Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  She’d gone too far to retreat. ‘It’s bizarre … I warn you.’

  ‘Better still. God knows we need some of the bizarre in our lives. Caroline Bailey should have had more of the bizarre instead of all that coy hinting at strange gods and unnatural practices.’ She snorted. ‘If Caroline Bailey knows, she should tell. She’s a milksop.’

  ‘What I have to tell, Florence, is truly bizarre.’

  ‘Edith! Tell it! For Heaven’s sake, tell!’

  ‘It’s in strictest confidence.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.’ She went through this childhood ritual.

  ‘Do Canadians say that? In Australia we say, cross my heart and spit my blood and hope to die.’

  ‘All very interesting, but get on with it.’

  ‘A male friend, who will remain nameless, from the Secretariat, took me to a club called the Molly Club.’

  ‘Never heard of it. And you mean Ambrose took you.’

  ‘I said I wasn’t going to use names. This club doesn’t advertise.’

  Florence gave a knowing smile. ‘What sort of club?’

  ‘Be patient, Florence. Do you want to hear the story or not? This is a club for those who do not like being the way God made them.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Travestis — you know about those? Men who want to be women and women who want to be men. Actually it’s not that simple, I’ve discovered.’

  ‘Of course I know about those — but a club for them?’

  Florence’s voice betrayed that she was now outside her experience. ‘Where is this club — what street?’ She could tell that Florence was slowing the revelation to allow herself to digest it. ‘So we have one in our Secretariat? A transvestite?’ Edith realised that she hadn’t quite been sure there was a word in English to describe them. But the way Florence said the word further told Edith that this was an unknown realm for her. ‘How high up? And why you? Why did you go with him?’

  Edith also realised that Florence thought that was the end of the story — that it ended there. ‘I said that I wouldn’t name any names. He likes to dress in women’s clothes but I don’t think he’s a … transvestite? Is that the word?’

  ‘But why you?’

  Why her, indeed. ‘Just say, I share his secret.’

  ‘The secret being that he likes dressing up disguised as a woman?’

  Ambrose would say it was the opposite of disguise. ‘Because of this, he asked me to go.’

  ‘Fancy dress?’

  ‘Not quite.’ She smilingly remembered herself having used that expression with Ambrose.

  ‘Were other members of the Secretariat there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. You see, it’s bizarre: everyone — everyone except me that is — nearly everyone was dressed as the opposite sex. It’s a bit like a masked ball.’

  ‘That’s what it was then — a fancy-dress masked ball?’

  ‘Nothing like a ball. There are two parts to my confession.’

  ‘I want everything.’ Florence’s voice was both ravenous for the secrets, and at the same time beginning to sound resisting, as if she couldn’t bear to be ‘told’ about something, couldn’t bear being the one who didn’t have prior knowledge of all things.

  Edith could tell also that there was something resentful in Florence’s voice which was a warning. A part of Florence did not want to hear any more. She saw that she wouldn’t be able to tell all. ‘The ugly bit is that while I was there at this club, the Action Civique came in and pushed people around, including me. They were very threatening and ugly and we had to flee. I was, in fact, assaulted.’

  ‘They assaulted you? They always seem rather dashing to me when I’ve seen them on parade at the Place behind my pension.’

  She could tell Florence was not quite believing her. ‘They hit one of our party with a club — a Mr Huneeus, a former cabinet minister from Azerbaijan.’

  Florence looked at Edith with some disbelief. ‘You’re making all this up.’

  ‘When things became very dangerous, we ran for it.’

  ‘It all sounds very far-fetched.’

  ‘If you find that far-fetched, listen to this. Last month I was invited to the embassy of Azerbaijan — it’s up in Servette. They named a river after me.’

  ‘Edith! There’s no such embassy.’

  ‘It’s a government-in-exile.’

  ‘You’re making this up! Why would they do that?’ Florence was becoming almost grouchy now.

