The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

by Phaedra Patrick

  The man sat for a while, his eyebrows knitted, his hands clasped on his lap. He shook his head. “It’s not an option I’d thought of. You have just fucked with my mind.”

  “Sorry. It’s best to tell the truth.”

  “I appreciate it. You’re brutal, though. That’s a third option thrown into the mix. You mean I should dump them both and find someone else?”

  “Maybe someone who is vanilla with a few chocolate chips.”

  “Brutal. Let me pay for your lunch, yeah?”

  “It’s fine. I can manage it.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ask anyone else’s opinion.” The man stood and shook his head again. He threw a twenty-pound note on the table. “I need to work this out for myself.”

  “Sorry if I’ve confused you.”

  “Nah. I asked for your advice and you gave it. Fair and square.”

  Arthur hesitated. He saw how the man had changed. His shoulders were rounded, his eyes searching for the truth. He swallowed before he spoke. Perhaps he himself needed the brutal truth, too. “Before you go,” he said. “Can I ask you something? It’s unlikely we’ll meet again and you can give me your thoughts.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “If you met a girl and there’d been other men before you and she’d lived in different parts of the world and had done lots of things but she didn’t tell you about it, would it bother you?”

  The man cocked his head on one side as he considered. “Nah. It would make her who she was. I mean, there might be reasons that she didn’t tell me. Some people live for the day and don’t look back. Why look back at the past if you’re happy with the present?”

  Arthur took time to think. He took a serviette and wrapped his bacon sandwich in it and put it in his pocket. “And do you ever buy jewelry for Manda and Donna?”

  “Sure. Donna likes glittery cheap stuff. She has drawers full of it. Manda likes the expensive shit. Diamonds and platinum, to show how much I like her. Costs me a fortune.”

  “Do you give a great deal of thought to what you buy them?” Arthur asked, thinking of the singular engraved page in the book charm and how enamored De Chauffant might have been with Miriam.

  “Not really. I leave it to them. They point out stuff they like, or buy it themselves. Or I might pick up a little something off friends I know who get nice stuff cheap. I’d make an effort with a wedding ring, though. That’s forever.”

  “Thank you. That is helpful.” Arthur stood up and faced the man. “You asked if I made a good choice with my wife. I absolutely did. But I’m not sure whether I was a good choice for her.”

  The man reached out and punched Arthur’s shoulder. “Nah, you seem like a kind man. I think you probably were a good choice.”

  “Do you think so?” He suddenly felt like he needed affirmation, even from this cheating, brash stranger.

  “You were faithful. You’re kind. You listen. You’re thoughtful. You offer good advice. You’re not a bad-looking fellow. I’m sure she made a good choice with you, yeah.”

  “Thank you,” Arthur said quietly. He paid his bill and left a two-pound tip. The waitress saw him and waved.

  “She sure is a babe,” the man said as they walked away together. “Do you think that...?”

  “No,” Arthur said firmly. “No, I do not.”

  The Book

  FRANÇOIS DE CHAUFFANT’S house was larger than Arthur had expected. It was extravagant, opulent, like it should be a five-star hotel with a man wearing a gray top hat standing at the door. Its white frontage gleamed in the sunshine. Arthur felt suddenly embarrassed by his own three-bedroom redbrick semidetached. He had never aspired to own anything grander. He and Miriam had once discussed moving to be a little closer to Dan and Lucy’s school, but he had never judged himself or others by the size of their home. Home is where the heart is, his mother used to say. Should he have worked his way up the career ladder so he could have afforded something grander for his family? Should he have strived to be more successful? These were questions that he had never considered until he had started this journey.

  As he stood before the house and surveyed the swooping crescent, the poplar trees, the neatly trimmed square, he imagined De Chauffant and Miriam strolling hand in hand, she all in white and he dressed all in black, drawing admiring glances from neighbors and passersby. In his imagination they stepped in unison and giggled, heads bowed and touching. Then they kissed on the threshold before disappearing into the house.

  Arthur dug his hands in his pockets and surveyed his ridiculous blue trousers, his sturdy walking sandals, his nylon rucksack with a compass. Glamorous he was not. If Miriam had stayed with the French writer she could have lived a life of luxury and creativity, rather than plumping for domesticity with a boring locksmith. Her kids could have been privately educated and wanted for nothing. Arthur had often refused to buy toys for Dan and Lucy because they were too expensive.

  But not once had his wife made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. He was doing that to himself.

  His knees shook as he ascended the stairs. He took hold of the black iron door knocker, which was the shape of a lion’s head. Straightening his back, he stood in readiness for the door to be opened by an aging, raven-haired French love-god.

  He had already decided that De Chauffant would still be wearing his tight black trousers and turtleneck jumper. It was his trademark, Arthur was sure. He would be barefoot and have a pencil tucked behind his ear. How would he answer the door—with a flourish, or with a sigh because his latest masterpiece had been disturbed?

