‘This cheese is remarkable,’ sighed Rupert, unwilling to talk any more about it all. ‘They do cheese better in France.’
‘I like France, I’ve always liked France,’ Posy said, looking around at the comfy dining room, with its pink tablecloths, flowers, displays of porcelain edelweiss, and glass cases along the walls featuring Chef Jaffe’s signature china.
‘Except for the French,’ Rupert said. It was an Englishman’s obligatory rejoinder.
‘Even the French,’ Posy insisted, suddenly in a better mood, her spirit armed by the wine against the sorrow and pain they had come to France to experience. ‘The doctor was nice.’ Though she didn’t like doctors.
‘Doctors are always nice, it’s their duty, even French ones,’ Rupert said.
‘I think doctors are foul,’ declared Posy.
At four Kip came in from the slopes, checked on Harry, who was napping under the glowering supervision of Tamara, and started again the cumbersome bus trip down to Moutiers, hoping vainly that the English brother and sister would offer him a ride. He had been too shy to remind them that he, too, had been sent for, and they had not approached him at lunch. They had sat together at a window table, seeming to have little to say to each other, though Kip could see them sometimes waving their hands and shaking their heads in a burst of animation. They never, that he could see, looked at him or even at their brother Harry.
10
The meeting was in Dr Lamm’s office, and the doctor was just coming in, perhaps had himself been delayed. His office was a small, windowless room behind the nurses’ station, where extra chairs had been brought. The Venn brother and sister were there, another man Kip had never seen, who laid his overcoat, Burberry lining carefully folded out, over the back of his chair, and a man in hospital green. The doctor took off his white coat, which gave the impression that he was eager to be off home, though his tone was stately and somberly unhurried. Posy and Rupert sat, nodding vaguely at the others, then subsided into fixed stares at the doctor but not at each other. The room was warm.
‘Who are you, monsieur, if you please?’ the doctor asked the Burberry man in French.
‘I am Jacques Delamer, from Saint-Gond – Monsieur Venn’s man of business – do you say “business manager”? I direct the vineyard and his affairs generally. I consider him a close friend as well. I read the news in the journal this morning, and called here immediately, I was given the grim details, and I leapt into my car. Voilà. We are only two hours south of here.’
The doctor nodded and without preamble began in English. ‘I must repeat to you what you know already, that we are not happy with Monsieur Venn’s condition, Monsieur Venn has not revived.’ He said this again in French, perhaps for the benefit of the stranger. ‘He has warmed up to normal body temperature, but he still needs powerful medicaments to support his blood pressure and heartbeat. These have not returned by themselves as is necessary, and worst of all, he has not regained any brain function. None at all. In fact things have worsened as his body warms. His brain shows no signs of returning as it should have by now – frankly we are afraid he will not revive. That is a possibility you must prepare yourself for.’ His tone was direct, though he had tried to infuse it with sympathy.
‘Not revive?’ cried Posy and Rupert. Posy mistrusted the doctor’s tone of sympathy, the concern, her own ignorance of medical details. What were they hearing?
‘We have considerable experience with this sort of injury, but to be absolutely certain, we will wait another twenty-four hours before we make any predictions.’
‘But he’s breathing perfectly!’ Posy persisted.
‘As you know, he is being kept alive on a respirateur. He seems to be breathing because the respirating machine is forcing air in and out of his lungs. His heart cannot by itself create a blood pressure, and so he has no ability for it to beat or for his lungs to breathe without assistance. In such a case, eventually the only thing to do is to detach the patient from the artificial machines. We always make that decision heavy-heartedly, when we are sure it is the medically correct decision. But it is important that you prepare yourself, and, more important, that you understand and accept if we come to the conclusion that there is no hope.’
In some way, Posy thought, she had been prepared for the doctor’s pronouncement, but she was also prepared to resist it. The world of medicine was full of reports of miracle and surprise. She looked at Rupert. She could see that he, too, wanted to protest the doctor’s pessimistic conclusions, but probably felt that nuances of language eluded him for expressing mistrust of finalities.
