The Janeites

by Nicolas Freeling

  Stendhal had lodgings here, when he first came to Paris. In the house of the elder Monsieur Daru, who showed him so much kindness, spoke to him as ‘Monsieur’ and ‘Mon Cousin’ which nobody ever had before. But of him the old man said, ‘the boy’s barmy, or else he’s a moron’. Ray feels much sympathy with both parties.

  Moonlight comes in tall narrow streaks through the piercings of the shutters, falls crookedly upon a fine carpet. Moonlight of a similar sort but dirtier, less distinguished, had shone through his windows in Strasbourg. On the bare deal boards Janine had danced, naked, in slow, formal movements. They had watched an old gangster movie on late-night television, the young Jewish girl in the early years of the century in Brooklyn, who dances like that. Ray had found the music she dances to, on an old Artie Shaw record, the bottom register of the clarinet played slow. Very Emotional.

  ‘Am-a-pol-a –

  My pretty little pop-py –

  My heart is wrapped around you –’

  It wasn’t, but he hadn’t known that. The illusion had been perfect and he surrendered to it. Amapola, his little opium poppy. It hadn’t been long ago, and it seemed as far as from the Rue de Bellechasse to Prohibition New York. He had never said a proper goodbye to her. Now he had to make a formal declaration of his gratitude for her kindness. Goodness also. False little bitch she might have been but he preferred to remember her as good.

  He had got quite chilled before sliding back in with a warm, sleeping Joséphine.

  Ruthlessly – she would be ruthless in large things too – she called him very early. “To be at work,” uncompromising. “I’ve got you booked on the early shuttle. You’ve time for coffee.” She was showered, dressed, had been out for bread… Not ‘packed’.

  “I’m not going on that awful plane. And you never know who’s on it. It won’t do to be seen together there. The Jesuit, plus mistress. I have my little car. I’ll drive down. You’ll see me this evening. Some palaver, with that fool Geoffrey.” There is no mention of William. “Have I your home number?” A kiss, a kiss amazing in beauty.

  The concierge was mopping the marble floor of the hallway, looked keenly at him. A polite Good Morning. She’d known him again. Out into Paris, his favourite, sparkling early-morning Paris, the workers hosing down the roads, whistling. No sour-faced men and women yet, trudging into Ministries, a quick ‘petit noir’ first in the corner café to give courage for the grind, a quick glance at the headlines. Whizz on to the train with him, whizz past the Invalides, glance at his watch, compare with clock, yes, he’d make it, he travels fastest who travels alone. There’d be people going to early Mass in Sainte Clotilde. Businessmen lurching on to the plane, all still asleep.

  Silvia was apologetic in a cagy way, not sure she hadn’t made a muddle.

  “I got on to something called the English Speaking Community. A Mrs Merryweather, isn’t that a nice name, she was helpful and understanding. Long and short” hastily “there’s a woman here now to see you.”

  “I’m broad awake,” said Dr Valdez peaceably. “Good morning, won’t you please sit down. Have you any idea what all this is about?”

  “Thank you, er, not very. Mrs, er, Frau Bontempi said you wanted somebody to read aloud. I don’t know why they thought of me except I used to be an actress. Er, Mrs Grey but call me Dolores.”

  “That’s quite right. Er –” it was catching – “Dolores, this is for a patient of mine, uh, a therapeutic act, the thing is to know whether you are free, an hour a day, say the afternoons, have you got a car?”

  “Oh yes, quite free, you mean husband, children? Yes I’ve a car – you mean it’s some way out?”

  “All right, let me explain, I want this man during that time to enter an entirely different world. That of Jane Austen. We’ll pay you of course, exactly like a nurse.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Sounds rather fun. He speaks English I suppose? Oh well, Jane’s vocabulary isn’t all that difficult, she’s rather modern. I think I get the point, I hope I’m not too stupid for that. Which one should it be, to start with?”

  “I’m not all that familiar with them; suppose you choose.”

  “Perhaps Emma, it’s full of gaiety, is that the right word?”

  “We’ll take it as settled. Here’s the address. I’ll drop in the first time, not to interfere of course but just in case of any difficulty. You put him on a long chair, feet up, tell him to shut his eyes and unwind, you’re the psychoanalyst in fact, the rest is up to you.”

  “Oh I don’t think I’ll be alarmed.”

  “Good, you leave your phone number and whatever with my lovely Frau Bontempi and tell her your best time, she’ll coordinate.”

  “I think I’ll enjoy it, it could be useful.”

  “I’m counting on you,” said Raymond, with the winning smile.