  Edith ploughed on — what else could she do? — but she resolved to make it short. ‘I missed a bit: when the Action Civique were pushing people around, they picked on Mr Hunceus, the Ambassador, and I stood in front of him to protect him. That’s why they named the river after me.’

  She flashingly recalled to herself the real ugliness of that evening, and a deep shudder passed through her. She saw that she couldn’t bring herself to tell Florence about that particular ugliness yet. Maybe later in the night. ‘He named the river after me because of that.’

  ‘He doesn’t have the authority. It’s a Soviet republic.’

  ‘It could one day be restored to independence.’

  ‘And the League doesn’t recognise them. They have been trying for years to get us to recognise them.’

  ‘Florence, I don’t care. I don’t care whether Mr Huneeus is the King of Azerbaijan or whether he’s an impostor or whether he’s a waiter at the Bavaria — the point is that he made this gesture.’

  ‘It’s not the legitimate government.’

  Florence had a leaning towards the Soviets. They did not share that.

  ‘Do you want to hear the rest?’ she smiled at Florence, trying to mollify her.

  ‘There’s more? I take it that you help your friend dress as a lady?’

  ‘Yes. On this particular night he wore a tulle evening dress.’

  ‘Your tulle evening dress with the sequins?’

  ‘Yes,’ Edith hesitated, ‘my tulle evening dress.’ Which perhaps would never seem the same again to her. She might give it to Ambrose.

  This could be too much for Florence; she realised quite distinctly that she’d moved a great distance from Florence’s experience. She doubted also whether she had the aplomb to tell it, But it would be a test, too, of the friendship. She had to share it. It was something she needed to tell another woman. She knew also, perversely, that she was boasting as well as sharing, boasting of her sophisticated other life. But she was hearing a caution bell ringing, that it was too bizarre and might cast her for ever in a bad light with Florence. Or the other possibility was that Florence would want to come to the club. That was a possible reaction. Yet if she could not predict Florence’s reactions, then she did not know Florence that well yet. She did have difficulty seeing Florence at the Molly Club, but then she’d had difficulty seeing herself there. Florence had male escorts, and had confided a sexual experience. They had shared in a guarded and hinted way a curiosity about sexual matters, and when talking about herself, Florence always claimed to have been ‘wild’ back to Canada.

  Florence then blurted out, ‘Did you have an affair with this man in the dress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When he was dressed like that!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Florence stared at her. Edith could not read her expression.

  Edith decided to leave the story at that. ‘That’s the story. About the darker side of Geneva.’ She laughed to bring the confession to a close.

  ‘I don’t believe this. You’re making it up. To compete with Bailey’s book.’ An almost relieved smile came to Florence’s face, as she grasped at this idea.

  ‘I’m not making it up.’

  The smile went. ‘Then you’re becoming a neurasthenic.’

  ‘It has been the strangest experience in my life and I told it to you, to share it with you as a friend. As a gift. And to show that bizarre things can happen here. Here in Geneva. Even to me. I didn’t go looking for it. I
sn’t that something of what we’re here for? On the Continent? To experience life?’

  ‘Not that sort of experience and I don’t want to share it. You could hardly call me a Dismal Jane but I find it sordid.’

  ‘I didn’t find it sordid. I suppose it sounds sordid. Perhaps I told it rather badly.’

  Florence was certainly sounding like a Dismal Jane.

  ‘Edith, I can’t accept this. And your mother’s only been dead a matter of months. You are doing dirt on your womanhood.’

  Edith didn’t know what her mother’s death had to do with it. Edith was frightened at Florence’s vehement recoil from her. For a second, she considered saying that she’d made it all up. Too late for that. ‘Florence — it was just an escapade.’ She was now trying desperately to find a word to describe it that would blow away the abhorrence which had leapt to Florence’s mind.

  ‘It’s debasing. I’m a free thinker, Edith, but really, this is going too far. What about your womanhood?’