  Arthur rapped as assertively as he could. He waited for a few minutes, then knocked again. He felt nauseous, as if he had just stepped off a train after a long journey. His head told him to about-turn, to leave and forget about this silly mission. His heart told him to stay, that he had to carry on.

  There was a rattle behind the door, the sound of chains being removed. The door opened by a few centimeters. He saw a flash of pink clothing. An eye pressed to the gap.

  “Yes?”

  He couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It wasn’t the voice he had granted to his love rival.

  “I’m here to see François De Chauffant.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Arthur Pepper. I believe that my wife was a friend of Mr. Chauffant.” The door remained ajar so he added, “She died a year ago and I am trying to trace her friends.”

  The door opened slowly. A young man, in his mid-to late twenties, stood there. He was very thin and wore jeans that hung off his hips. Led Zeppelin, his T-shirt said. It was short enough to display his navel, which was pierced with a red glittery stone. Hollow navy eyes blinked through his spiky, powder-pink hair.

  “He won’t recognize her, your wife.” His accent was soft, Eastern European.

  “I have a photograph.”

  The man shook his head. “He is not good at recognizing anyone.”

  “I have reason to believe that he and my wife were close. It was a long time ago. In the sixties...”

  “He has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Oh.” This was unexpected. Arthur’s vision of a cocky beatnik dressed in black vanished, not replaced by anything else.

  The young man looked as if he was going to close the door, but then he said, “Would you like to come inside? You look like you could do with a sit-down.”

  It was only when he said this that Arthur realized that his ankle was threatening to lock up. He had been walking since he had met the man with two girlfriends at the café. “That would be most kind.”

  “My name is Sebastian,” the young man said over his shoulder. His feet made a sucking noise as he padded across the mosaic tiles in the hallway, leaving prints that vanished after a few seconds. “Please. Make yourself at home.” He waved toward a door.
“Would you like tea? I don’t like to make it for just myself.” His eyes were wide, full of longing.

  “I would love tea.”

  Arthur opened the door and went into the room. Each wall had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with books. A long stepladder was propped against a wall. The furniture was made from heavy dark wood with worn velvet-padded seats and cushions in shades of ruby, sapphire, gold and emerald. The ceiling was painted indigo blue and specked with silver stars. Wow, Arthur thought. He stood on the spot and turned. The room was like a film set. He didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to circle this room and reach out to touch the books. There was a large oak rolltop desk positioned in the bay window, looking out into the street. On it sat an old typewriter with a piece of paper, ready for De Chauffant to conjure up another masterpiece, or plagiarize. Arthur moved closer to see if there were any words on the crisp white sheet. There were not. He felt a brief wave of disappointment. He wasn’t artistic or creative himself, so it intrigued him that people could earn a living through painting or writing.

  It was only after a while that he noticed that the sideboard was coated in dust. Mugs were dotted around the parquet floor. Chocolate bar wrappers poked out from behind the cushions on the sofa. All was not as glossy as it first seemed. Arthur selected a chair upholstered in chartreuse velvet and sat down.

  Sebastian came back into the room. He carried a red-and-white polka-dot plastic tray upon which sat two chintzy teacups and matching teapot. He set the tray on a coffee table, pushing a pile of magazines onto the floor. Arthur reached out, picked them up and put them on another chair.

  Sebastian didn’t acknowledge this, as if it was normal to create a mess as he went along. “Here we are,” he said. “Shall I be Mother, and pour? That is how you say it, yes?”

  “Yes.” Arthur smiled. He stopped himself from reaching out to help when he saw the young man’s hand trembling.

  “So.” Sebastian handed Arthur his cup and saucer. He pointed his finger in turn at chairs dotted around the room, then picked the largest one, which had stuffing poking out from the corner of the faded teal upholstery. He tucked up his feet. “Tell me about your wife. Why are you here?”

  Arthur explained about the bracelet and how he was tracing the story behind the charms, so he could learn more about Miriam before they met. “I am learning more about myself, too,” he admitted. “With each person I encounter, with each story I hear, I feel as if I am changing and growing. And maybe others benefit a little from meeting me also. It’s a strange feeling.”

  “It must be exciting.”

  “It is, but I feel guilty, too. I am living but my wife isn’t.”

  Sebastian gave a small nod as if he understood. “I felt alive once, too. I was here, I was there, I was excited. Now I am here. Trapped.”

  “You’re not really trapped, are you? I mean, you can leave here when you want...?”

