‘Did you by any chance see that bit in The Times about Claudio?’ So casual, so light, so pleasant was her tone that Liz froze in her tracks: ‘No, what?’ she said, stopping half-way up the steps, her hand on the rail.
‘It was so silly,’ said Esther, deprecating: ‘such a nonsense. The Montano di Salvo lecture. In the Institute. Quite the wrong time and the wrong place. For what’ – her voice wavered, queried – ‘can only have been a joke? Of a sort? A sort of joke?’
‘Tell, tell,’ said Liz: and Esther, as they walked back to the flat, told. She told well: an interesting little narrative. Claudio, she reminded Liz, had for some years been working on medieval superstition and heresy in a small mountainous region of the Greek–Bulgarian border, and had indeed recently published a book on the subject which (although not yet translated into English) had been noticed in the English academic press: yes, Liz at this point interjected, she remembered a lengthy article in the London Review of Books which Alix had drawn to her attention, and which she had herself attempted to penetrate, but had found to be of a brilliant obscurity, of a deep and dazzling intellectual darkness, and had reeled back exhausted: impossible to tell, from the review, on the simplest level, whether Claudio was merely describing the miraculous shamanistic powers which his medieval witches (descendants of the Bessi of antiquity, in Claudio’s claim) believed themselves to possess, or whether he himself shared that belief in those powers, or whether (at this remote, intellectual, near-thousand-year remove) there was any difference between these two positions.
‘Yes, precisely,’ said Esther, ‘precisely so. It’s not,’ she hastened to add, loyally, defensively, ‘that the book itself is muddled, you know, it’s very scholarly and very elegantly written – but it’s difficult, and readers tend to get themselves lost in the arguments . . . anyway,’ pursued Esther, unlocking her front door, putting on the kettle (this was the period when she favoured rosehip tea), ‘anyway, Claudio had been invited to give the Montano di Salvo lecture at the Institute (an honour, even for one as much honoured as Claudio) and it had been suggested, of course, that he should speak on his witches.’
‘Wasn’t there something about the Mary Magdalen and the Holy Grail and the Sang Real,’ interjected Liz, at this point.
‘Certainly not,’ said Esther, sharply, ‘you’re thinking of that ridiculous book published by Cape about the Rosicrucians, or was it the Cathars, and President Kennedy, or was it General de Gaulle – no, no, Liz, this is all serious scholarly stuff, not popular rubbish. Or so it was until Claudio delivered his lecture at the Institute.’
And what had happened at the Institute?
‘I only have it from the newspapers, the Italian newspapers,’ said Esther, ‘and from speaking to Claudio’s sister Elena, on the phone.’
It had been thus, it appeared. Picture the lecture hall of the distinguished, ancient and honourable Institute in the heart of Rome: its high, painted Renaissance ceiling, its marble columns, its little gilt chairs, its chandeliers. Picture the gathered audience, in sober evening suits, wearing discreet ribbons and decorations in buttonholes; fine, ascetic, wrinkled faces; plump expansive attentive faces; the ageing aristocrats of the academic world. Picture the expectant hush (for Claudio was known as a lecturer of panache, of provocation): picture his arrival upon the platform, a dark gown over his dark suit, a suggestion of billow and flourish, of dramatic, even theatrical suspense. Claudio, although small of stature and bespectacled, was a man with stage presence. He had listened to his own praises, smiling secretly at the titles of his own works, at the lists of his own achievements: had risen from his golden chair and strolled to the lectern: had arranged his papers upon the lectern: had taken a sip of water from the provided glass, had refilled the glass from the provided carafe: had adjusted the microphone with professional expertise: and had embarked upon his theme.
For some twenty minutes he spoke carefully, precisely, soberly, of sources and documents, of learned controversies and misapprehensions of yesteryear, of the achievements of his fellow-scholars, of the unexplored nature of his own small chosen plot, of his unexpected discoveries, discoveries so unexpected that he had chosen not to publish them, for fear of calling into question his own credibility as anthropologist, as historian. But here, honoured colleagues, he had proceeded, here in the sanctum, as it were, of our own mystery, here, to you, tonight, I can reveal to you some of the – odder, less explicable revelations of these last five years. All, at this stage, reported Elena, were on the edge of their seats, breathlessly attentive as Claudio conspiratorially lowered his voice.