  Their voices were rising. ‘My womanhood? Florence, this was an escapade. I told you about it as experience of this strange world.’ Edith hated hearing herself disowning her life with Ambrose this way.

  ‘I find it objectionable. You have besmirched your womanhood.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about my womanhood, Florence. I’ll look after my own womanhood.’

  Florence’s comment about womanhood struck her hard. It was just what she had not faced. What it meant, the incident about her sense of her own sex, being among those people. Perhaps she had gone beyond the pale. She felt herself tightening with tension. She wanted to get back to their warm friendship. She had tried to move from friendship to intimacy too fast and she’d offered the wrong confidences.

  ‘Florence — it was an escapade.’

  ‘You have humiliated yourself.’

  Florence fished some money out of her purse and dumped it on the table.

  ‘What are you doing!’ she asked Florence, seeing only too well what Florence was doing. Her voice sounded assertive but inside she was plunging.

  ‘I’m going,’ Florence said coldly. ‘I’ve heard more than I wanted to hear.’

  ‘Stay, Florence, let me explain more …’ She held up her hand to Florence but Florence walked away.

  Edith found herself alone with smoke curling from a half-stubbed-out cigarette in the ashtray. At first she did not let herself understand what had happened. She sat there as if the departure of Florence had been as ordinary as the departure of Victoria. How odd. Good night, Florence.

  She then let herself realise that she was sitting there rigidly alone, had not moved. Her mind tentatively opened again to the light of what had happened and she felt shock, social shock. She couldn’t accept that Florence had walked out on her. After their avowal of friendship. She then looked to the door, expecting Florence to return any minute, having had second thoughts, to have realised that walking out was hurtful, to have begun to worry about their friendship.

  Minutes went by and Florence did not return. The waiter came and asked if she wanted anything and she said no. What sort of friendship, then, was it? Worse, a second shock came rushing at her, a panic about the correctness of what Florence had said. Florence’s words about the besmirching of her womanhood now ricocheted. She had been all too aware of the violation of the Action Civique. But what of the club itself? To be audience to nature debauched, and thus be, herself, debauched as a woman? She had trouble recalling the justifying pleasure of it now, sitting there in the Café du Siècle. She tried to find her way back to the legitimatising pleasure of it when she was with Ambrose. She felt she might cry. She had not told her secrets at all well. Nor fully. She had not told of Paris and Jerome which was what she had really wanted to tell. Yet on the other hand, nor had Florence waited to hear it out. Florence’s manner had been against hearing the truth, had warded away the truth. She hadn’t had the chance to tell Florence that she might never again listen to this siren song. Or was she trying to remake the situation and her true feelings in a way which would win Florence back? She had to state that, yes, that on that strange night with Jerome something within her had sung. The fault was that Florence by her tone, even before she left, had blocked her full confidences. She felt her hurt turning to resentment. How could Florence ride a high horse when she was herself so crafty? At the notion of ‘defect of character’, her spirit rebelled: she was not telling Florence about her ‘defects of character’ — she had been about to tell of a remarkable episode, sharing it. My God, she remembered giggling with Florence every time they ate spaghetti, because Florence once told her what the sound of cooked spaghetti and olive oil reminded her of. Florence was a hypocrite, a person who pretended to modern views but was really censoriously unchanging. Being ‘wild’ back in Canada was probably as innocent as being wild in Sydney. Had probably meant drinking beer from a bottle. Not wearing gloves.

  She hoped that whatever her anger and whatever offence Florence had taken that she would still respect the confidence.

  ‘May I join you? Are you alone?’

  Edith looked up hoping to see Florence back, smiling, apologetic, but instead saw Caroline Bailey still in her striking turban and outfit.

  ‘Yes.’ Edith gestured at the chairs ungraciously.

  Caroline Bailey, too, looked unhappy.

  She forced herself to smile at Caroline. ‘Congratulations, Caroline. It was a fine evening — your book is marvellous. We were all just saying it.’ Edith gestured to indicate that there had been others.

