The Calligrapher

by Edward Docx

  ‘I thought,’ Don ventured, ‘that you believed all men to be secretly gay.’

  ‘You mean, polymorphous perversity and all that. Well, perhaps I do,’ William said. ‘Perhaps they are.’

  ‘In which case, surely we are all trying to sleep with our fathers?’

  ‘Another good point. However, life is not mathematics and equations do not always balance, Donald.’

  ‘Actually, life probably is mathematics.’ Don clicked his tongue. ‘It is just that we are as yet unable to understand it thus.’

  ‘No.’ William shook his head. ‘I have new clarity on this. Life is actually a series of unrecoverable errors that one day combine to freeze your screen. Then, I’m afraid, whatever you do and whoever you are, some ill-favoured stranger with halitosis will come trudging into your life and turn off the power – and everything, I’m afraid, is always lost.’

  ‘Thanks for that, William.’ I took a deep swig of beer. ‘Madeleine’s father is some kind of diplomat. Maybe he’s in the same line as you, Don, I’m not sure. His name is Belmont. He works in Paris, I think. So I presume that’s the French bureau or whatever you guys call it. You might run into him at an ambassador’s luncheon. Her mother is long dead. One sister, as I say.’

  William, who had been behaving with more than his usual oddness ever since I arrived, now started forward. ‘I have to break in here and say that I think we are now having what is known in certain circles as a lads’ discussion about women. Birds, if you like. As you both know, I cannot tolerate clichÉs in any shape or form, so may I therefore suggest that we all refer to our respective partners – wives, girlfriends and so on – as “he”?’ He held up his hand. ‘In this way we can avoid sounding too hackneyed and – you will be amazed to discover – we will all be able to be far more candid with one another.’

  ‘It is hard to say which of you two has the more severe problems.’ Don shook his head sadly and switched, at long last, to his beer.

  ‘I shall begin.’ William cleared his throat. ‘I am thinking of sleeping with Nathalie, but I am worried that if I do, I will have to marry him. However, this may not be a problem as I think I want to marry him. There, I’ve said it.’

  20. The Legacy

  Yet I found something like a heart,

  But colours it, and comers had,

  It was not good, it was not bad,

  It was entire to none, and few had part.

  Mozart was in the midst of telling yet another of his brilliant jokes when the racket erupted: first the entryphone, then a horn, then the entryphone again, and finally a car alarm. So much noise and so unannounced. I scowled at the bathroom mirror. I had been happily knotting my bow-tie, aiming for that elusive nexus between too large and droopy and too small and tight. And despite several hours spent remonstrating with a delivery company whose mesmerizing lack of clarity on the telephone was matched only by their blank refusal to deliver anything anywhere to anyone, I had managed to sustain reasonably good spirits all day thus far. But the din plunged me summarily into annoyance. I raised my voice at my reflection: ‘For Christ’s sake, Madeleine, tell them we’re coming.’

  ‘We’re coming,’ came the deliberately feeble response from the bedroom.

  I looked past my mirrored shoulder. Her bare legs were lying motionless on the bed and the provocative waft of bazaar-bought cigarettes was now drifting into the bathroom.

  ‘OK Cleopatra,’ I said loudly, though still mostly talking to myself, ‘please don’t trouble yourself. You stay right there: I’ll tell your slaves to wait until you feel like moving.’

  With one hand holding the penultimate loop of the tie in place, I backed into the bedroom and stepped smartly over to the open window to look out. The hot afternoon sun flared in the glass of the opposite panes but the summer air was as lifeless as an old dog in the afternoon. Below, in the middle of the road, at the wheel of an open-top touring car (which from my elevation looked more like a sort of glorious, gleaming, cream-coloured boat), sat a man wearing a dinner suit and what looked very much like a pair of fawn-coloured driving gloves. I leaned further out: ‘WILLIAM?’

  Clearly he had heard me, but he chose not to look up, revving the engine instead – a deep and well-oiled burble – and then making a protracted and elaborate show of adjusting the rearview mirror. Exasperated, I turned my attention to Nathalie, who was still standing by the front door.

