by William Boyd
His breakfast was wheeled in. Coffee and orange juice in a sunny chair. He was still unsettled, he realized, by one of his dreams which had been unusually virulent and detailed. It was about Irene, and in the dream she had cut his head off with a small, not very sharp knife. He had felt no pain and managed to protest throughout his decapitation, seeking some explanation for this hostility. Irene—her breasts bare, as they had been the night before—said only one thing: ‘Because you’re weak, weak, weak,’ and then renewed her efforts with the knife to the rhythm of her words.
As he sipped at his orange juice he squirmed anew at the phantasms of his unconscious mind. Irene’s erode violence, her breasts swaying and bobbing as she sawed, gouts of his own blood fountaining up from his torn throat and severed windpipe. It was lucky, he thought, that he was no Freudian, otherwise he’d be in a bad way: rather a lot of guilt and self-contempt swilling around. Just as well, he reflected, that his art-historian training provided him with the reference and he didn’t need to go poking around in his id…It was all clearly derived from Judith and Holophernes by Artemisia Gentilleschi…or by Jakob van Hoegh.
He wondered vaguely what to do for the rest of the day. Thinking of Jakob van Hoegh reminded him of his ostensible purpose in visiting Atlanta. He might as well spend some time in the library, going through the motions, see if there was anything that would conceivably justify revaluing the landscapes.
The William Russell Pullen library of Georgia State University proved happily to be not far from the Mono-park 5000 complex. Henderson paid off the taxi driver and wandered through a modern plaza with scattered fir trees and curious-looking lights. He entered through wide glass doors set in the blank brick facade. Nobody noticed him, nobody demanded credentials. He consulted a bright wall map, hummed up a few floors in a lift, asked a pretty co-ed where Fine Art was and duly discovered the relevant well-crammed rows of bookshelves.
After some time spent browsing through books on seventeenth-century Dutch painting he further confirmed his belief that Gage’s dank mundane landscapes were nothing more than that. He flicked through his notes on the paintings. ‘Demeter and Baubo’ caught his eye. ‘Protrepticus —Clement of Alexandria.’
He sought out a reference librarian, a cheerful girl called, so the identity card of her lapel informed him, Ora Lee Emmet. Ora Lee, after some punching of keys on a VDU and a search through hefty catalogues, said that the only copy of Clement of Alexandria’s Protrepticus that they possessed was an inferior French translation on microfilm.
Half an hour later, Henderson sat before a blue screen and twiddled up the glowing text. Old Clement, as far as Henderson could make out, was ranting on at all the base and obscene rites and rituals associated with classical mythology.
‘How can we be astonished at Barbarians,’ Henderson translated slowly, ‘when the Tuscans and the rest of Greece—I blush to talk of it!—possess in the figure of Demeter a religion which is absolutely shameful?’
Henderson turned the wheel. Clement recounted the story. Demeter wanders round Greece searching for Persephone. In Eleusis, exhausted and toute desolee, she sits down by a well. Eleusis is inhabited by shepherds and swineherds. And Baubo. He translated on:
‘Baubo, having received Demeter, offers her a drink (a mixture of farine, d’eau et d’une espece de menthe). But Demeter refuses it because she is in mourning. Baubo (tres chagrinee and deeply offended) uncovers her private parts and exhibits them to the Goddess. At this sight Demeter accepts the drink—delighted at the spectacle!’
Outraged of Alexandria railed on at the Athenians and 1 quoted some lines from the song of Orpheus.
‘Baubo drew aside her robes to show all that was obscene. The Goddess smiled, smiled in her heart, and drank the draught from out the glancing cup.’
Henderson switched off the machine.
What did it all mean? A good laugh is the best medicine? Keep your sunny side up? There’s nothing worth getting that depressed about? Everything’s pointless?
He moved tloor to find the classical dictionaries. There was, predictably, vast material on Demeter, of her grief and fasting after the loss of Persephone, the breaking of her fast and the ending of her mourning at Eleusis. In every version, however, that had been achieved by lambe and her dirty jokes. So who was Baubo?
