The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  She came with a gasp and her body relented. She climbed off me and got onto her hands and knees. “Okay,” she said, “your turn.”

  I listened to the slap of middle-aged flesh against middle-aged flesh. I thought of her in the hotel room in Cleveland. Surely it had been more interesting and more exotic than this? But the thought of her there was oddly exciting, and I went into her with more energy and enthusiasm than usual. I thought of Helen and the mystery between her legs. I thought of the command in her eyes and the transparent fabric that draped over her shoulders and her breasts. I came with a grunt that would have woken the children if they had been home.

  She laughed.

  “Not bad for old guys,” she said. “We are worth keeping, you know.” She kissed me sweetly on the forehead. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” We both fell asleep.

  . 31 .

  IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING Gina’s visit to Petworth she attacked her work with renewed enthusiasm, but she was young, and, as Bryce observed, she found it difficult to accept that progress can be slow or imperceptible. The enthusiasm that had followed her discovery of Wyndham’s memoir and her subsequent visit to Petworth soon gave way to something like despair. It didn’t help that her mother sounded drunk even in the morning and that her father threatened to “pop over the pond” for a weekend so he could introduce Gina to his latest fiancée. She worked harder than ever, but her growing frustration revealed itself in her emails and her phone calls with Bryce.

  “I’m not producing results,” she said. “You have entrusted me with a great and important responsibility and I feel that I’m failing you.” Bryce was touched by her devotion, but also worried that she might be falling apart.

  “Nonsense, dear,” he said. “You are doing splendid work. If this was easy, someone would have done it already—or I would have done it—and you would have nothing to do. What we are attempting is just this side of impossible. Despair is the greatest obstacle to any great achievement. We must not give in to it, you and I.”

  And so she resumed her systematic trawl through overlooked archives that might contain something related to Turner. A few weeks later she sent a note saying that she would be taking the next day’s flight.

  “Have you ever,” she asked as she stepped into the library, “heard of Reginald St. Germaine?” Bryce had not. “St. Germaine,” she said, “was a curious character active in London in the early 1930s. He had a small inheritance and set himself up as an all-purpose literary man. He published a few book reviews in small magazines and a few poems in even smaller magazines which he seems to have subsidized, but his major project was a proposed book on nineteenth-century sexual mores. He seems to have fancied himself a kind of Henry Mayhew of early twentieth-century sexuality, although he could be more accurately described as a pornographer or a plain ordinary creep. He was never able to interest anyone respectable in his activities, but St. Germaine conducted over forty interviews, which he transcribed and catalogued, before the project was abandoned.”

  She opened her attaché case and took out a folder containing a number of sheets of yellowing paper.

  PLACE: LONDON

  DATE: OCTOBER 23, 1935

  SUBJECT: MRS. (?) ELIZABETH (BETTY) HULFISH

  INTERVIEW AND TRANSCRIPTION: MR. ST. GERMAINE

  AGE: 39

  WITNESSES: MISS JONES AND MRS. CORTELYOU

  Lord, sir, it was a wicked picture, a very wicked picture, and he was a wicked man that owned it. It was an odd and wicked business altogether, conducted on the hush-hush. As far as I know it was only me and Margaret that knew of it and we was paid handsome to keep our mouths shut and threatened with awful consequences if we didn’t. But, Lord, everyone but me is dead now and there can’t be no harm in telling after all these years.

  It was in that time when all the boys had just come back from Flanders. I used to see them on the streets looking so sad. I was nineteen then and I could pass for genteel if I kept my mouth shut and had a nice dress on. My friend Margaret, who had been in the trade with me, come up to me one day and asked me if I was up for something a bit unusual. She said it only involved gentlemen and that the money was more than handsome. But she said it wouldn’t do to be too particular about scruples and what I would do and wouldn’t do, if you understand me. After I said I was game Margaret gave me fifty pounds—fifty pounds, sir, that was a world of money in those days—and said I would get another fifty and maybe more if the gentlemen liked me. Lord, in those days I would have done a dozen Turks for a hundred pounds, so I didn’t have to think about it long at all.