  ‘Would you mind if I ordered a drink? I feel wretched.’

  ‘I’ll have one with you. Whatever you’re having.’

  Caroline ordered three Scotches; two, evidently, for herself. Unless she expected someone else. She lit up a cigarette, offering one to Edith who declined. ‘But, Caroline, you were marvellous — it was a first-rate show. You should be chuffed.’

  ‘Everyone just went off. Left me. Sophie made me some tea and I had to sit with her and make dreary conversation about the dreary ILO, when I wanted to be with real people and have a drink. You’re alone?’

  ‘Yes, the others took an early night.’ Edith realised that the drama club audience back at Sophie’s might have snubbed Caroline because of the book’s revelations. Or more likely, no one thought to ask her to go with them to a café or wherever. ‘People are probably shy of you, now that you’re a novelist.’

  ‘Do you think so? I think they’re snubbing me. I think they were all put off by the book and think I went too far.’

  ‘Robert Dole told me that the other journalists began behaving strangely to him when they knew he was writing a novel.’

  ‘He’s writing a novel too! The bookshops’ll be flooded.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘A hundred novels about the League of Nations. Ugh. At least I have a publisher. The Hogarth Press are going to take it. I sent them a few chapters.’

  ‘That’s marvellous.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I’ll keep your secret.’

  ‘Don’t tell Robert Dole — he’ll send his book there and they’ll take his rather than mine.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, he would. Newspaper people.’

  Edith saw dourly that she had been socially switched from tending to her own distress about Florence’s behaviour to listening to the moaning of this temperamental, rather jumped-up young woman. Part of her mind continued to fret about whether she had truly lost Florence or whether it would all be healed in the morning.

  ‘Did you really like my book?’

  ‘I really did. I liked the way you showed the men finding out about each other’s secret self. And the problem of the League itself taking a lead,’ Edith added, scratching for something more to say.

  Caroline lapped it up. ‘Ambrose is your friend, isn’t he?’

  The implication was obvious. Why lie? ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose you recognised something o
f him in Humphrey Hume?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I don’t draw exactly from life in my work. I am more an impressionist. You don’t think he’ll be angry?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But how well do you know Ambrose?’

  If it were Ambrose depicted in the book, Edith wondered, what had been his connection with the typist who died in the mysterious operation? More, what was his relationship to Caroline Bailey? He had mentioned her and her book once or twice. There was the trip to Paris together. Caroline was on the edge of the Bavaria crowd, but had never become a friend. Surely she hadn’t gone to the Molly Club with Ambrose? Ambrose had said in some general way that he had not lived the life of a monk before she’d arrived in Geneva.

  Caroline burbled on, ‘I see him around the office, at the Bavaria. I move about, I see things. God, I hate this town. Did you like the bit about the insipid blue of the dreadful lake? I must be the first writer in history to criticise their sacred lake.’

  Edith loved the lake. She knew all about the mysteries of the origins of lakes, springs, and artesian wells. ‘Someone said that it was perfectly described, but maybe a man wouldn’t describe it like that. It’s more the way a woman might see it.’ Was Caroline secretly observing her and Ambrose? Was their life, her life, revealed in the book, and about to come tumbling out for all to see?

  Caroline was immediately defensive. ‘The bit about pale blue and little girls coupling it with pale pink? Men have little sisters. Men know about these things.’

  ‘I suppose that’s right.’

  Caroline seemed hurt. ‘Little boys grow up with their sisters.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it as a serious criticism.’

  ‘I think that it’s perfectly all right for a man to think that. The lake reminded him of, say, the way his little sister would see it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Heavens, most of Chaucer’s tales are about women or told by women. Have you read Chaucer? Anyhow, who cares. I’m going to live in Paris. When we were all down in Paris that time I went to the Café Certa. Where the surrealist crowd goes. I don’t know what you were all doing.’