by William Boyd
“Then parry at flank with seconde and riposte at right cheek.”
“OK.”
“Then I’ll cut at flank, parry tierce on the lunge, make a counter-riposte to head and we’ll take it from there.”
“Fine.”
“And do it purely, for God’s sake. Pure.”
In the locker room afterward Henderson and Teagarden toweled down after their shower. Henderson tried not to look at Teagarden’s long thin cock and attempted as best he could to preserve his own modesty. Ever since leaving his boarding school he’d felt ill at ease being naked with other men. What made this occasion worse was that Teagarden was the first black man he had ever seen naked, outside of books and National Geographic magazines, and Henderson was concerned not to seem curious. He hummed “Nymphs and Shepherds” quietly and appeared unduly interested in a corner of the ceiling. Teagarden did a lot of unselfconscious walking around, his towel slung about his neck, but eventually put on his underpants.
Henderson told him he was going away for a few days and probably wouldn’t make the Wednesday lesson.
“That’s up to you,” Teagarden said aggressively.
Henderson pulled on his shirt. Really, the man was impossible. The most neutral exchange of information denigrated into some sort of offense.
“Where you going?”
“The South. Georgia, I think. To start with. I’ve got to go to Atlanta first.”
“Shit. What you want to go there for?”
“It’s for work.”
“Hell, you don’t want to go down there.”
“Why?”
“It’s bad, man.”
“Worse than here?”
Teagarden shrugged. “Maybe not. It’s different, that’s for sure.”
“How? How do you mean?”
“Shit, I don’t know … Well, maybe everyone’s the same everywhere. Dishin’ out the same shit.” Teagarden looked intensely at him. “Dishin’ the shit. That’s what it’s all about, ain’t it? Dishin’ the shit?”
Henderson was perplexed. “Well, not all the time. Some of the time, but not all the time, surely.”
Teagarden sat down to lace up his shoes. “That what you think?”
“I suppose I do.”
Teagarden laughed. He seemed to find the notion genuinely amusing.
“Then good luck to you, Mr. Dores. You sure gonna need it.”
A little unsettled, Henderson said goodbye and left.
Henderson picked up a cab on East Fifty-ninth Street and gave the driver Melissa’s address. He sat back on the red Leatherette seat and tried to forget Teagarden’s words and his laughter. He thought, with only second-order guilt, of going south with Irene. He felt at once tired and invigorated after his exercise with the sabers. Perhaps he would sleep tonight.
He banished all thoughts of Irene from his mind as he approached Melissa’s apartment in the upper Eighties. Neither of the women in his life knew anything of the existence of the other. Accordingly certain levels of concentration had to be maintained to prevent a careless slip.
He paid off the cab and paused for a moment outside the doorway of the apartment block. It was cool and he stood beneath the firmament of shining windows collecting his thoughts. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. It was like paying court; then he remembered he was paying court. Last week Melissa had allowed that they were on the point of becoming “unofficially engaged” again. He was quite expecting her to demand a ring.
He had met Melissa at Oxford, in the mid-sixties, getting on for two decades ago now. He had been subsidizing his Ph.D. by teaching at a summer school that various American colleges held in Oxford. Melissa had been one of his tutees. Even then, with his love affair with America not fully developed, Melissa—fresh, her dark hair tied back, her impossible aura of cleanliness—had seemed overpoweringly alluring. She, as was confessed in the third tutorial, was recovering from the unhappy termination of a college love affair. Henderson’s donnish affectations (French cigarettes, rumpled erudition), his utter dissimilarity to her previous lover (called, oddly, Jock, as far as he could make out) and the predictable student-teacher crush propelled them swiftly into as fervid a romance as he had ever known. It started with picnic lunches and progressed to half-pints in hot summer-evening pubs, then weekend trips to London. It moved quickly, with a strong momentum of emotion, because each saw in the other a timely and fortuitous answer to his or her particular requirements. They were married three months later in his college chapel (her daunting parents flew over for the wedding) and they rented a cold cottage in Islip. The momentum was still going a year later. Looking back on it now, it still seemed to Henderson to have been his life’s only sustained experience of true happiness. That next summer they had gone to France and Italy. They were in the final planning stages of their next trip—to the States, Henderson agog with anticipation—when, one November afternoon, she came home early from her job to find him in bed with the woman next door.