  I was to buy a respectable dress such as a prosperous tradesman’s daughter might wear. I was to meet her at six o’clock on a Saturday on Curzon Street.

  I remember the dress, sir. It was beautiful stuff, a dark lavender-like color. I wore that dress many times and I would have had it for years, it was so well made, if I hadn’t been forced to sell it on account of getting down on my luck again.

  An old butler-like gentleman met us at the door. He asked if we wanted a cup of tea. While he was fetching the tea we was to look into the wardrobes and choose something to wear that would please our fancy and make us agreeable to the gentlemen. There were silk robes and silk dresses that were hardly dresses at all.

  When he come back with the tea he told us that his master would be needing us in about an hour’s time and that we was to spend that time getting dressed so as to show ourselves off to our best advantage. He said it all like it was the most natural thing in the world and he was just a nice old gentleman, but he was nothing but a nasty old man is what he was.

  But we was wicked too in those days and Margaret and me had a deal of fun trying on those scandalous things. We was like two little girls playing at dress-up, though a good deal more shameless than any two girls had a right to be.

  Margaret settled on a satin corset which she had me lace up tight from behind. She looked so sweet that I kissed her in fun. Margaret was a sweet girl and we always got on so nice; it’s ever so sad that she come to such a bad end. I chose a cream-coloured gown that was so fine you could almost see through it. I covered my shoulder with a pretty shawl. Margaret said it made me look like a young innocent girl that was up to tricks, which is, you know, the sort of thing many gentlemen wanted, especially those what had daughters of their own.

  When Mr. Stokes come in he didn’t say his name was Stokes. He told us his name was Lord Randolph or some such rot, but Margaret had seen him about town and she known who he was. He looked us over most coldly and allowed that we would do, as if that was a great compliment coming from him. But he was very liberal with his money, sir, and being what we was I had no right to get high and mighty on account of him taking on airs.

  He told us that in a few minutes we was going into the library. There would be just two gentlemen, himself and Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was a special friend of his from America and he would make it worth our while if we was to do our utmost to gratify Mr. Smith in any way. Mr. Stokes said that he might join in the fun too, but the primary one we was to attend on was Mr. Smith.

  The library was a fine old room with high ceilings and fine furniture and paintings that were ever so old. There was oysters and other fine things on the sideboard, as well as bottles of spirits and bottles of champagne on ice. Mr. Smith was sitting on the couch; he was a fat man with a beard and a moustache and I could tell that he’d already had a good deal to drink. Mr. Stokes settled Margaret on one side and me on the other. He was a laughing sort of man, but in a mean way. I remember thinking that perhaps we wouldn’t have much to do, because it is well known how liquor makes a man willing but it don’t make him able.

  The two gentlemen did most of the talking, mostly about horses and such like, but also sneaking questions about what we might like to do. Margaret and me was most attentive to Mr. Smith, hugging and kissing him and touching him, and we was all quite merry. There was a fire in the hearth and after a space Mr. Stokes said it was getting warm in the r
oom and suggested that we ladies, as he was so kind as to call us, might be more comfortable if we was to undress. Mr. Smith laughed most disagreeably and said that as a gentleman he had to insist. So we did it showlike, with me undoing Margaret’s laces and she undoing the buttons on my gown and pulling it off real slow. Mr. Smith looked at the two of us all bug-eyed and when Margaret started rubbing herself up against me, he took another drink of whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Margaret and me undid his trousers and his linens and soon we was a kissing him and touching him all over, but he wasn’t up to much and I thought the liquor had done its work. Mr. Smith was getting sweaty and irritable the way a gentleman does when he can’t deliver and I feared the evening would come to a bad end.