‘He is alive only technically?’ asked the strange man with the Burberry, in French.
‘That is what appears to be the case. But we need to wait another twenty-four hours.’
‘But isn’t there always a chance? How can you be sure?’ asked Rupert.
‘I’m afraid there is little chance,’ said Dr Lamm, ‘but we have to wait. Of course, miracles do occur, and we are doing everything we can.’
‘It only happened last night!’ Posy protested. ‘It seems premature to talk like this, we should have another opinion, you hear of people in comas waking up after ever so long ...’
Kip was relieved at her combative tone. It didn’t seem okay to him, either, to just say, Well, okay then, unplug the machine. If they would do that to Adrian they would do it to Kerry. ‘What about my sister…?’ he began.
‘Yes, what about Mrs Venn?’ asked Rupert.
‘She is not worse, perhaps a tiny bit better,’ said the doctor.
‘She’s not…’
‘No, she is completely alive, if we preserve certain distinctions. Your sister’s chances are very much better,’ the doctor said, with a kind smile for Kip. ‘Monsieur Venn, though he is on life support, is in a deep vegetative state. He shows no signs of essential activity. With her there is much more hope. It is not always possible to tell. When someone is hypothermic, sometimes it is only a matter of restoring the body temperature. Her brain is working and so we expect her to wake up, though it may be several days, even weeks, before she fully recovers,’ the doctor said.
Now the man in Burberry half rose to his feet, as at a public meeting, looked over the back of his chair at the others, and said, ‘I have some questions, if you don’t mind.’ Now speaking in accented English, his French accent leaving no doubt of his nationality. ‘Is this all of the family?’
‘I believe these are all the family, except for the little boy,’ said the doctor. ‘And of course Madame Venn is present, but not present.’
‘Harry’s here but he’s at the hotel,’ Kip said.
‘So – not Harry and not – Monsieur Venn’s wife,’ conceded the newcomer. ‘Only half the family, in fact. I feel sure he would want – would want the whole family to agree… to be with him perhaps…’
‘Family accord is not a medical concern, monsieur,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course we want all the family to be informed and in agreement about the medical situation here, but the caprices of individual members cannot stand in the way of what is best for the patient. Perhaps I do not understand your standing in the matter…’
‘Legally, morally, none, none, I am his business manager, but his friend also,’ said Monsieur Delamer.
‘I understand that you may wish to assemble all the family,’ said the doctor. ‘That is perfectly reasonable, but not strictly speaking within our purview, and obviously Madame Venn and the baby cannot participate in any decisions. It is for you, or other members of the family, to contact whoever else is involved…’
‘It is the matter of the coffre,’ said Mr Delamer.
‘Oh, really,’ cried Posy. ‘That’s a bit premature, isn’t it? Father is not going to die.’
‘Not a coffin, a coffre,’ said Mr Delamer after a blank second. Rupert, who had been better than Posy at French, whispered, ‘I think it’s the safe-deposit box.’
‘It is infinitely easier, especially in France, if the coffre were to be opened
while Mr Venn is still alive. I’m sorry, I hardly expected we would need to be discussing this. We could take this up later, if we were agreed to – delay any, um – major decisions until perhaps tomorrow. I would like to explain this technicality to Mr Venn’s family.’
The doctor opened and closed his mouth. What could be the difficulty really? ‘Yes, certainly, I was not proposing anything precipitate. We fully understand people must make their peace, they must say their adieux. I only wanted to prepare you.’ In his tone the slight irritation one feels when the agenda, weighty as it was, has been wrested away. ‘I simply wanted you all to know where matters stand. Till tomorrow then, when we will discuss this again and see where we are.’
11
Father’s business manager, Monsieur Delamer, rang Rupert’s room a bit before the dinner hour and proposed having a word with him and his sister. Delamer explained that he was installed in another hotel nearby, but would be coming to dine in the famous restaurant of the Hôtel Croix St Bernard, and would gladly meet them wherever suitable, perhaps in one of the rooms, his or Miss Venn’s. The bar would probably not be quite the place.