This woman’s name was Agnes Brown; its very drabness summed her up perfectly. It had been his sole occasion of marital infidelity and to this day he wondered how they had so fatefully contrived to find themselves in bed together.
Agnes was a faintly grubby woman who always seemed harassed and overburdened with chores and extra work. She was somewhat older than Henderson, a divorcée with three young, noisy and potentially neurotic children. Henderson and Melissa had come to know her quite well—as next-door neighbors will—but he had never entertained even a halfhearted sexual or erotic fantasy about her, for, in Agnes, Henderson recognized a fellow sufferer: Agnes Brown was shy. She confessed as much to Henderson and Melissa on numerous occasions, bemoaning her disability and the obstacle it posed to her ever finding a new husband.
For such people often the only means to physical contact is a collision, and one rainy afternoon she and Henderson collided. She had come to borrow one of Melissa’s bright American magazines. Henderson picked it up, turned too quickly and bumped into her.
Why had he kissed her? In the intervening decade and a half that question had been asked hundreds of times. with no satisfactory answer. There was even less likelihood of explaining the fumbling embarrassed haste with which they had fallen on the sofa and the chilling, semiclothed shuffle into the bedroom some minutes later.
At first he told himself that he must have felt like a final dose of European grime before exposing himself to the gleaming hygiene of the New World, but as a motive it rang a little false. He knew that he had done it because he was shy too—though not as shy as she was. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The same power equation applies to the parish of the mild, he now knew. There the modestly emboldened exercises real sway. Modestly emboldened, he had seized the opportunity: he simply didn’t have the confidence to say no. The truth was, he thought, remembering the wet, rather sore clash of mouths, she was keen on me and I was flattered and weak. This was the fearful side effect of shyness. Because he lacked the confidence to disagree, to spurn, to go his own way, it was always easier to conform. He wasn’t making love with Agnes that ghastly afternoon when Melissa breezed in to discover them, he was conforming.
And Melissa had gone by that evening. Infidelity was the one unforgivable crime. Henderson never got to the States that summer. Instead he received an alarming transatlantic battery of legal threats, injunctions and instructions. Somehow, somewhere (Reno? Mexico?) he and Melissa were swiftly divorced.
As inadvertent consolation and second-best course of action—something he and Agnes Brown were naturally inclined to accept as their lot in life—they joined forces for three years. But the hyperactive, squalling children and the doomed nature of their alliance (it got off to a bad start and seemed threatened thereafter) made a parting inevitable. It came—with sullen resignation, no tears—and Henderson moved to London to begin what he now termed the lost decade. He founded his “reputation” by writing his three books on the Impressionists, composed sundry articles,
coedited an art magazine for four years, spent 1976 in France on a foundation grant, lectured on art history in art schools throughout the Southeast of England, edited a Festschrift for an old professor, wrote introductions to numerous catalogs. It was a flat, joyless and rather lonely time, of hard work and monotonous insolvency only periodically relieved by the odd financial windfall (two coffee-table books for a Swiss publisher, and the saving of half his foundation grant, which went toward the purchase of a small flat in Baron’s Court). It ended—officially—in 1981 when Thomas Beeby—an old friend of his mother—offered him a job as a valuer at Mulholland, Melhuish.
He liked deliberately to think of the “lost decade” before he saw Melissa because it reaffirmed his new commitment to her and their eventual remarriage. Thus committed, he gave his name to the doorman, who phoned up, and looked suspiciously at him before allowing him to enter the lift. As it moved steadily up to the fifth floor, Henderson reflected that although his professional life (prior to Mulholland, Melhuish) had attained some sort of meager plateau, his emotional one had faltered and all but died after his divorce. Strangely, it was after Melissa’s departure that his insomnia developed, the most persistent reminder of his foolishness that afternoon.
