Old Acquaintance

by David Stacton

  SHE looked, of course, she was always careful about such things, wonderful. Knowing that helped.

  Things seemed to be going well. Not only is one misunderstood, but one can scarcely understand one’s self. As it is, one is only a luceole, a word Charlie always applies to the employees of Time Inc., and nobody ever catches the pun, which must displease him, poor dear.

  She looked around her. They were up to the prizes. A prize should go for inconsequence. We all need inconsequence from time to time, it should be encouraged, but then prizes are seldom given to our real desires. She found herself presenting the best actress with a statuette, and meaninglessness is not the same thing, alas. To be inconsequent requires an effort, and effort, obviously, was not quite what this young woman had made.

  Charlie seemed to be having a lovely time. Novelists so seldom get to occupy a stage. He was gracious to everyone, and she had to admit he did his impersonation well. The monocle, in particular, was effective. She was pleased for him. She was pleased for herself. She liked the films, when you came right down to it. Not every fool’s paradise is inhabited by only fools. An amazing number of quite respectable people take refuge there. After all, it’s pretty country.

  *

  The greatest living German novelist and his dog Tray, thought Charlie, admiring the sea below him of burnished faces. Like Sir Walter Scott and Maida, except that everybody loved Sir Walter Scott, or pretended to, and if I had a dog Tray it would probably just rape the photographer, whereas Maida sighed wearily and headed for the door, if she so much as smelled portrait paint. Except that the two greatest living German novelists are both dead, particularly Musil. Of course there’s Günter Grass, but he always looks as though he’d had a hard morning with his embalmer, and besides, he’s just the greatest living German novelist this year. Next year things may be better. And I forgot Böll. I always do. I suppose, like me, he’ll wind up writing about refugees, but he isn’t old enough to write about mine. He’ll have to wait for the next crop, not that he’ll have to wait long.

  It was about time to get to work. He was glad he was pleased with himself tonight, otherwise the strong odor of fish exuded by the prize committee might have bothered him. He regarded his audience with satisfaction. I may not have gotten a prize, he thought, that’s the price of popularity, you don’t, but at least they know who I am. Happily, he handed over the Grand Prix Luxembourgeois to its first and slightly embarrassed Communist, a scruffy little man from Poland. In Poland they have to worry more about these things than they do at home.

  *

  The prize award dinner was followed by a second meal, at which it was possible actually to eat, instead of merely choking down a few sour grapes and a bad Consommé Madrilène. The other judges left as soon as they could. They were probably on circuit. But most of the judged stayed on to pick up Lotte’s opening at the Casino tomorrow.

  Charlie presided at this second supper, the surrogate father with his surrogate family. He looked secure, and soon whipped up the right Alice in Wonderland feeling. Give him the right materials, and he usually could. Paul was being either cowardly or kind, it would be hard to say which, but since the two are linked characteristics, perhaps it didn’t greatly matter. Only Unne was sitting bolt upright. Unne looked somehow sorry. She had that manner the well-bred always have of suggesting that though they are never out of place, the particular world in which they are sitting at the moment most certainly is. When we are well-to-do we go into charity work. It is an obligation. It helps to pass the time.

  All the same, we are all nice people, thought Lotte, that’s what makes us all such hell.

  They went upstairs early, which is to say, at half past one. Unne did not seem to care for it when Paul went obediently into Charlie’s suite, ahead of Charlie.

  That wasn’t sporting of her, though understandable, Lotte supposed. When the sophistication slips, it is possible to see the face of the lost child underneath. But Lotte would be up early, and felt too tired to be sympathetic. She sent Unne to bed.

  LI

  THEY met in Lotte’s sitting room at seven, in a gray light to which she was so unaccustomed that at first she thought the room must have been redecorated during the night.

  Unne was invulnerable and tender in a tailored suit. Paul looked rumpled. He was running away, of course. He had exactly that shamefaced schoolboy look. So was Unne. We cannot, so they say, run away from ourselves. Nonetheless, when we meet ourselves again after the trip, the change may have done us good: we may be kinder. Lotte wished them well.

