An Artist and a Magician

by Hugh Fleetwood

  It was Betty who eventually—but she was, after all, from the old South, where manners were held to be more important than virtue—broke the immense and all pervading quiet; who shattered the spell that threatened to entomb them for ever. Very gently slipping out a hand and taking a morsel of toast with caviar piled black and shiny on it, and slipping it even more gently into her mouth and down, straight down into her stomach, without any apparent movement of her jaws, she murmured ‘Wilbur dear, where did you get this caviar? It has the oddest taste, but is quite delicious.’

  And that did it. The curse was lifted; the statues came to life. Bernard cackled, and said, ‘Oh caviar, balls, it’s probably just toad spawn, I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,’ Philip jumped to the floor, stretched, and did a sort of pirouette over an imaginary mouse, and Wilbur himself, with a huge sigh, and a hardly enunciated ‘Oh my dears,’ said, ‘Oh Bernard, it is not. It is just something I’ve been keeping aside for a special occasion like this. And now let me freshen your drinks.’

  And so, he thought, as, the drinks freshened, he went into the kitchen to check what was happening in the oven, he had done it. And while he couldn’t help admitting to himself that he was just a little disappointed that neither Betty nor Bernard had said anything, made any sort of statement to the effect that of course they had made those stories up and were ashamed of themselves for having done so, he supposed in the long run their reaction had been quite the most civilized possible; and therefore, probably also the best.

  *

  Civilized or not, however, after another half an hour, he couldn’t help admitting that he was more than just a little disappointed. He was really most disappointed. Because, as he had thought beforehand, and actually said to them, while of course he didn’t expect brotherly love to suddenly rain down on them all, he had hoped his speech might produce—apart from some even nominal confession—something more than the mere chilly drizzle of politeness that now dampened the evening. But they all sat round, waiting for the dinner to be served, being so formal and stiff with each other—Betty as warm as an ice-princess on a day when the temperature is only just above freezing; Bernard, after that first little crack about toad-spawn, as attentive and well behaved as a sycophantic boy-scout—that he wanted to scream. Or at least stand on his head, do a tap dance, or make funny hats for them all.

  He tried every trick he knew. He made jokes, he told yet another story about his childhood, he tried to goad Bernard into being foul-mouthed, and he tried to tempt Betty into recounting the story of the affair she had once had with an Eskimo. He positively sweated with the effort to amuse them, even more than he had that dreadful evening before the letter from the tax-department had arrived. But it was all to no avail. Bernard sat grave and portentous, and offered the monkey dish to Betty saying no, he wouldn’t eat anything himself, and Betty carefully picked out the caviar-covered toast and observed, every time she did so, that if there was one thing she couldn’t resist, it was caviar—and especially this caviar, which was so delicious.

  And by the time he asked them to come to table, and Bernard asked if they would be so kind as to excuse him for one moment, he had to wash his hands, Wilbur had given up hope altogether. Had given up even trying. Maybe, he thought, he had been too optimistic in expecting them to be cheerful after his little speech. If so—well, it just meant that they weren’t going to have a very enjoyable evening. Still, it didn’t really matter, he told himself, as he took Betty by the arm and escorted her to the table, and tomorrow they would all be back to normal. And though there was nothing that discouraged him more than a spiritless dinner, he certainly didn’t regret having made his speech. On the contrary. And if he had to sit through a hundred spiritless dinners as a result, he would still have made it; and still felt relieved and at peace with himself for having done so.