‘And what then, what then?’ asked Liz.
Well, then, Claudio had proceeded to describe, in a first-person, informal, circumstantial narrative style, his own adventures into the supernatural. He had been driving, he claimed, alone, through southern Bulgaria, not far from the Greek frontier (where he had been staying with friends at the University of Salonica): it was one of those sentimental excursions at the end of a long research project, he assured his listeners, one of those mildly relaxing journeys which one takes through terrain over-familiar through study, in order to learn again the smell of the mountain air, the shapes of the hills, the darknesses of the forests, in order to summon up that small ghost called inspiration that brings to life our documents and transcriptions, our months in libraries and years at our own desks . . . in short, he had been travelling in search of a little local colour, through scenes where the descendants of ‘his’ people still lived, and lived, moreover, in a primitive style little changed by the turning of the great wheel of time (at this point, Elena had begun to feel deeply uncomfortable, but could see the rest of the predominantly elderly audience was, like a group of children, still unsuspecting), and, as he drove along a remote lonely wooded mountain road at dusk, he had seen a werewolf. (A frisson ran through the audience: perhaps Claudio’s lecture style was after all a little too flamboyant for the occasion? But it was effective, they conceded: they listened, entranced.) The werewolf had been standing by the side of the road – or perhaps crouching would be a better term – yes, crouching, by a pile of logs. The upper body of a man, the lower limbs of an animal. True, the man-portion was excessively hairy, but human it certainly was: human features stared from its wild matted bearded head. And an intelligent face: a questioning face. Naturally, I stopped at once, said Claudio, and cautiously lowered the car window to attempt to make contact. I cannot tell you, said Claudio, how astonished I was at the sight of this werewolf, for, as those of you who have read my latest publication will know, werewolves were certainly not a prominent feature of the heresies and superstitions of this particular region. (At this, a certain change in atmosphere, a slight shifting of bodies and clearing of throats, took place: but it might, after all, be a fable, some speculated, a fable to throw light on the nature of historical or anthropological research? They listened on.)
‘It was not, apparently, a parable. Claudio had communed with the werewolf, in a kind of sign language and the odd word of Greek, and had agreed to follow it to its village. It had loped off along the road, pausing to make sure Claudio was following, and had turned off up a track through the woods. Its intentions, Claudio was sure, were benevolent. He quelled his own desire to stop to take its photograph – luckily he had his camera with him – (this aside caused a tremor of anguish to ripple through some members of the audience) – intent on maintaining the fragile bond of communion which had been established. Picture this strange sight, said Claudio, smiling malignly: the man-beast in the twilight, followed by the professor in his little orange Fiat 125. A good little car, for it brought me to the very edge of the compound where the werewolf lived.
‘And what was in the compound? Claudio narrated. A group of villagers: ordinary, human, two-legged villagers, primitive, certainly, but recognizably human. They came from their huts to regard him. The werewolf crouched on the outer edge of the circle. A young girl stroked its matted arm. They offered him food and drink: diplomatically, he a
ccepted. A handful of olives, a piece of flat unleavened bread, some bitter herbs, a tin mug of rough wine. When he had eaten, they indicated by signs and words of an unknown language that he should follow them to a hut which stood, slightly isolated, slightly raised, at the highest point of the clearing: he obeyed, and shortly found himself in the presence of two women, one elderly, one young, sitting side by side on a low bench by a somewhat smoky fire.
‘Now, of course, said Claudio, my interest was truly aroused, for this combination of the younger and older woman is, you will recall, a most important feature of the magical life of the Perelikesi: and imagine my excitement when the younger woman (who, incidentally, was naked from the waist upwards, displaying one pair of breasts and two supernumerary sets of nipples) spoke to me in a language I could understand!
At this juncture, Elena reported, a note was passed by one of the senior academicians to the professor who had performed the rite of introduction: the professor was seen to shake his head, no doubt indicating that he hadn’t the guts to interrupt Claudio’s ghost story, and that it would be wiser, less sensational, to let him have his say. The fifty minutes were nearly up: let him finish. All this was conveyed, wordlessly, to the entire gathering, by that passed note, that shaken head, and conveyed to Claudio also, who smiled sardonically at the interchange, and continued his tale. It was his claim that the younger woman had informed him, in a simple but by no means incomprehensible tongue, that she had divined his presence on the road, and had sent the wolf-man to attract his attention, and shepherd him to her presence.