  But for Unne she felt profoundly sorry. It must be terrible to feel so much, and yet to put up with so little, so early on as twenty-three.

  She took them downstairs, saw them drive off in a rented car, waited until it had turned its corner, came back, undressed and lay down, but of course she couldn’t sleep, and the only thing in the room to read was a copy of Roberts’s Rules of Order, which Miss Campendonck must have left behind. Unless you are a clubwoman, it is not an exciting book.

  Did she mind? She thought about it, and discovered, regretfully, that she didn’t. After a certain age one cannot be romantic either about one’s self or other people any more, lonely or not. One’s always glad when it’s over. Charlie, she suspected, would feel differently. She would have to cope with that. But not just now.

  *

  The door opened and in came Miss Campendonck, wearing a flannel dressing gown, her hair in rat curlers.

  “This is bad for you, when you have to go on tonight. Give me that book,” she said, looked at what it was, and put it down. “You weren’t reading,” she said accusingly.

  “No.”

  “Does he know?”

  “I don’t think so. I said I’d tell him.”

  “Not much spine, that young man.”

  Miss Campendonck sniffed. And then, surprisingly, though as usual, with no nonsense about her anywhere, she said, “Poor thing, I always liked her. At least she’s made her mistake early. When she divorces him, it won’t be too late to begin again.”

  Alas, the Unnes of this world seldom divorce the Pauls, at least, not until too late. They just go on and on, hoping there will be a change, and of course there isn’t any, until it is too late to make a change themselves. They’re fifty-three.

  It was a great waste. But you couldn’t explain that to Miss Campendonck. Miss Campendonck would not have understood. She was not, herself, a married lady.

  And yet she seemed to understand something. With one of those alarming glimpses she allowed you, sometimes, into her own sub-basement, where a naked light burned permanently in an empty room, Miss Campendonck said, “Perhaps you’d better go see the old devil at that. You won’t get any sleep until you do.” To shade that light, she made it an order, and left the room before Lotte could do anything so crude as to suspect her of humanity.

  Lotte got up and went along the corridor.

  LII

  THERE was no answer when she knocked, so she tried the handle.

  “It isn’t locked,” said Charlie. “The horse is gone.”

  She went in. He wasn’t doing anything. He was sitting in an armchair, in a black and white striped dressing gown. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. He didn’t seem much of anything. For the moment he had run down where he sat. He was waiting to rewind. For that he would need help, not much help, just an audience to go on ticking for, that was all. He knew better than to ask for more than that. At least she hoped so. If she had mastered the rules of the game, then so must he. When you are down is no time to sob and say you’re human. To say you are human is only permitted if you laugh.

  All the same, poor Charlie, wounds heal in time, but Charlie had a wound a year. Or was it that the old one burst open from time to time, from strain or abrasion; that it is probably better to be hurt, than not to feel at all? One or two shocks had lasted her a lifetime, but if he needed more, that was his chemistry. Happiness is only for the young. When you’re older, what you want is peace and q
uiet, or something as solid and substantial and as gossamer as that. But he never seemed to learn. There are different ways of being happy. It makes some people furtive. Others kind. She didn’t touch him. You can tell a sad body by the feel, even when the face smiles. She didn’t want to feel.

  Charlie smiled. “He’s gone.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I suppose you would, wouldn’t you?”

  “I saw them off.”

  “It’s funny. We had such a pleasant evening yesterday. I went to bed quite happy. And he didn’t even take his clothes.” Charlie stood up. “What am I going to do with all those clothes? Come and look.” He went into the bedroom and opened the closets. “What am I going to do with them? Who else would they fit?”

  She knew the process. She’d been through it once before. He had to work himself up. He had to push himself over the edge. He wanted the ruins to collapse of their own weight, then he’d have air to breathe again, something to build on, and could smile up at the sky again. That was the way he kept himself sane.