  But it was just at that point—just as he was pulling Betty’s chair back for her and lowering her carefully into it, that the tone of the evening suddenly changed. And changed in a way that Wilbur hadn’t foreseen, and not at all for the better. Because as Betty sat down, she lifted a swan-like arm towards Wilbur’s neck, pulled him gently towards her, and, glancing in the direction of the bathroom where Bernard was still washing his hands or doing whatever he was doing, instead of giving Wilbur the kiss he was expecting, whispered with the sweetest smile towards an invisible audience, ‘Wilbur, I shall never, ever forgive you. I have never, ever, been so humiliated in my entire life. And while I have no intention of walking out of here in a rage, which would really satisfy that monster—about whom every word I told you is true, every single word, whatever lies he’s told you—I shall never ever speak to you again. How could you treat me in this way? How could you doubt me? After all I’ve done for you. No my dear, in spite of all the fun we’ve had together, there are some things that cannot be forgiven. And this is one of them. My God, I feel as if you’re making me eat my poor Tommy. And now I shall say no more about it, and will leave after dinner as if nothing had happened. But you will do me the favour of never phoning me or making any attempts to see me in your entire life. And needless to say, there will be no more loans from this particular old sucker. This evening you have shattered my entire faith in life which I believed that you had restored to me after Tommy’s death. You have destroyed me, Wilbur. Destroyed me. And now—no more.’

  And so saying, and with a gentle push of the swan-like arm, Betty released him, and giving a clear, bright, ringing laugh, a laugh of the most irrepressible enthusiasm, cried to the returning Bernard, ‘Bernard, I was just telling Wilbur that he is the most marvellous creature on this earth. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bernard said, with absolutely no enthusiasm, and sat down. ‘A true friend.’

  How Wilbur walked into the kitchen, brought the first course to the table, served it and begged Betty and Bernard to start eating immediately, without waiting for him—‘French politeness my dears, French politeness. Respect for the food’—he didn’t know.

  Nor did he know how hie passed the salt round, kept the wine glasses filled, offered second helpings, cleared the plates away, replaced them with others, and served the second course.

  He didn’t even know how, while he was doing this, he managed to tell his two guests that they must, simply must come to the opening of a show of paintings by a young painter, a friend of his, whose work was so interesting it couldn’t be missed; and how, if they possibly could, they should go down to Catania to hear the first performance of a recently discovered opera by Bellini in which the most charming young soprano, with the freshest, sweetest voice—not one of those awful drag-ass types—was singing the leading role; and how, if they were free, they should both, yes both of them, together, come to dinner on Friday when he had two French friends coming who were quite wonderful; he was a collector of painted glass, and she, who had a Finnish mother, had ten white cats, all of whom she took with her every summer to an island off the coast of Finland her mother owned, where there was a ruined castle which was incredibly beautiful, and oh how he loved the image of this dear dotty lady with her ten white cats all going for walks together over the rocks under that Finnish summer sun that almost never set or perhaps never did set because he wasn’t sure at what latitude the island or Finland itself was and did either of them know, really his geography was so dreadful which was all the fault of the rather erratic education he had received at the hands of—

  He didn’t know how he did anything for the first half of that dinner, and he never was to know.

  Because as he was clearing away the dishes of the second course, something happened to wipe the memory of the effect that Betty’s outburst had had on him out of his mind for ever.

  And it was that, with only a sudden clutch of hand to neck, a quick, drawn in breath that sounded like a gasp of surprise, and an expression in the eyes first of outrage, then of accusation, and finally of ugly, naked fear—Betty died.

  That she had died, and hadn’t just fainted, Wilbur wa
s completely certain, even before she very slowly toppled forward and hit her head on the table; and even before the shock really registered on Bernard’s face—at which, for some reason, Wilbur instinctively stared, as if hoping to receive from the fat old man some denial of this unbelievable, but incontrovertible turn of events.

  Betty had died; Betty was dead…. In this sober new life of his, in this serious new world that he had come to terms with, in this life and world where art and magic were confined only to the written page or the painted canvas, Betty Bartlett had died. Betty Bartlett had dropped him; had withdrawn her support. And she had died. She was dead…. The words rose in Wilbur’s mind, starting as a numbed whisper, and rising to a shriek. And as they rose ever higher and higher, becoming more and more unbearable, and he stared now back and forth between her black robed body and Bernard’s face—on which shock at last registered as plainly as a painted sign; for obviously, though the old man had said he wanted Betty’s death, and even, possibly, expected it, the actual fact of it was still, well, shattering—Wilbur felt himself falling forward. Falling towards the table. Was he, too, dying?