  Sebastian waved his hand dismissively. “Let me tell you about my life, Arthur. While you are discovering yours, mine is dying. This may sound dramatic, but it is how I feel. François and I were together for a couple of years before he forgot who he was. It started with small things—he forgot to turn off the lights, he lost his spectacles. Everyone does these things, yes? It is easy to put the breakfast cereal in the coffee cup cupboard, or lose your shoes under the bed. You come upstairs and forget why, or buy a bottle of milk when you have some in the fridge. Except François nearly burned the house down.” His eyes grew watery with emotion. “He went upstairs for his afternoon nap—always between two and four. I leave him alone during these times, so he can regain his strength before he starts to write again. I came into the bedroom to wake him and the bed was on fire. Flames, reaching almost as high as the ceiling. François just sat looking out of the window. He didn’t even notice that he was in danger. I ran like a gazelle, took a blanket into the bathroom and ran the shower to dampen it. Then I used it to smother the flames. The mattress was black, smoking. And still François he said nothing. I took his shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. But he stared at me blankly. It was then that I knew that his mind was gone. He would never be brilliant again.”

  A strange feeling crept over Arthur, an awareness that Sebastian wasn’t talking about De Chauffant as an assistant would. “How did you meet him?”

  “I came to London four years ago and worked at a nightclub, behind the bar. My employers spoke to me badly and cut my wages if I broke a glass. I was too young to stand up for myself. François came in one night with friends and we chatted, about this and that. He started to come in most nights. We talked each time for three weeks and he offered me a job. He said it would be part housekeeping, part admin tasks and part keeping him company. I found him fascinating. I was flattered that a famous writer was interested in me. I moved in to help and our relationship developed from there.”

  Arthur sipped his tea, pondering on the word relationship.

  “I hope you do not mind me talking to you, Arthur,” Sebastian said. “My words run away with me. I have kept them inside for a long time. So many people hate him. His friends and family don’t care any longer. He changed agents and the new one did not care, only for making money. There is only me left. I can’t walk out. So I stay and care for him. I cannot leave. I am twenty-eight and stuck.”

  “Are you his...carer?”

  “I am now, for there is nothing else between us. Not like there was. When we met he was magnificent. He was free. That is what I liked about him. I helped him to type up his words, with day-to-day chores, helped with his diary. He said that I reminded him of a poodle, so pretty and eager. I laughed at this and he liked that I wasn’t offended. He could say nasty things, be grumpy and awkward, but he gave me a home. He gave me confidence. I had money to send back to my family. I feel I owe it to stay and care for him. If I go, who will look after him? I have all these...worries.” He spun his hands around the sides of his head.

  “There must be others who can help out?” he asked.

  Sebastian shook his head. “Not for me.”

  “Do you have someone to talk to?”

  “I have a couple of friends, but they are not close. It has helped to talk to you, Arthur. To get my words out of my head. I needed to speak and I feel a little better now. I know that I will have to leave one day...or else I will go crazy.”

  “I feel better for leaving my home and meeting people,” Arthur admitted. “I never thought I would.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Thank you for listening to me.”

  They finished their tea and Sebastian gathered the cups. He put them on top of a sideboard with four others. “Do you think that François and your wife were lovers?” he asked.

  It was a direct question, but one that Arthur had been mulling in his head since Kate Graystock had shown him the photograph. “I think they might have been,” he said.

  “And this makes you feel sad, yes?”

  “Not so much sad, but confused. I didn’t know that she had lived with a man before me. I’m not sure how I could live up to a man with such a voracious reputation.”

  “Hmm,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. Then, “You do know that François is a homosexual?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No. How can he...?” He had guessed that Sebastian was gay, but De Chauffant? Kate had depicted him as a promiscuous playboy.

  “He and your wife might have been lovers. In the sixties, the seventies, he could not, how you say, keep it in his trousers. But he liked men, too. But to say so then would have ruined his work, his reputation. He liked to think of himself as a legend, so there were lots of girls and women. Too many. I do not think he was with anyone long enough to break their heart—only if that person was very needy.” He said it as though it were a question.

  “Miriam was a strong woman.”

  “Then I doubt he would have left her brokenhearted...if that help
s you at all...”

  It did not. “Do you think I could meet him?”

  “I can tell him that you are here... He doesn’t get many visitors. He might be pleased.”

  Arthur wanted to see for himself this man who had lied to women, to his wife, who had stolen Lord Graystock’s idea. This enigma. “Yes.” He stood. “I want to see him.”

  He followed Sebastian up two flights of stairs. When they reached a door at the top of the house he found that he was clenching his fists. But he had to confront this part of his wife’s past, this man who was the antithesis of everything he himself was. Had this wild, reckless genius stolen Miriam’s heart?

  Sebastian pushed the door open. He stepped inside first. “He is awake,” he said. “Do not stay long, though. He tires easily and I will be the first in the firing line.” He made a gun with his finger and then fired it at his own temple.

  Arthur nodded. He hesitated outside the room for a moment and then walked inside.

  Although he knew about De Chauffant’s illness, it hadn’t prepared him for the sight of the man who sat hunched in an armchair in the corner of the room. He was small with white straggly hair and overlong eyebrows. His hands were clawed, his face distorted. His eyes were staring and hollow—a mere echo of the swaggering young man in the photograph given to him by Kate Graystock. He didn’t acknowledge Arthur’s or Sebastian’s presence.