‘From this moment onwards, the narrative interest rather dwindled. Claudio declared that he was well aware that he had only four minutes left of his allotted time, and that the last thing he wished to do was to bore his listeners by outstaying the welcome they had so generously extended. The rest of his visit, he had to confess, had proved both frustrating and disappointing. For, although he could understand some of the verbal communications of the younger woman, she appeared not to understand him at all: it was a one-way transmission. After some hours of tedious misunderstanding they had agreed to abandon their efforts at communion, and he had been taken to a sleeping hut, where he passed the night comfortably, disturbed only by vaguely hallucinatory half-waking dreams, induced no doubt by the strangeness of the situation and possibly by the chewing of the bitter herbs. In the morning, it was indicated to him that it was time for him to be on his way: he was fortunately able to win the consent of the two women to be photographed, but alas, the werewolf had vanished. As werewolves do. And may I conclude, (said Claudio, seriously, respectfully) by remarking that I believe that my little adventure in the field – or perhaps I should say in the wood and the clearing – has indeed added a dimension of inwardness, of sympathy, to my study-bound explorations of structures of thought and mental powers, now deeply alien to us all?
‘And then he had marched, billowing, from the platform, to muffled, bewildered, anxious, intermittent, hesitant applause.’
‘Good God,’ said Liz, ‘so that was that, was it? No question time?’
‘No question time,’ confirmed Esther. ‘Claudio vanished, like the werewolf. Walked off the platform and vanished. Leaving everybody quite confused at first. Most of them decided it was some sort of deconstructive attack on diachronic methodology and after half an hour or so had persuaded themselves it had all been most interesting and stimulating and challenging and all that sort of thing. Elena said that it was wonderful to hear the rationalizations they managed to come up with. Of course, knowing he was her brother, they had to be polite in her earshot, and she probably didn’t manage to overhear any of the more enraged comments. It all ended quite peacefully, as though it had been the most normal lecture ever given. Though of course that all altered somewhat when the press got on to Claudio in the morning and he gave them the photos of the lady with the nipples.’
Liz laughed. So did Esther.
‘Yes,’ continued Esther, ‘a real lady, and six real nipples. Well, two proper breasts, and then two lower pairs of flat nipples. The press loved them. Even The Times thought them worthy of comment.’
‘But,’ said Liz, ‘lots of people have vestigial nipples. It’s quite common. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Quite so,’ said Esther.
‘And the real question,’ said Liz, nursing her second mug of rosehip tea, ‘is what Claudio thinks he’s doing. What kind of game he thinks he’s playing. Is that what it’s about?’ she asked delicately, gazing obliquely as she spoke at the potted palm, which still hung on, bristling darkly in its pot, against the red wall.
‘Yes,’ said Esther, and proceeded to attempt to outline to Liz the oddity of Claudio’s state of mind. Reality and imagination, the false werewolf and the real werewolf, the forged photograph, the forged historical document, the false interpretation. ‘Look,’ said Esther, ‘I don’t know how to explain this, I know quite well that Claudio knows he hasn’t seen a werewolf or spoken to a witch, but that so great is his power of – well, of what? of self-hallucination that he can persuade himself that he might have done? No, not even that. He knows he hasn’t. But – ’ and Esther glanced at Liz in anxiety, in embarrassment, for never in all their years of close friendship had she ever made such a confession ‘ – the thing is, when I’m with Claudio, I find myself believing these things myself. It’s as though I know I’d better believe them. That, when I’m with him, it’s safer to believe them. Does that make any kind of sense at all?
‘Yes,’ said Liz, slowly. ‘You’re speaking about some kind of folie-à-deux. A willed, mutual hallucination. Is that it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Esther.
‘The mind has powers that we know not of,’ said Liz. ‘And you are afraid to disturb Claudio’s madness, because by disturbing it, you might drive him mad.’