  No, he realized, two minutes later, as he started to recover from his faint, lying in a flabby, unpressed heap half way under the table, and with a pain above his eye where he must have struck himself as he fell. He hadn’t died. People like him never died. The artists and magicians of the world….

  But then, as he lay there, too weak to get up, wondering what Bernard was doing and why he wasn’t helping him, and simply repeating to himself over and over again—but in a dull, hopeless voice now, ‘Betty is dead, Betty is dead,’ he suddenly became conscious of the most extraordinary noise. A high, tearing noise, like paper being ripped, or like the whine of an electric saw slicing through hard wood. A high, choking noise, like the sound of a baby being strangled. A high, ugly, ruthless noise, like—like—like laughter.

  And as he pulled himself up, heaved himself, heavily, back into his chair, he saw that indeed the sound was the sound of laughter; and he also saw why his only friend hadn’t tried to haul him up. Because Bernard, his old eyes looking quite mad behind his spectacles, his old mouth open and quivering above his thin little beard, was simply staring at Betty’s body and trembling, shaking, screaming with the most insane, hysterical mirth.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Wilbur,’ he gasped, in a voice unlike any Wilbur had ever heard him use, ‘Jesus Christ, you’ve actually done it. You made all that great speech, set the whole scene so well I was convinced you were serious, and then—you do it. You’ve done it. You’ve actually killed her.’

  Wilbur closed his eyes. Killed her. Killed her…. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t done a thing. He had tried to save her from death—from the death of lies and falsehoods in which she lived. He, the great giver and bringer of life, the enchanter and conjuror, had tried to touch her with his wand. He had tried to save her. And she had died.

  ‘What was it? Arsenic in the caviar?’ Bernard screeched. ‘I noticed you didn’t touch any, and you know I can’t bear the stuff, and Madam was wolfing it down. Jesus Christ! You’re insane, Wilbur. Insane.’ And off he went again in a high cackle of laughter.

  Wearily Wilbur opened his eyes and gazed at the old man as if from a great distance. Poor Bernard, he thought. He was so pale he looked as if he were going to have a heart attack. And quite naturally. The poor old thing must be scared out of his wits. And the fact that he was laughing so hysterically, and talking about killing, was natural, too. People often did in these circumstances.

  Even more wearily, Wilbur got up and went round the table and stood behind Bernard. He put his hands on the shaking shoulders.

  ‘You better go home Bernard,’ he said softly, soothingly. ‘I’ll sort this all out. But it’ll probably be a long night, and I don’t want you staying up and getting tired.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bernard murmured obediently, and stood up without taking his eyes off Betty’s slumped-over body. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. Then, shaking his head and seeming to make a great effort to pull himself out of a trance, he turned to Wilbur and said, ‘I would love to stay and see how you do get out of it though.’

  ‘Come. Come along,’ Wilbur urged, and still with his hands on Bernard’s shoulders, guided the old man to the door. ‘There, take your coat, and get a taxi home. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Bernard croaked—and now Wilbur heard that he was crying.

  ‘I’ll call you in the morning. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Bernard croaked, as he allowed himself to be pushed gently through the front door.

  But as he went, the old man shook his head again; and awkwardly, confusedly, muttered to the dark landing outside, ‘but you know, what I told you about Betty was true.’

  *

  For the next five minutes Wilbur simply sat at his place at the table, sipping on a whisky and water, and telling himself that he must be calm, he must be calm, he must be calm. But then he decided, or rather realized, that he must do something. He had to. He couldn’t just go on sitting here at the table, with Betty sitting dead beside him. Sitting here and sitting here, until morning came, and Lillian and Aida walked through the door….

  Softly, he murmured to the cat, who had jumped onto the table, ‘Philip dear, leave Aunt Betty alone. She’s dead.’

  But what was he going to do? What could he do?

  He knew what he would have liked to do. He would have liked, as they did in the movies, somehow to get Betty back to her own apartment. To get her back, change her clothes, sit her at her kitchen table, and put a toast-crumby plate, a fishy smelling knife, and an open and empty jar of caviar in front of her—as if, spending the evening alone, she had decided to have a snack, and had died.