Rupert agreed, suggesting his own room. Posy was famously messy and threw her clothes about. He needed to find out about the relation of Father to this Frenchman. In London, Father had Mr Osworthy, his solicitor for thirty years, but since Father had spent more and more time at his French château, where the Icarus Press was, it stood to reason he might have some local French person to deal with French matters. Had Pam indeed called Mr Osworthy? If so, which of the two – Osworthy or this man, Mr Delamer – should they listen to in the case of conflicting advice? Rupert felt a little wary, but acknowledged to himself that Delamer, being in France, was probably more up to date in Father’s confidence.
Posy appeared beforehand, dressed rather too glamorously for dinner, with a plunging neckline, and sat on Rupert’s bed. ‘I suppose it’s all right to smoke?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said Rupert.
Posy sniffed at Rupert’s prissy ways – it was one of their quarrels. He scowled at her neckline.
Mr Delamer tapped discreetly on the door and slipped inside like someone carrying contraband. He was wearing a sport jacket and furry après-ski boots in which he had walked from his nearby hotel. They gave him the chair and Rupert sat next to Posy on the bed.
‘It is said,’ Delamer began, ‘that Chef Jaffe’s concoction of ris de veau and homard is something extraordinary. He is reputed for his original ideas – his gnocci of courgette is something else splendid I have tasted. Are you en pension or ordering à la carte?
‘We’re taking the meals that come with the rooms,’ said Posy. ‘Is that pension?’
‘Demi-pension, actually, unless you stipulate full board, but then you are obliged to come in for lunch and, frankly, I cannot myself manage three such meals a day, though my wife… We stayed at this hotel for several years, but had not planned it this year. Of course, and here I am, most unexpected and sad.’
‘You wanted to discuss…?’
‘Yes. I wanted to continue what we discussed this afternoon. The coffre. You say “safety-deposit box”?’
‘Safe-deposit box, safe-deposit box.’
‘Ah. Well, I wished to advise you that whatever may happen, frankly, I would advise opening the safety-deposit box at the bank while Monsieur Venn is alive. As soon as possible. The point is, you will not be able to do it when he is gone. At a death, the state seals it up, and then appraises the contents for you to pay taxes on. There are several valuable things in it that could be – disposed of more easily if they weren’t part of his estate. I myself have a power to dispose of – certain things, but I have only a half power, that is, with someone else, to open the box, and am not sure who actually has the key. We have most certainly noted this in our records, but I came away so rapidly when I heard the news.’
At the further mention of valuable things in the coffre, his listeners appeared to focus more closely.
‘I have the impression that it is Madame Hyack, his secretary, but it may be Madame Venn, of course, who has the key and the second half-power of attorney for opening it.’
‘What’s in Father’s coffer, then?’ Rupert asked.
‘Mostly first editions, fine editions, some very valuable in fact. I’m thinking of the very high value the state will place on them for the purposes of death duties. Let me assure you, it is altogether legal to think of such matters before – the event. Otherwise I would not be advising you this way. Let me call Madame Hyack.’
‘By all means,’ said Rupert, looking for an expression of dissent in Posy’s face and seeing none.
‘Perhaps some gold as well, and Madame Venn’s jewelry,’ added Monsieur Delamer. ‘Perhaps his small Bonnard. He was advised to put it away whenever they left home, and from time to time he remembered to do so.’
‘What about his will?’ Rupert ventured.
‘I don’t think his testament is there,’ Delamer said. Hope now rose again in them. They had supposed his will would be in England with Mr Osworthy, and though they had been sure he had meant to cut them out, in his anger at their mother, who had been obstinate about divorce, if there was no will in France, maybe, as he had expected to live forever, he hadn’t actually got around to a new one mentioning Harry; or there might be other quirks. It still seemed possible that though their father could have cut them out altogether and left everything to his new wife, or the baby, maybe he hadn’t got around to it.