  She closed the closet door. “We can send them on.”

  “Where?” He didn’t want the closet door closed. He flung it open again. The suits hung there, rustling, a series of Pauls, neatly pressed, in search of their next body. Irritated, he slammed the door and stalked off to his own room.

  She followed him, patiently.

  “I’ve done everything,” said Charlie. “I’ve been married four times. I pay for everything. I pay more than the really rich ever do. I have to. I give everybody everything. What else can I do? Why does it always have to end like this?”

  She refused to play up. She had been married once herself, though not many people knew it; still was, for that matter; she hadn’t bothered with a divorce. She let it ride. She hadn’t wanted to remarry, either. But sometimes the thought of that unhappy man out there in the night somewhere, she’d no idea where, going through something much like this, probably, over and over again, made her uncomfortable, though she seldom saw him. There are things we would rather not see. There are things our bodies will not let us forgive, even though our hearts would rather do so.

  But Charlie was a friend. Therefore she refused to help him. In this case writing a check wouldn’t do. Therefore he would have to help himself.

  Which is what he was doing. Though she was no actress herself, she recognized the motions. There was something too tight about this rage, as though good humor were straining to burst through. In order not to feel, he had to pretend that he did. She did not interfere.

  Charlie looked round the room. He wanted to break something, she supposed, but his best things were in here, and everything was too valuable to break.

  “Well, say something.”

  “I’d rather you did the talking.”

  “I’ve been talking for fifty years!” shouted Charlie. She’d never seen that look on anybody’s face before. She’d never had a child.

  “Charlie, are you wearing a corset?”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Of course not. It’s some sort of latex contraption for men.” He glowered at her, but she could see he had almost smiled. Hysterics sometimes do.

  But apparently he hadn’t finished his demonstration yet. He picked up the Korean plate.

  “Charlie, no!” She’d miscalculated. That was something that really mattered to him.

  He lifted it over his head, shut his eyes, and dashed it to the floor. It was like smashing a bottle of milk. The white drops of porcelain splattered everywhere.

  They both stared at them.

  “Oh, my God!” said Charlie. He looked solemn. He also looked absurd. “I’ve never done that before.” He sat down heavily on the bed.

  She got down on the floor and began to gather up the pieces. A sliver brought blood from her thumb.

  “Don’t do that.” He sounded irritated.

  “But, Charlie, it’s irreplaceable. You can get it wired. There’s a very good shop in London, behind Knightsbridge somewhere. They specialize.”

  “I know it is,” he said. “That’s why I’ve got three more in storage.”

  She straightened up. “What?”

  “Well, it means a lot to me. I was always afraid I’d do that some day. You see, it’s happened before. It was a set of six.”

  It could be true, it could be false. With Charlie you never knew.

  He shrugged. “Now I’m down to three.”

  “Dear God in Heaven!” she said. She wiped the blood off her thumb.

  He looked contrite. “I feel better now. I think I’d like to be alone.”

  She found it difficult not to laugh at him, he looked so sad. But she knew she mustn’t laugh. That would have spoiled everything. She left him and didn’t see him again for the rest of the day.

  LIII

  IT was evening. The room was dark. He didn’t feel so much better as all that. But he was beginning to rally. He did not like the sight of that smashed plate, so getting the cardboard from a shirt, he swept the pieces up. He never did feel right without the plate. There he had been speaking the truth. He supposed he’d have to go to Switzerland and get another out of store. But that in turn would mean seeing his wife, and he didn’t much like the idea of that, not unless there was someone else there.

  Petroushka can go to Hell. Charlie’s heart had never been in the Petroushka game, anyhow. To play that game you had to be the Christ-like type of artist, which he had never been. His archetypal figure was different.