It seemed that there was no European equivalent of what Melissa had given him, or rather his maddened regret at his fall from grace punished him further by making all substitutes unsatisfactory. As time moved on from his divorce, his one year of marriage came to assume in his memory an almost legendary brightness and bliss, especially when compared to the few brief and sad affairs he experienced (with a brittle academic, a pretty but dull student and an ambitious subeditor at a magazine he wrote for). His fault, he admitted. He became, for steadily longer periods of his life, a sort of asexual. Sex played a minor, or solitary, role in his life: the eternal substitute at the football match, only rarely called from the benches and instructed to warm up beside the pitch. It took off its track suit, ran up and down the sidelines, but it wasn’t really in the game anymore.
Melissa stood at the doorway to her apartment. At her ankles two Pekingese barked shrilly.
“Hello,” he said, leaning forward to kiss an emerald earring.
“What have you got there?” Melissa asked.
“My sabers.”
“How dashing,” she laughed and pushed him in the chest. He rocked back on his heels. “My God, you’re a funny man, Henderson.”
He followed her into the Wax domain.
“Gervase, Candice, stop that!” she said to the dogs, still barking annoyingly. “It’s Henderson. Say hello now.” The dogs growled. “Say hello to them, Henderson. They’ve got to learn the sound of your voice.”
“What? … You mean, say hello to those dogs?”
“Yes. Come on, just say hello.”
“Hello, Gervase. Hello, Candice.”
Melissa bent down and scratched their crowns with long nails. “Come on, babies, it’s Henderson. Keep talking, Henderson.”
Muttering greetings to the dogs he followed her through the hall.
Shortly before Beeby had offered him the New York job he had heard from Melissa. She wrote to tell him of her second divorce—from Mr. Wax—and obliquely to let him know that bygones were bygones. By the time of his third letter—a one-sided correspondence had begun—he was able to tell her of his impending arrival in New York—the “astonishing coincidence” that would bring them together again.
He had taken it, of course, as another sign, another portent and blessing on the enterprise. His memories revived and amplified themselves: a new print was made of his year of marriage. The reunion and the several dinners afterward had been warm, pleasingly coy, maturely reflective. Mentally, the way had already been prepared: it seemed entirely natural that they should seek to recapture their former happiness together. There had been no swooning revelation, no ardent campaign on either side. Their first kiss had a dreamy predictability about it to Henderson; he had been rehearsing it for weeks. The hints about consolidating their reconciliation had followed soon after.
The trouble was, Henderson now realized, that he had allowed himself to be driven on too easily by his own lonely aspirations rather than by any realistic assessment of what it involved or of life’s many contingencies.… He frowned and looked at her neat legs. For example, he had never remotely taken into account the possibility of an Irene emerging. Or of the fact that both he and Melissa were now different people. And Melissa had changed radically too, in some ways. The dark glossy brown hair had gone, for a start. It was now blond, a streak job, shoulder length and held in place by fearsome mastic sprays. She was, if anything, slimmer, wore light expensive colors and was a little too heavily tanned. The moral imperatives remained implacable, however. She had married Irving Wax a year after leaving Henderson. Wax was very big in concrete and an exceedingly rich man. She had divorced him the year previous. “He was fucking his secretary, Henderson. What could I do? Really, you men are impossible.”
He could recall her tone of voice exactly. No outrage, no indignation, just a calm logical assessment. Melissa’s strength was that she was one of those women who know exactly what they want from life and set about methodically acquiring it. There was an unruffled placidity and certainty at the basis of their natures, as if life and the world were somehow in their debt.… When Henderson thought about his relationship with Melissa he sometimes asked himself if it had been not so much love and affection that had drawn him toward her, but envy. Envy’s role in human emotional affairs was seriously undervalued, he considered. The people we fall in love with are very often people we envy. Marry them, become close to them, and that poisonous resentment becomes easier to live with, easier to handle.… How did that poem go? “Tight-fisted as a peasant, eating love.” In that regard, he thought, enviously following Melissa into the drawing room, he hadn’t changed that much at all, and Melissa too was as alluringly confident and sure of herself as ever—with the deep tranquillity of an abbess.