  All this time Mr. Stokes was sitting there as cool as could be, smoking his cigarette. He seemed to be one of those that gets their pleasure more out of watching than doing, but it’s a large world, I say, and room for all of us. “Mr. Smith,” he says, “I told you that if we came to a good understanding, I would offer you a sensual treat such as you could never imagine. These two beautiful young ladies are only a part of it, my good man. Let me show you the thing I told you of.” He got up and went over to one of the bookcases. He touched a latch and the bookcase rolled out of sight without making a sound. There was a black curtain there and he pulled it back like he was a showman at the Exposition and there it was.

  It was, like I said, the most wicked picture that was ever made. The three of us that had never seen it before stopped what we were doing and stared like mooncalves. There was a lady more beautiful than any one I ever dreamt of. She was naked except for some filmy gold cloth that you could see right through, and there were all these pillars and beautiful cushions in her room. There was the most precious little kitten sitting in the corner. Out of the window behind her you could see thousands of soldiers fighting out on the fields. And it was lit up like I don’t know how, so that the room seemed to get brighter on account of the sun that was shining down on the soldiers and their armour. I had seen a lot of paintings, sir, and I had seen my share of French postcards that showed all sorts of things, but I never seen nothing like this. It made me feel all shimmery inside, like I was on fire, and it brought a smile to my face so I almost forgot who I was and why I was there.

  Mr. Smith was the first to come out of it. He suddenly seemed in a world of hurry. He had Margaret kneel down on the sofa. I noticed he was as hard as a man could be. He got himself up behind her and was going at her like a dog in heat, sir.

  Mr. Stokes called me over. He was sitting on an easy chair and his trousers were open with his affair out and ready. I saw what was wanted and I knelt down on the floor and went about my business. I remember looking up and seeing that Mr. Stokes wasn’t looking down at me like most gentlemen like to do. He was looking up at the painting the whole time.

  Mr. Smith made an awful noise and Margaret cried out in such a way as to make the fat man feel gratified at his own abilities, Mr. Stokes accomplished what he meant to so that besides myself he was the only one that knew. Mr. Stokes went to a closet and gave us each a silk robe. Then we went to the sideboard and the gentlemen each had a brandy and Mr. Stokes gave us each a glass of champagne.

  We sat about making small talk, with Mr. Smith asking Margaret how she enjoyed herself and her of course saying she had been transported to seventh heaven. Mr. Stokes never said much except to lead Mr. Smith on. I began to think that Mr. Stokes was working something deep against him and I couldn’t but wish him to succeed, listening to that fat little man carry on like he was the biggest bull in the yard.

  Mr. Stokes had made it a point to seat Mr. Smith so that he was facing the painting. The gentlemen talked a good deal about the painting and how wonderful it was.

  Mr. Smith turned his attentions to me and I kissed him back. I put my hand on his affair and I was amazed. That picture would make a dead man rise. She was the most beautiful lady that ever was, and I understood why a gentleman might feel the way he did, but I also felt tender for the lady. I can still see her quite clear in my mind. Over the years, if I’d been with someone who treated me unkind or if I was lonesome and in trouble like I am now, I think of her and I get a warm comfortable feeling. Those gentlemen only knew the half of it, while I could understand what that poor woman felt, just waiting for the next bloke to shove it in.

  Mr. Smith told me to lie down on the sofa because he was going to give me what every girl truly wanted. He told Margaret to get the butter from the sideboard. He used me most cruelly, but I made out I liked it. And although he pressed me hard into the sofa—he was a very fat man and not gentle—I could sometimes see the lady out of the corner of my eye and she was a comfort to me. It was a queer thing but it was then that I noticed the painter had put some mice in the painting too, and the kitten was paying them no mind. When Mr. Smith was done he made another awful noise and I shrieked and wiggled so he said afterwards to Mr. Stokes, “You see there is nothing they like so much, no matter what they say.” And he said it in such a stupid and self-satisfied way that I could have laughed at him if he hadn’t been so cruel.

  Just after the clock struck eleven Mr. Stokes got up and drew the curtain over the picture and pulled the bookcase out so it was hidden as if it had never been there at all.

  “That is a damn fine painting,” Mr. Smith said. “You’d not have any interest in selling it, would you?”

