of the scarf now suddenly fall apart, releasing a yard of tightly knitted wool in colourful stripes; and, while these ordinary country things were happening in the nearby field, the scarf snaked out backwards, too quickly for any movement of the hand to arrest it, and, by dint of aerodynamics and gravity, found its way to the revolving hub of the sports car’s near-side rear wheel.
It happened so quickly, just as it had happened in Nice all those years ago: the scarf was caught in the hub and wound up immediately, tugging with sudden and brutal force at the young man’s neck. Feeling the unexpected pressure, he opened his mouth to shout, but the sound was blocked by the immediate occlusion of airways as the scarf tightened around his throat. Not that a cry of alarm was necessary: Barbara had seen it happen and immediately slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a halt in a squeal of burning rubber. For a moment she could not believe that it had happened, that the accident she had described had come to pass, as if in neat illustration of some safety lesson.
She grabbed at the scarf around the young man’s neck, struggling to insert her fingers into the tightly wound loops. But she could not get purchase and he was turning red, his face suddenly puffed up. She almost panicked, but did not, because the idea came to her of reversing the car, which she now did, crashing the gears.
It was the right thing to do, even if the right thing may sometimes come too late. To reverse the car is not the solution to an ordinary accident; one cannot just drive backwards, and in doing so bring a broken vehicle to wholeness again. But in such an accident as this, one can reverse and unwind that which is wound up; in theory, at least.
56. O Venus
“I’M TERRIBLY SORRY.”
It sounded trite, almost a parody of an inhibited apology; but what does one say to somebody whom one has almost strangled, even if it is largely the fault of the victim for wearing too long a scarf and ignoring a cautionary tale? And the situation was made all the more difficult by the fact that Barbara did not know the name of the young man who was sitting in her now static car, gingerly touching his neck. She should have asked him at the beginning, she thought; introductions become more embarrassing the further one gets from the initial encounter.
“And I don’t even know your name,” she blurted out.
He managed a smile. “Hugh.”
She peered at his neck. “I’m Barbara. Barbara Ragg. And I’m really sorry about this. Especially after our conversation about Isadora Duncan. I should have …”
He began to shake his head, but the movement obviously caused him pain because he winced. “It was my fault. I should have taken my scarf off. You warned me.”
She reached out to touch the angry red patch of skin in a line round his neck. “That looks a bit nasty,” she said. “I think we should get you to a doctor.”
“No need. It’s just like one of those rope burns. It’s a bit sore but I don’t think that the skin is too bad. It’ll get better.”
Barbara looked doubtful. “It might be better just to have it checked. What if something’s crushed inside—inside your throat?”
Hugh smiled. “I wouldn’t be able to talk,” he said. “And it feels fine inside—it really does.”
“Well, at least let me put something on it,” she said. “I’ve got something back at the flat that is really good for skin things. Zinc ointment. It really works. Would you like me to …?”
He said that he would and they set off again, the scarf now tucked away behind the passenger seat. Barbara drove slowly; she was shocked by the experience and was imagining what would have happened if she had not braked so quickly, or had not reversed to loosen the scarf. She shuddered.
“Where’s your place?” Hugh asked.
She told him about her flat in Notting Hill and they discovered that he lived within walking distance. That was handy, she said, and he threw her a glance. She had spoken without thinking. Why was it handy? Did she seriously think that something was going to come of this chance encounter?
She wanted to ask him how old he was. She often found it difficult to judge men’s ages; women were easier because she was used to sizing them up as competition. Once one was past thirty, whether or not another woman was still in her twenties could be a matter of intense interest. They were the ones who were the real competition—the ones who could attract a man just by being the age they were, whereas after thirty … Well, it was just so unfair. One had to really work at it.
She decided to ask what had taken him to Rye. “I just wanted to get away somewhere,” he said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of going on one of these cheap weekends in Amsterdam or Prague or wherever. All those drunken hen and stag parties. It makes me really ashamed to be British, just to see them.”
Barbara knew what he meant. “Yes,” she said. “It’s not an edifying sight. I suppose there are no hen parties in Rye.”
“None at all.”
There was a brief silence. Then she asked, “By yourself? Or did you go with somebody?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering. “By myself. Which was the point, really. I wanted to be by myself.”
“Why?”
He looked at her in a way that suggested that it was a painful topic. “End of a relationship,” he said.
She was thrilled, but said, “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “They end. That’s what relationships do: they end.”
“Me too.”
“What?”
“I’m just out of one too.” She glanced at her watch. “Just over an hour ago.”
He let out a whistle. “That’s very recent.”
She smiled. “I suppose so. But it had been building up. I suddenly wanted to be …” She paused. She had intended to say “to be free” but it occurred to her that if she did, it would suggest that she did not want to meet somebody else. And that was not true. She wanted desperately to meet somebody else. And he would do; oh, he would do just fine.
He looked thoughtful. “I remember being told—years ago—by somebody or other that the best cure for a broken heart is another lover. Have you heard that?”
It was ridiculously trite—but she had heard it. And perhaps it was true, as trite remarks often can be. What goes round comes round—another trite saying if ever there was one, but nonetheless completely true. And if there was anybody who deserved to contemplate that particular aphorism, it was Oedipus Snark. There were many things that would be coming round to him, she thought—not without satisfaction.
“You’re smiling.”
She nodded. “I was thinking of a saying that I think is probably true. ‘What goes round comes round.’”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think so?”
“Yes, I do. I’m thinking of the man I used to be involved with. He’s got it coming to him—he really has.” She paused. “And you? Did she get rid of you or did you get rid of her?”
“She got rid of me.”
> Barbara marvelled at this. How could any woman let go of him—with his looks and his manner? How could she?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.”
He laughed at this. “I don’t know about that. I suppose I have my irritating ways. And you never know—sometimes the chemistry just isn’t right, or it’s one-sided.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But when it’s right, you can tell, can’t you? You just know.”
He nodded. And then he looked at her sideways and their eyes met—just briefly, but they met.
Barbara said to herself: Oh, please, please, please! Please let nothing go wrong with this—this wildly improbable, impossible, but gorgeous thing. She was not sure to whom to address this invocation. To Venus, perhaps? If the goddess of love were listening, she would surely cherish such an invocation and understand the urgency, the yearning, that lay behind it.
57. Barbara Ragg Writes a Letter
ON MONDAY, Barbara Ragg went into her office in Soho, the Ragg Porter Literary Agency (founded 1974, by her father, Gregory Ragg, and his friend Fatty Porter). She was usually the first to arrive in the morning, coming in even before the cleaning lady, who emptied the wastepaper bins and vacuumed the floor, and then, her duties done, was to be found in the waiting room reading unsolicited manuscripts over a cup of tea. She had a good eye for a promising script, Barbara and her colleagues had found, and they encouraged her to note down her verdict on a piece of paper and pin it to the front page of the manuscript. “Promising,” a note might read, or “A bit sentimental, I think,” or simply “Rubbish.” And sometimes these notes would be accompanied by a request for fresh cleaning supplies, as in: “A good romance—credible characters—and please order more liquid soap for the toilets.”
The Ragg Porter Literary Agency did not reveal to the world that some of its reading was done by the cleaning lady; such an admission would be misunderstood by those who did not know the cleaning lady in question and her record of spotting a good literary prospect. It was as reliable a system, the agents felt, as any other, and certainly more truthful than the practice of sending manuscripts back completely unread but accompanied by a letter which implied that the manuscript had been carefully considered. The statement “Your manuscript has been carefully considered by our reader” did not reveal that the reader in question was the cleaning lady. And why reveal this? asked Barbara. What difference does it make?
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