  She waved up: ‘HI JASPER, WE’RE HERE.’

  ‘So it seems. WILL YOU TELL HERR VON RICHTHOFEN THAT WE WILL BE DOWN IN A MINUTE?’

  ‘OK, I’LL WAIT IN THE CAR. HURRY UP.’

  I turned back to the room. Madeleine was still propped up on the bed in her knickers – knees up so as to rest her book. The thought occurred that I had surrounded myself with fanatical egotists. She looked up and let her face form one of her favourite counterfeit expressions – penitent heroine beseeches leading man with more serious matters on his mind.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jasper,’ she said, ‘I really wanted to move but it is so hot and I haven’t finished this delicious wine you gave me or this lovely cigarette and I need you to help me put my dress on and I didn’t want the neighbours to see me …’ – cigarette in one hand, wine glass in the other, she made a theatrical gesture of alarmed modesty – ‘… like this.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid we need to get a move on. Our felucca awaits.’

  ‘If you pass me my dress, I will put it on.’ She smiled and said: ‘I’m completely ready – honestly. I was waiting for you.’ She drained her glass. ‘You do look like an idiot, holding your bow-tie like that.’

  She stood with her back to me; I let go of my tie and helped her into her dress – a backless, black ball gown. She turned and posed ironically, hand on hip.

  ‘Madeleine, please promise me: don’t say anything about William and Nathalie getting married unless they bring the subject up. I don’t know what stage they are at.’

  ‘I think it’s very sweet.’

  ‘It is very sweet – but don’t say anything. Seriously, I wouldn’t forgive you.’

  ‘I won’t. Don’t worry.’

  Six minutes later, we were on the pavement, staring with unconcealed awe at the car.

  ‘Hello, Madeleine – you look delightful,’ said William, springing up to open the door for her with a childish beam on his face. ‘Perhaps tonight you will meet a man worthy of you and rid yourself of –’ he lowered his voice and he pulled a face of acute distaste ‘– you know who.’

  ‘Good evening, William,’ I said, sarcastically.

  He pretended surprise. ‘Oh, hello Jasper: I was rather hoping you would be taken suddenly ill or something so that I could have the girls to myself.’ He tutted. ‘But never mind – seeing as you are here – you must sit in the front with me: if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well: boys up front, girls in the back.’

  I looked at Nathalie to check that she didn’t mind. She was in a pouty sort of pink dress with her hair in sleek finger waves – forties’ style. Behind her, I noticed, the estate agents had left their desks and come to the window the better to scrutinize proceedings.

  Nathalie waved me around the other side of the car. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, ‘I came all the way down here – you have a go. Madeleine and I will hang out in the back together.’

  We ensconced ourselves in the tan leather seats and, after a few moments of unendurably gravid silence, I delivered the much-anticipated question: ‘I know you’re desperate to tell us, Will, so go on: what is it?’

  But it was Nathalie who answered, leaning forward between us into the front seats as I attempted to click my safety belt into place, her voice a passable impression of William’s: ‘This, actually, is a converted Facel Mark Two, hand-built by the great – and oft overlooked – Facel-Vega car company in 1963. The marque is French, of course, but we have a very serious Chrysler V8 American engine under the bonnet. An odd collaboration, I always think, America and France – however, back in the
early sixties, when life was truly worth living, I should say that – for a while – this was definitely the car to have. Stirling Moss drove one and, it is widely believed, grew his moustache to do so. They cruise easily at 110 mph. But, sadly, there are now only about fifty of the Facel Twos still running – and only two or three convertibles – all of them, like this, custom-made.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ William adjusted his gloves and let off the handbrake.

  We looped the Paddington basin and soared up on to the Westway, heading out of town beneath cobalt skies and a heavy July sun, that lolled and slacked on the white ropes of the aeroplane trails. To the right, the thirsty concrete high-rise sagged. To the left, the cracked brick terrace rows slumped. All street life seemed to slouch as if desperate to escape the sullen heat and lie down somewhere quiet in the shade. High summer was falling across beautiful London like a late afternoon swoon.