  “It has not yet come to that by any means,” Mr. Stokes said. “I’m a man of business. I sometimes fancy that if she were still living I would sell my own mother if I could turn a profit thereby, but I’d sooner part with my balls than part with her. Come, ladies, good night.” He shook our hands most business-like and pointed towards the door. Mr. Smith kissed us each and said good night. He pressed a twenty-pound note into each of our hands.

  There was no one in the dressing room and we didn’t know where the old gentleman had put our clothes, so we just sat and chatted. After a few minutes he came in through the other door.

  He was carrying some photographic equipment and I remembered my thought that Mr. Stokes was up to something deep. He gave us each an envelope with, said he, his master’s compliments and gratitude for providing satisfaction. In it was the fifty pounds he’d promised plus twenty more for each of us so we wouldn’t ever speak of what had happened. Lord, what a sum of money that was. A hundred and forty pounds for an evening’s work! That was enough to keep a respectable family alive for almost half a year. Margaret and I discussed how we should set ourselves up respectable-like—as if we was two cousins living on a small inheritance. If we’d only done so, it would have made all the difference. But we didn’t, and the money went where the money usually goes.

  Three days later I made my way to Mr. Stokes’s house, all wrapped up so as not to be recognized. There was a small park there, and I sat for a bit feeding the pigeons and saw Mr. Stokes come out. He was in an awful hurry and looking mighty grim. It was a few years later that he killed himself. I read in the papers how he had ruined ever so many people with his swindles and his dealings, but I have to say although I knew him to be a bad man he treated me fair and lived up to his word.

  I’ve always wondered what became of that picture. I even took an interest in the sale, and I remember reading in the paper the list of paintings that were auctioned off. I had seen some of the hunting scenes that was mentioned, but there was no mention of that painting, which wasn’t surprising considering the kind of picture it was. Perhaps it was never found on account of being in that secret cabinet. Perhaps it was burnt on account of being so wicked. That would have been the proper thing to do and no doubt it happened like that. But to my mind it would have been a pity. There was something dreamy-like about it, something about the way it made me feel. It made the gentlemen randy, but there was something else about it too.

  It’s been many years now and Lord knows I have been with enough different men and almost always on account of money, bu
t most every time I think about that picture I get a feeling that’s more like love than any other word I can find. I can’t rightly explain it, except to say that I almost wish I had never seen it because it made the rest of my life seem so shabby.

  “Could this be the thing itself?” Bryce asked as he put the papers down. “Stokes was a well-known collector. A number of the important Gainsboroughs, Constables, Stubbs, and Hogarths that eventually made their way into American collections passed through his hands.”

  “I think it is,” she replied. “This could be something St. Germaine made up, but the other interviews contain nothing remotely similar. Even the most salacious ones are so dull and flat-footed that it’s no surprise all the publishers turned him down. And there is something in the phrase ‘lit up like I don’t know how’ that is suggestive of Turner.”

  Stokes, she went on to tell him, was born in 1869. By the mid-nineties he had established himself as a private banker in London. He invested heavily in armaments, steel, and precious metals, both in England and abroad, in the years before and after the First World War. By the time the war ended he had amassed a considerable fortune. He bought art and often sold it at a profit.

  “He had good taste,” she said, “which makes me think that this might be it. But by the time of our document, things were beginning to unravel. A parliamentary inquiry was looking into some suspiciously lucrative contracts he had had with the Royal Navy; there were accusations of shoddy goods and profiteering, and concerns about his dealings with the Germans during the war.

  “It all came to a head in October of 1920. He had raised an extraordinary amount of money—a good deal of it from selling off his collection—and it appeared as if he might be on the brink of digging himself out of the hole he was in. The only piece missing was a freighter allegedly packed to the rafters with South African gold and diamonds. It went down somewhere in the Indian Ocean. When the news reached London, Stokes blew his brains out. There was recently a documentary about the ‘Search for the Suicide’s Gold’ on the Discovery Channel. They didn’t find anything.”