‘You can see,’ said Monsieur Delamer, ‘whatever happens, we must hope it will not happen tomorrow. I will leave first thing in the morning and tend to the coffre tomorrow afternoon. It would be best, of course, if you, or one of you, came with me.’
12
Off the lounge bar at the lower level, beyond the billiard room, was a large meeting room, and an event being held there was announced on the discreet standard at the front desk, for six o’clock, when people would have come in from the slopes but before dinner. Dr Franz Hoffmann-stuck, an eminent curator from Zurich, Switzerland, would present ‘The Art of the Drap,’ which Amy had to look up: tablecloth. She also received a private invitation slipped under the door of her room, where, also, were messages from her ski instructor and Géraldine Chastine, call them, and the usual business calls from Palo Alto.
She went along to the lounge bar at six. Why not? Linen had been part of her agenda from the beginning. ‘They don’t know how to iron a tablecloth,’ the woman in the antique shop had said.
The meeting room had been prepared with a blackboard, a stack of leaflets, and several immense, elaborate tablecloths, immaculately starched and monogrammed, which were draped over easels, the floor beneath covered in muslin so their folds would not touch the common carpet.
Twenty or so people came in – one man and the rest mothers and daughters or, like Amy, women by themselves, some familiar with each other from the ski room or the cooking lesson, smiling at one and all at having discovered this community of interest. Dr Hoffmann-stuck himself hovered nearby, plainly keeping an eye on his linen treasures, but with an air of welcome and detachment, until ten minutes past six, when he stepped up to his blackboard and began to explain, in a mysterious Continental accent, his lifelong interest, passion, expertise in linen as the keeper of the collections at Schloss – Amy missed the name of the Schloss.
There was the history of table linen from the time of the Coptic Christians, possibly the ancient Greeks. Renaissance linen, eighteenth-century linen, nineteenth-century linen, modern linen. There was the remedy for stains, a section of study all its own, which he would demonstrate some details of presently. There was the preparation, ironing, and storage of linen. There was the prevention of yellowing, the necessity of bleaching, the dangers of bleaching, the correct method of folding after repassage. There were differences in modern and antique linens to consider, the qualities of ancient fibers. There was the mending of antique linens. There were modern facilities devoted to thi
s, also to the correct methods of laundering of fine works too large or difficult to be dealt with in the private house.
After outlining the content of the lecture to follow, he began with stains, creating a sympathetic stir by holding up a small tablecloth and dumping red wine on it. Amy took notes on the removal of this stain. Her attention wandered a little during the historical section, though she took the general point that linen was an art form, revered down the centuries, specially conserved in furniture designed for it, the centerpiece of trousseaus and dowries, inheritable, to be cherished like any patrimony; and that women were generally its guardians. This conjured up guilty memories of whole sections of museums she had skipped over, filled with vitrines of faded doilies and ugly tatting. She now regretted disdaining this field of female endeavor, and the fact that in her condo in Palo Alto she didn’t have so much as a cloth napkin, exactly as the wry woman in the Seattle antique shop would have predicted.
Amy was from a family careful of things handed down. She had been instructed in their origins – this cup belonged to Aunt Fan, this belonged to Ben Armstrong, Cousin Dandy Churchill. All these things were waiting for her at her mother’s, but she had always refused to take them, saying, ‘When I get a place.’ Though she had a condo, it was nearly empty, and had not really interested her. Eventually she would have a beautiful house and would take the tureen, the pink candy bowl, the collection of Watseka spoons. She would need tablecloths, undoubtedly.
‘In the eighteenth century, the common practice was to bleach the linen by moonlight,’ said the doctor, returning Amy’s attention to him with a snap. Moonlight?
‘They believed the sun too destructive. In the great houses, special racks were constructed upon which to extend the sheets. In modest homes, the women would spread the linen on bushes at night after the dew had fallen and when the moon came up. Then they would take it in just before the morning dew, lustrously pale under the magical effect of the moon’s rays.
L'Affaire Page 7