  The dashboard looked like the instrument panel of a light aircraft – gauges and levers and metal disguised as varnished wood. The tarmac baked and sweltered ahead of us and, as we sped up, the wind whipped and roared and flapped in our ears and an importunate smell of leather and motor oil came and went and came again. All the senses were absorbed in the single concentrated experience of automotion. With every mile, my mood grew lighter.

  ‘How far is Isleworth?’ Madeleine asked, inclining forward as we came to a stop at the lights on Chiswick High Road.

  ‘Only about another couple of miles further. Around the next bend in the river,’ William replied.

  ‘And who exactly goes to this sort of thing? It’s been ages since I went to a ball. I can’t even remember the last. College probably. I’m very excited. I’m glad you thought of getting us tickets.’ There was no sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘It was Jasper’s idea, actually.’ William waved back at some children who were pressed up against the rear window of the four by four in front. ‘There’s a fair few tennis players – obviously – and their various hangers-on. And there are some umpires and such like. Then there’s some of the more upmarket fashion crowd and the usual minor celebrity contingent –’

  ‘I love tennis players,’ Madeleine asserted.

  ‘– and, as for the rest, the sycophantic magazines like to think of them as society but they are mainly the grandchildren of boot polish millionaires or baked bean barons or photocopying tycoons.’

  ‘Or arms dealers,’ I added.

  ‘Sounds great,’ Madeleine said.

  The lights changed. ‘The trick is to try to have fun despite them. Or at their expense. Avoid photographers. Pretend to be in drainage if anyone asks. And feign absolute ignorance on all other matters. Thankfully, there is usually a huge amount to drink, although I – alas – will have to stay sober since vintage wine and vintage cars do not mix.’

  ‘Do you go every year?’

  William engaged first gear. ‘Oh yes. Jasper and I make a point of it. It is one of the easiest places in the world to pick up idiotic dÉbutantes. Or their vapid mothers. Or their vapid mothers’ idiotic friends. Very easy indeed, actually.’

  ‘William leads a different life from the rest of us,’ said Nathalie, joining in from the back and addressing Madeleine. ‘Ignore him – that’s what the rest of the world does.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not true,’ I shook my head. ‘We don’t go every year.’

  Putting the hood up on the car took the best part of twenty minutes – fastening down, press-studding, clamping over, hefting, heaving, tweaking and twisting – but finally we were done. Madeleine and Nathalie had gone on ahead and so, after William had taken us through the locking and alarming procedure (twice), we made our way round to the front of the building on our own.

  At a guess, I would have said that the house was relatively recent – built some time in the latter half of the nineteenth century at the height of the gothic revival. The entrance hall certainly pointed in that direction – a black and white tiled floor, the inevitable wooden panels and, directly opposite the entrance, a double staircase that curved right and left up to a three-sided gallery.

  After handing over our invitations, we were directed towards two glasses of not terrible champagne en route to the main hall. The noise of three hundred and fifty merrymakers in animated conversation rose to greet us as we walked through. We stood together for a few minutes on the threshold of the ballroom – on the first of the three wide steps that fanned down on to the polished parquet floor – sipping our drinks tentatively, looking around and hoping to catch sight of Nathalie or Madeleine.

  The room was undeniably impressive and must surely have measured the depth of the building. And it was alive and humming with people: some already seated at their tables, some milling in clusters of conversation, others standing in twos and threes, laughing or exchanging hellos. Women of all ages swished this way and that – excited, lips glossed, seeing friends across the room, checking the seating plan, still sober and self-conscious with co-ordinated clutch purses; the men too seemed to be feeling more manly in their dinner suits – speaking in deeper voices, affecting elegant gestures, laughing in concert, offering chairs. Waiters wandered with much-welcomed wine. Glasses clinked and chinked and tinkled. At the far end of the hall, beyond the thirty or so circular dining tables, there was a low stage on which several unattended instruments were carefully placed beside empty chairs awaiting musicians. A single microphone stand stood in the centre, ominously suggestive of speeches before song.