Half interested, he began to leaf through other books on classical mythology looking for references on Demeter and Baubo. He found only one in Myth, Ritual and the Primitive Mind by Max Kramer.
‘Vulgar comedy and lewdness,’ he read, ‘was common ritual practice. Its purpose seems originally to have been for the promotion of fertility, but it came later to be associated more generally with the dispelling of evil spirits and as a favoured antidote to gloom and despair. Thus Hercules released the hapless Cercopes—whom he was on the point of killing—when they had caused him to laugh over their jokes about his astonishingly hairy buttocks (Melanpygos); and the same ritual significance is found in the story of Demeter and Baubo, when Baubo made Demeter laugh by raising her skirts and exposing herself to the Goddess when Demeter was in mourning for Persephone.’
He sat slumped at his desk. It was late afternoon. He hadn’t worked so hard in years, and although he was exhausted he felt a vague exhilaration. He chewed on the end of his pen, suddenly remembering Irene back in New York; Bryant and Duane’s impending marriage; Sereno, Gint and Freeborn. He looked round the tranquil library, the ranked booths, the earnest students—all dressed for the athletic field, it seemed—hunched over their books. He contemplated the stacks of learned volumes piled in front of him, the dull gloss of the illustrations, the crammed rows of type…He turned his head and gazed out of a window at the sunlit towers of downtown Atlanta. What shambles waited for him out there?
He yearned suddenly for the warm security of study and research; the ostrich calm of the library; the utter pointlessness of some scholarly avenue up which he could pedantically stroll for the next decade or two. Out there, in the hot streets, in Luxora Beach, in the Gage mansion, life lounged like a gunslinger, waiting for him—nothing but hurt, dissatisfaction and baffling twists and turns ahead.
He remembered when, as a little boy, two brothers who lived along the road had briefly taken him up as a friend. They were slightly older than him—robust, dirty-kneed, wild little beggars, he recalled—who came round to his mother’s house on any pretext.
‘It’s Philip and Colin,’ his mother would tell him. ‘They want you to come out to play.’
‘But I don’t want to go out and play,’ he would wail. ‘I want to stay inside.’
He sympathized strongly with his younger self. That was exactly how he felt at the moment. He longed to stay indoors; he didn’t want to go out and play.
Thinking of his home and his childhood in this way reminded him of his quest for news of his father. He thought for a moment of telephoning New York, of asking the doorman to go through his mail to see if Drew had replied. But what if there was a letter? He couldn’t have it sent down here, and he certainly didn’t want its contents read over the phone.
He ran his fingers through his hair. Wearily he closed his books and assembled his notes and photographs. Beckman would be waiting. The time had come.
Chapter Twelve
It was remarkable, Henderson thought, how swiftly anger and frustration could dispel calm and serenity no matter how assiduously these last two emotions were cultivated. He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He had been waiting two hours at the corner of Peachtree and Edgewood for Beckman and his car. Two empty hours. Enough was enough.
He walked back to Monopark 5000 to collect his case. He had managed to secure a place in the hotel car park for Beckman’s pickup, and had left his overnight bag with a receptionist in the lobby. He would simply return to Luxora with the pickup. Too bad if that idiot was waiting at another street corner.
In the lobby he picked up his bag.
‘Hope you enjoyed your stay at Monopark 5000,’ the receptionist said.
‘Well…I certainly won’t forget it.’
‘We won’t forget you either, sir. Come back and see us again.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Excuse me?’
Henderson turned. It was General Dunklebanger, checking out. He looked terrible—worn and harrowed—despite his smart uniform.
Oh Jesus, Henderson thought, this is all I need.
‘Look, I’m really sorry about last night,’ Henderson began. ‘They’d already got our rooms confused, it was nothing to do with me. Just bad luck—rotten luck, that’s all.’
‘Did she say anything?’ The general’s voice trembled, his dark eyes were bright with potential tears. ‘Anything at all? Anything she said. I’ve been looking all day. I can’t find her, you see.’
‘Well…All she said was ‘Alvin, you bastard, I never want to see you again’, and ran off.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Just, ‘Alvin, you bastard’?’