  But it was all very well to do such things in movies. In real life however—it was preposterous, even to think about it. He could just imagine hauling Betty down the great stone staircase of his palazzo, trailing her black sable cloak behind her, and trying not to tread on her scarf. He could just imagine trying to walk her through the street door, and standing with her in the cold until a taxi came by. He could just imagine saying to the driver, ‘Could you help me? My friend is a little stiff….’

  No. No. It was out of the question.

  What was he going to do then? Call an ambulance and say that Betty had collapsed while at the table? Well, yes, that was the obvious, the only thing to do. Except when they did a post-mortem on her, or whatever they did do to discover the cause of death, what would happen? Because surely, as Bernard had suggested, the caviar, that Betty herself had said tasted odd, had been responsible for her death. And it couldn’t just be food-poisoning; no food, however off, however venomous, killed that quickly. So it must, actually, have been poisoned. But how? By whom? He had opened the jar himself, only an hour before Betty had arrived. And he was certain that it had been sealed. Had Bernard, then, to give old Wilbur’s joke a helping hand, slipped something onto one of those small square pieces of toast? But no. That too was impossible. Apart from the fact that he had hardly left them alone together, Bernard couldn’t, couldn’t have done such a thing. One didn’t kill people. And yet—Betty was dead.

  What was more, he told himself, as he sat there staring at the still white shoulders, if by some freak Betty had been poisoned, and even if there was some perfectly natural explanation for the poisoning, there would obviously be a police investigation. And what would the police make of it, however accidental the tragedy appeared to be? Because surely they must know that he had had tea with Pam the day of her fatal fall. And they did know that he had been one of the last people to see Jim alive. And now, if Betty was found dead in his apartment—oh, it was dreadful. For whereas the unsuspicious might put the series of deaths down to coincidence, and he himself—though he didn’t dare dwell on the matter for the moment—was tempted once again to put them down to some malign and rampant power of magic, of art gone wild and out of control, the police, without doubt, would see them all a
s part of a diabolical plot. A plot masterminded and—with the possible exception of Jim’s death—executed by one person. By him, Wilbur George. What else could they do?

  But what could he do?

  He didn’t know; and as, after another twenty minutes had gone by, he still didn’t know, he got up and went to the phone and dialled the emergency number.

  And as he asked for an ambulance, and gave his address, he told himself that the only thing he had to remember if he was arrested and taken off to prison, was that he must let Lillian know immediately. So she could come round and give Philip his food—and then make sure that he found a good home….

  TEN

  Of course, he realized next day, after he had been told by the hospital that Betty hadn’t died of food-poisoning, or any other sort of poisoning, but had simply had a cerebral thrombosis that had killed her instantly, he had been overly dramatic last night—imagining being arrested, and planning for Philip’s future! Still, under the circumstances, his reaction had been more than justified. After all, it had been a terrible shock, and coming on top of everything else that had happened—

  The police weren’t even informed of Betty’s death, and not one of the papers thought a cerebral thrombosis worth wasting a line of print on. Wilbur took it upon himself to inform Betty’s children of their mother’s decease, and arranged with the American Embassy for the sending of her body to the States for the funeral—which was where the children wanted it to be. A week later one of these children—a pompous lawyer who presumably took after his father, since he had nothing of Betty’s brightness and enthusiasm—flew to Rome to see about the disposal of Betty’s effects, her apartment in the city and the house in Porto Ercole. Wilbur spoke to him on the phone, and asked him if he needed any help. No, that won’t be necessary, the man said bluntly and almost rudely, as if he suspected Wilbur of wanting to get his hands on some of his mother’s more valuable possessions. And no, I don’t think I care to know, he said, when Wilbur asked him if he wanted to hear the circumstances of Betty’s death. He was so very curt in fact that Wilbur somehow couldn’t get round to asking, as he had half intended to, about the man’s either dead or deranged younger brother….