  Three girls came towards us up the stairs on the way back towards the reception champagne – students no doubt still intoxicated by the prospect of free alcohol. Involuntarily, I smiled and received a pout, a frown and a smirk in return. Pointedly, they carried on with their conversation as they passed.

  William looked over. ‘Well, this is going to be a very weird evening, Jackson – a bit of a first actually – you and I at a party and hoping to avoid talking to anyone attractive just in case disaster strikes and it starts to go well. Bloody strange this partner business, if you ask me. Hard to believe some people make a habit of it. Must have balls of steel.’

  ‘I know,’ I shook my head sadly. ‘I think they call it growing up.’ An old man wandered past with an attractively large young woman; he was struggling desperately to be likewise blithe and gay and to keep his wandering eyes from the tempting valley of her glorious bosom. ‘Or the beginning of the end.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  Act One (the reception) gave smooth place to Act Two (the dining). Likewise Act Three (a few speeches and the presentation of some trophies) slipped happily into Act Four (that brief but charming time when the tables have dispersed and the formal dancing is well under way, and before the distance between those who are drunk and those who are not becomes too wide a gap to jump). But after that …

  After that, things took a serious turn for the worse. I should have been on my guard, of course; I had been to enough events like this to know that Act Five (the tears, the confessionals, the crazed guzzling of half-empty glasses, the ugly, lurching strangers who sit down uninvited and brandish the truth) usually ends in a blood-bath. But then again, I had absolutely no idea that it was going to go on for so long or get so personal.

  I was minding my own business, sitting agreeably becalmed at our table. The band were playing a song that I recognized as one of Madeleine’s favourites: Nina Simone: ‘My baby don’t care for shows … My baby don’t care for clothes …’ Madeleine herself had disappeared with Nathalie – to dance maybe. The most idle part of my consciousness was eyeing the quasi-formal hand in which the place-names had been written and thinking that whoever was responsible should be taken outside and quietly bayoneted. Another part (and gradually gaining the ascendancy) was wondering whether I might yet be drunk enough to risk a dance. Another part again was considering going to the cocktail lounge and putting the bar staff through their paces. And yet another part was listening to the rare and pleasing sound of William being almos
t serious for once in order to wind up a certain Neil Bentink, a sweaty, red-faced, spiky-haired man, who had been placed on our table ‘by mistake’ (so he claimed) and who (so he insisted) wrote opinion pieces for political magazines – to my mind a secondary crime after his decision to wear a shimmering sequinned waistcoat.

  ‘Oh no no no,’ William demurred, ‘you’ve got the wrong end of the stick; I do stand for things. I believe passionately in every side of every argument; in fact that is precisely why stasis sets in. I believe in the copious availability of interesting wine and unseasonable fruit for all; and I believe in fewer delivery lorries on the road. I believe in travel and discovery and years out for everyone; and I believe in fewer runways and green belts and the reduction of noise pollution; I believe in the absolute sanctity of life and the absolute right to decide, in less taxation and better services; and when I’m stuck in a traffic jam with the putative nippers on the way to recycling my putative newspapers, I also like to recycle the air so that I don’t have to breathe the fumes of all the other cars. Don’t look so offended. That is more or less exactly your position and the position of most people under forty. I’m afraid we’re all suffering from chronic intellectual hypocrisy – a hitherto unimagined double-think – and it’s people like you who –’

  But much as I was enjoying William’s uncharacteristically forthright denunciation, I never heard the final accusation because – just at that moment – the room was filled with a terrible whining, screaming hiss, like the sound of a giant rabbit dying in leg-ripped and gum-lacerated agony.

  All around us, people broke off from talking and looked over towards the stage in horror, scowling or cringing or with fingers to their ears.

  A well-groomed but shortish man in his early forties stood behind the shrieking, howling microphone holding his arms up unnecessarily for quiet. On the dance floor, the dancers shuffled in semi-suspended animation. The ball juddered to a halt. For the moment at least, the man had everybody’s attention.