  He had discovered that at the period when all the followers of Jung were playing the animus-anima game together, like backgammon, in the evening. He’d made the figure up, and then discovered that he hadn’t, that it had been there all along. He had had the same hallucination, always, as a child, falling asleep, of an elegant man in gray who came stalking down the corridor and then stood at the foot of the bed, staring down, without eyes, without a face. When he was forty that figure had at last disappeared. That showed you what Jung could do for you. The replacement had been an improvement.

  The scene is an opera by Gluck, with real stars, but without the music. The scenery isn’t by anybody. For once it’s there on its own terms. We are in a cool place, on a cool planet, far away, and stand on a gravel floor, between granite walls. They were not built by Man. There is a foot-bath pool of still water, overhung by ferns. There is no other water and yet somehow we have just arrived by boat.

  “Ah, there you are,” says Hermes Psychopompos, a gracious oiled figure wearing a chlamys, one of those Japanese hats the ancient Greeks liked to wear, and very little else. “I have been waiting.”

  Together we turn, and he conducts me on my way, by the light of a spluttering torch. The air is cool, scentless, and musical as ice. The stars are vivid overhead. They are trying to get through.

  “Watch,” says Hermes Psychopompos, and dashes his takes another step down. The bottom is in darkness, but one can hear the drip of seepage, somewhere, from what was once a waterfall.

  “Watch,” says Hermes Psychopompos, and dashes his torch into the darkness. It hits with a shower of sparks, far ahead, far below. There is nothing to see but a blank wall, but for some reason this is reassuring, and Hermes stands very close to me. He, too, is reassuring. He is my friend. The sparks die down and then flare up into celestial fireworks, subdued as a spiral nebula, or the green crackle of a log settling comfortably in the grate. One wakes up. One feels much better. I don’t know why. Unless it is because Hermes Psychopompos, though distant, is so beautiful, and understands.

  Der Höheren Menscheit freudiges Beginnen,

  or, more simply,

  Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden.

  What does it mean? I’ve no idea. It’s just an imaginary game. That’s all our lives are, thought Charlie: imaginary games.

  So he tried to conjure them up. They came, slowly. Each time they come back it is a little more slowly, but at least they come.

  It’s a dreadful waste of time to be sad, he thought. I want to laugh.
I’m tired of doing it by myself. And so, I suppose, the time has come to take up the search again, accompanied, as Lotte is by hers, by Knoop’s Celestial Circus, Lifeboat, The Normandie game, Penis Rock, Playing Dead, Hermes Psychopompos, What Century are we in Today, Turgenev, Singing alone in the Car, and by Mr. Farnaby, the pun man. I am very fond of them really. They’ve pulled me through. Which is lucky, for there is nobody else.

  Lotte was also lucky. She had learned her game early, the hard way. But never mind. When you get as far as the evening, even the shadows are good company.

  So tomorrow, after Lotte’s performance, he would go to fetch his plate. Meanwhile, he rang down for dinner to be sent up, for he didn’t wish to be seen in public just yet, went into Paul’s room, ran his fingers across the sleeve of a tweed coat, and then came out and shut the door.

  Du bist der Tod und machst uns erst gesund.

  LIV

  LOTTE was in the wings, waiting in the dark, and listening to the M.C. If you want to be the idol of three continents (she hadn’t been to Asia yet, and Africa was out of bounds), you need a flack. Just being lovable isn’t going to get you anywhere. But that didn’t mean she had to listen to what he had to say.

  The house lights were going down. Reflected in their mirrors, behind the diners, the lusters paled out. She was fascinated. The reflection reminded her of the Christmas trees at home, as a child, as you came down late at night to see what you were going to get the next morning, and saw the candles burning through the French doors from the hall to the living room. In those days, whatever you got, you could at least be sure it would be a gift.

  She had not remembered one of those family parties for years, but now memory gave her a whiff of gemütlichkeit (that was before inflation), good cooking, and uncles and aunts in their favorable phase. All gone now. For those who live alone, Christmas and Easter are the hardest times. Even Miss Campendonck went somewhere.