‘Yes. And ‘I never want to see you again’. You’re Alvin, I take it.’
To Henderson’s alarm he saw tears bulge at the lower lids of the general’s eyes and glide their way down the seams and fissures of his weatherbeaten face.
‘I’ve got to find her,’ he repeated, and took his bottom lip between his teeth.
‘All the best of luck.’ Henderson thought hard, trying to help. ‘She was in uniform. Won’t she have to report back to base at some point?’
The general clutched Henderson’s arm. ‘You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help me find Mary.’
‘Look, I’m terribly sorry for you, I really am. But there’s no way I—’
¹Please. You’re the only one.’ Now he held both of Henderson’s shoulders. Henderson tried to ease himself free. Surely they wouldn’t end up grappling on the floor again?
‘What can I do?’ he said. ‘If it’s any consolation my girlfriend ran out on me too about five minutes later.’
‘You see. Together we can find her!’
Gently Henderson prised off the general’s fingers from his shoulders.
‘Really, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve got problems enough of my own. Massive problems. If only you knew—’
‘You’ve got to help me, ’ the general said in a loud, cracking voice. Heads turned.
‘No,’ Henderson said. Poor guy, he thought. ‘I must go. I’m positive she’ll be back any moment.’
‘WAAAH!’ bawled the general, standing in the middle of the lobby as Henderson backed away.
‘MWAH—WAAH—WAAH!’ His hands hung limply at his sides, twitching as his shoulders heaved.
‘What did you do to that man?’ a shocked passer-by demanded.
The general blubbered noisily on. Receptionists scurried anxiously out from behind the long desk to lead him gently away into the trees. People glared hostilely at Henderson. Astonishingly, a few women had begun crying too—in sympathy, Henderson supposed. He felt unmanned, full of worry. Everyone wore preoccupied, troubled faces. If a general in uniform can cry like a baby, they seemed to be thinking, where does that leave the rest of us?
His mind full of this baleful, admonitory image, Henderson drove back to Luxora Beach through the gathering dusk. He drove west, into the fire of the setting sun, which rinsed the few thin bars of cloud with a salmony golden light. He could feel a murky depression settling on his brain. He switched on the radio in search of distraction. Twanging guitars heralded a familiar tune.
She never said a single angry word to me,
Tho’ I cheated on her every gnat and day.
She smiled when I come home
No, she never raised a moan
An’ I laffed when I heard her ‘n’ the children pray.
Henderson remembered the tune from the Skaggsville Motor Hotel. He listened on with horrible fascination.
‘Tho’ he’s the happiest, meanest, full-time, signed up sinner
Don’ forget that he’s your only paw, Lord, forgive him for his sins, an’—’
Henderson switched the radio off and drove to Luxora Beach in heavy doleful silence.
When he arrived in Luxora it was late. The main street, as ever, was devoid of traffic but there was the usual cluster of cars and pickups round the bar. The neon signs—the red bow, the blue rosette—shone cheerfully in the night. He stopped the pickup. Someone came out and he caught a glimpse of crowded figures, blurred by smoke, and the high excited voices of people having a good time. For a moment he felt like going in to join them, but he knew what a dampener his presence would be to the locals, so he started up and drove on down the lane to the Gage mansion.
The lights were on in Freeborn’s trailer, but the main house was quite dark. Henderson parked the pickup, got out, stretched. He stopped stretching when he saw that his own car wasn’t there any more, just one brick—a crude rebus—stood in its place. He sighed. Did this mean that Beckman was still prowling the wrong junction in Atlanta waiting for him to appear? Or had Duane decided to change cars for him?
He clumped up the front steps and into the hall. No music, ergo, no Duane. And probably no Bryant. He felt an odd relief at having to postpone that confrontation. He switched on some lights, and the TV for company, before wandering through to the kitchen in search of some food. To his considerable disquiet he realized he was treating the Gage mansion as though it were his home.
In the kitchen he found a barely warm loaf-thing, dark brown, as though made of meat. On closer inspection this turned out to be nuts, beans and pulses set in some sort of spongy dumpling. The fridge yielded a plastic box full of grated carrot. He cut a slice of nut loaf and added a spoonful or two of carrot. He was beginning to wish he’d stopped for a weaselburger in Luxora, but he was really too hungry to care.