‘Yes,’ said Esther. ‘I can keep him sane by collusion. I suppose that’s it. But it’s a terrible strain. And, frankly. . .’ (a certain robustness suddenly entered her voice), ‘I think this time he’s gone too far. I’ve had enough, I’ve never been very good at the real world, I know that, but I do know the difference between a werewolf and a Bulgarian woodcutter. Or at least. . .’ (her voice weakening slightly), ‘I think I do.’
‘I liked the touch about the orange Fiat,’ said Liz.
‘Yes, bloody good, wasn’t it?’
The therapy session was over. Liz said she had to go home, she had someone coming to supper.
‘Liz,’ said Esther, standing on the doorstep, in the late afternoon sun, ‘thank you for listening, you’ve saved my life.’
Liz was expecting Stephen Cox to supper. He had been in Japan, had returned with anecdotes for which Liz, he assured her, would prove a suitable audience. Liz liked Stephen Cox. She trusted Stephen Cox. He was no trouble. He would never impose. One could risk a tête-à-tête with Stephen without fear of boredom or annoyance.
Their friendship had, over the last three years, mildly flourished. Alix Bowen, who had brought them together over dinner with gammon and spinach (or was it onion?) sauce, was mildly pleased. Had she planned or hoped for anything more than this mild friendship? Alix did not know.
Liz had admired Stephen’s evasive style, his discretion, his impersonality. Stephen liked to communicate by post, not by telephone, as do most who are afflicted or have been afflicted by speech problems. After their dinner together at Alix’s, he had written to her with a photocopy of a page of Schiller he had mentioned, about dreams, and a couple of addresses in Japan: she had responded with a booklet on stammering by Tim Newark which had been brought to her attention by a patient. Stephen had pursued the correspondence with a postcard from Dublin: she had responded with a postcard from Oxford. They had dined, to discuss her plans for her visit to Japan: she had sent a postcard from Japan. They had dined again, on her return. And so, over the years, intermittently, they had met and corresponded. A pleasant escort, Liz found him: and she needed, at times, an escort. Her fears that the
break-up of her marriage to Charles might portend a life of solitary, uninvited, ostracized, divorced neglect had not of course been fulfilled, but neither had they been wholly without foundation. Some of their acquaintances did drop her: the Venables, for example, whom she had always disliked, seemed on Charles’s departure to forget she existed, a fact which should have pleased her but, naturally, did not. Her life was by no means empty – she still saw most of her old friends, her real friends – but she was no longer part of a television-journalist-media social circuit of married couples, as she had been, and she no longer had the energy to give parties herself, deprived as she was of Charles’s questionable support. Little suppers for Alix and Esther continued: anything much grander was beyond her, although she occasionally made an effort and invited a Pett Petrie or a Jules Griffin, for old times’ sake. Stephen, in this situation, had proved a useful ally. He had even taken her to the theatre to see Hilda Stark play Hedda Gabler: a very amusing evening, they had both agreed. They had laughed heartily.
And now he was coming to supper, in what she still thought of as her new house in St John’s Wood, although she had already been in residence for nearly two years. She liked her new house, and looked back on the solid Harley Street mansion with a slight shiver of distaste. The new house was irregular, and airy, and odd, and it had a garden, unlike the Harley Street house, a garden to which she had curiously taken. It was a house of character: it had one of those Edwardian glass canopies from front door to street, and pretty little romantic leaded windows with bits of dark fine art-nouveau stained glass. It rambled, eccentrically, with strange-shaped rooms, and alcoves. It had once been the home of an eminent zoologist. It had charm. Everyone agreed it had charm. Esther had given it the seal of her aesthetic approval: the glass canopy had particularly enraptured. Alix too had approved. Liz and Esther maintained that Alix approved because the house’s undeniable attractions and the exclusivity of the neighbourhood were doubly modified, partly by a Family Planning Clinic next door, occupying what had once been an equally attractive private house, and partly by an extremely ugly block of luxury flats opposite, built in the 1960s from a horrible pinkish stone, and known vulgarly in the district as Menopause Mansions on account both of its colour and of the average age of its inhabitants. Thus surrounded, Esther and Liz claimed that Alix claimed, Liz could hardly put up her shutters and retire entirely into fool’s paradise.
The Radiant Way Page 31