The drawing room was decorated in the same colors as Melissa’s clothes: blond, beige and cream. She was completely camouflaged in it. Once, he looked around from pouring a drink and thought she had disappeared—but she had only moved in front of the curtains.
A twelve-year-old boy sat in front of a television set. He didn’t acknowledge them as they came in. Irving Wax, Jr.
“Irving, it’s Henderson. And switch that off.”
“Hi.” The boy glanced around. His mouth was a canteen of orthodontic braces; the first acne clusters were evident on his chin. In general the pubertal cocktail currently being shaken up inside him coarsened his features, making him look awkward, slightly subnormal.
“Hello, Irv,” Henderson said jovially.
“Where’s Bryant?” Melissa asked.
“I’m here.”
Henderson looked around. Bryant was a tall, thin, pretty girl with short, wild, fair hair. Small breasts barely denting her baggy T-shirt, very old jeans, training shoes. He had never seen her looking anything but bored or sulky.
“Happy birthday,” Henderson said and handed her the envelope that contained her present.
“What’s this?”
“Open it, Bry,” Melissa said.
She did. “Life membership,” she read slowly. “Friend of the Frick? What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Aw, Henderson. How thoughtful.”
“Yes. I thought—”
“Say thank you, little missy.”
“Yeah, but what can I do with it?”
“Well. Ah …” Melissa looked at Henderson for help.
“You can go to the Frick free, for a start. For the rest of your life.”
“What’s the Frick?”
“For Frick’s sake,” snorted Irving Wax.
“I’ll take you, baby,” Melissa said. She mouthed “Thank you” at Henderson and pouted a kiss in his direction. Henderson stiffened. Despite the guilt he felt, he still wanted desperately to go to bed with Melissa. He called
into mind memories of Oxford, all those years ago, and tried to ignore the ungrateful way Bryant tossed her membership card on the coffee table.
Henderson opened a bottle of champagne. They toasted Bryant’s health and congratulated her on reaching the age of fourteen. She didn’t really look fourteen, Henderson thought. If he hadn’t known better he would have said twenty-two.
He sat beside Melissa on a long suede couch while a Philippine maid distributed birthday cake. Then they had coffee and Melissa lit a very long cigarette. Bryant’s request for one was turned down. She was allowed two a day and had already exceeded her quota. Henderson was vaguely shocked at this. Eventually the kids wandered out.
Henderson kissed Melissa gently on the lips. He tasted lipstick and tobacco.
“Love you, darling,” Melissa said absently.
“Me too … That is, I love you too.”
Henderson put his hand on her thigh and kneaded it gently. Melissa combed the hair above his left ear with her long nails. Henderson realized he was smiling and frowning at the same time. No wonder: he felt at this moment greatly attracted to Melissa, and wanted keenly to remarry her, and yet simultaneously was planning a dirty weekend with Irene. Once again he was dismayed at the ease with which he fell into and coped with duplicity. Was this, he wondered, something that was basically—seriously—wrong with him, or did everybody behave the same? Perhaps it was the only response possible to the generosity of America: here you could have your cake and eat it too.… It was a very un-English notion, that, he reflected. We disapprove strongly of that sort of attitude.
“Melissa, darling,” he said carefully. “I’ve got to go away tomorrow for a few days. Business.”
“Oh? Where?”
Don’t give away too many clues, he thought.
“Um, near Washington. Still waiting for details.”
“Washington? But that’s wonderful.”
“It is?”
“Of course. You can go with Bryant. She’s going to stay with Mom and Daddy Wax. Flying tomorrow.”
“Ah. Shame. I’m driving, you see.”