He sat down at the frugal meal and started the long chew. He heard the sound of a car arriving, then Beckman sauntered in.
‘Hi, Henderson. See you got back OK. Sorry to miss you, but I figured you were coming back anyways so it din’t matter none.’
‘You mean you didn’t go into Atlanta at all?’
‘You got it.’
Henderson thought of his two-hour wait at Peachtree and Edgewood. ‘Why not?’
‘‘Cause you didn’t have no car, man. It wasn’t there this morning.’
‘What do you mean it wasn’t there?’ He felt the sense of baffling weakness descend on him which he now associated with life in Luxora Beach.
‘I got up this morning, no car. Simple as that.’
‘Duane?’
‘Could be. I heard he was trying to get it fixed up and all.’
‘But there was nothing wrong with the bloody thing!’ He drummed his fingers on the table. The crying general, the disappearing car…These were like portents in a Shakespearean play. Beckman was talking again.
‘Some cars are real dogs. I remember back in Quarig Tri we had an A.P. C. was a real mother. Always throwing tracks, breaking down. One day we woke up an’ it warn’t there. Just like yours. Seems the sarge got stoned with some chopper pilots, drove it off to the airfield. They picked it up—used one of them big fuckers, a Chinook—flew out over a jungle and dropped it off. Figured if Charlie Cong picked it up it’d do the war effort more good fouling things up for the gooks.’ Beckman laughed at his anecdote, tucking his thin blond hair behind his ears, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hovering bird.’
‘Well hello,’ Cora stood in the doorway, cigarette held beside her face. ‘My father would like to see you.’
So there were people at home, Henderson thought.
‘Catch you later,’ Beckman said. ‘Wait till you hear what happened next.’
Cora and Henderson walked up the stairs together.
‘How do you get on with Beckman?’
‘Fine, fine. He tells me all about life during the Vietnam war.’
‘You do realize that he was never out there.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He wa
s 4F. Because of his eyes. Nervous complaint.’
‘No, I didn’t know. I was sure—‘ He felt obscurely shocked at this news. He didn’t know why. Nothing at the Gage mansion was what it appeared to be—he should have learnt that by now.
‘Dr Dubrovnik get off OK? No ill-effects from your stroll in the lake? Walking on water takes some practice, I hear.’
‘Oh, God. It was…everything went wrong. It’s difficult, um…’
‘Don’t worry.’ Cora laughed, but kindly. ‘But I was very impressed. Somehow it was the last thing I’d ever have expected you to do.’
‘Same here,’ he said thoughtfully. Then, ‘Look, I’d be terribly grateful if you didn’t mention anything to Bryant. I wouldn’t like her to get the, you know, wrong idea.’
‘Or Bryant’s mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Dr Dubrovnik wasn’t the most convincing art historian.’
‘Well…’ He made a wry face.
‘Bit of a dark horse, Mr Dores, aren’t you. Lead a complicated sort of life.’
‘Not usually,’ he said candidly. ‘But since coming here everything has got rather out of control.’
They were outside Gage’s door. Cora looked quizzically at him for a moment.
‘Go right on in. He’s expecting you.’ She turned to her own door.
Henderson knocked and went into Gage’s room. It was empty and the double doors to the bedroom were closed.
‘Henderson. Give me two minutes,’ came Gage’s voice from behind them.
Henderson took the opportunity of scrutinizing Demeter and Baubo again. There was the Goddess in her tattered widow’s weeds laughing at the serving maid’s outrageous display. The grin was crude, badly rendered, but was wide enough to reveal the Goddess’s teeth. Baubo was laughing too. They were having a good time, that was clear enough.
‘Come on in,’ Gage called from his bedroom. Henderson walked through. Gage was shirtless and was patting his damp ruddy cheeks with a towel. His old chest and shoulders were covered in surprisingly dense grey hair.
‘Having a shave,’ he said, and put on a clean shirt. ‘How are you, Henderson?’