  He walked in softly; the door was on the latch. She’d found it all right; little Opel parked outside. But he only had to follow the voice, in afternoon stillness. A nice speaking voice, he thought, clear and matter-of-fact; not actressy mannerisms. They’d only just started, some preliminary explanation no doubt. He sat down quietly. William, sprawled on the sofa, didn’t even notice. Good. She sat sensibly, upright, her legs crossed and the book on her lap; reading glasses. She noticed, but only fluttered eyelashes to show she had seen him. Her voice stayed level.

  “‘These were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments.’”

  “What’s alloy?” There had plainly been an agreement that he would interrupt only if necessary.

  “Literally a metal which you mix with gold or silver. Here, I think, to mix in the sense of lessening, diluting.”

  “Good. Sorry.” William did not again interrupt until – ‘having been a valetudinarian all his life’ …”

  “A valley-what?”

  “Somebody old who fusses a great deal about his own health. Listen – ‘without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years’ – okay?” She went on smoothly to the end of the chapter. “‘Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.’ I think that’ll do for the first time, I don’t want to tire you.”

  “Thank you, I’m fine,” sitting up. “Hallo Ray, are you there? I rather like your experiment. Mr Woodhouse is splendid. Knightley sounds pompous – okay, I didn’t frequent the Marquis all that time without meeting more of these people.”

  “Oh good,” said Dolores. “The English isn’t hard – bound to say, you speak it well.”

  “Bright lad, our William,” agreed Raymond. “I seem to recall that Mr Elton is the most frightful shit.”

  “Hush,” said Dolores reprovingly, “you’ll spoil it”.

  “I look forward”, William, polite, “To knowing what happens.”

  “Oh good. I’ll pop off then.”

  “Have some tea. Green tea!”

  “Thank you but I’ve got to pick up a child from school.” Diplomacy all round.

  “I’d rather Jane to green tea.”

  “You’ll get accustomed to both and addicted in a week. Woman make a good job of your dinner?”

  “Marky used to quote Stendhal. ‘Spinach and Saint-Simon have been my mainstay.’ A couple more goes with your massage woman and I’ll be a permanent sex-maniac.”

  “Perfect,” said Raymond, abrim with self-congratulation.

  About a fortnight later they were in Radiology together, where William has gone for a control. Dr Valdez has borrowed a consulting room and has a row of prints pinned up on the viewing screen, wheeling the Professor’s chair about and enjoying himself, pleased because “Can’t speak of a real regression but she agrees that in technical terms these are looking good”.

  “I’m certainly feeling less daunted,” agreed William. “Mr Woodhouse likes ‘a nice basin of gruel’ late at night. Ol’ Dolores is a bit vague about this – some sort of porridge? Let me recommend you a very small soft-boiled egg. I don’t think it could disagree with you.
I’m getting exactly like this.”

  “How astonished they’d all have been at a machine which sees through you.”

  “Or that tunnel which booms and mutters at one, saying there’s an enemy submarine out there somewhere. Jane seems to have lived through the whole of the war paying no attention to it whatever. So sensible, really. But they aren’t at all far from London.”

  “I suppose not,” said Raymond who can’t really remember.” You know, all this is doing you a lot of good.”

  “Yes, I’m beginning to take an interest. Thinking of doing some work on the garden. Getting quite addicted to Jane. I mean Harriet Smith’s girlish confusion over who she’s in love with, it couldn’t be more boring but I don’t fall asleep, I still want to know what happens next.”

  “Because it’s real. The world we live in, all the noise that’s made about it is profoundly unreal, we look and we say ok, what the hell. The ethical problems are the same; who one’s going to marry, is he the right social level and has he enough money. The man in the Kipling story says ‘They’re all on the make in a quiet way.’ We’re no different.”

  “I’m getting more energy. Don’t have much pain either.”

  “We’ll slack off on a few things and keep on with others.” Knowing the Crab’s little tricks, one’s not going to make any foolish prognostics. That – as Raymond does recall – got Emma Woodhouse into a good deal of trouble. False hopes will lead to sad humiliations.

  Monsieur Philippe had every reason – well, nearly every reason – to feel pretty satisfied about affairs. Business is looking up; there’s lots of money about. That dodgy strong-arm operation, he hadn’t liked that, and he’d got panicked into saying and doing foolish things, but there’d been no real fall-out. Threats had been made but he was pretty sure they were bluff: he reckoned he knew bluff when he saw it. Large part of his own stock in trade.

  His man at arms, whom he’d picked for the job of bashing that doctor… no trouble there. Long-distance truck-driver who did a bit (more than a bit) of contraband; he had plenty of leverage on the fellow, and let him know it: he’d keep his mouth shut. Like all such folk, the more money they made the more they were thirsty for. The payment had been right, neither too much nor too little. The Doctor had been well and truly intimidated; gone to hospital and (one had got to hear) undergone a nice bit of facial surgery. They’d got the message all right; girl well choked-off; an efficient piece of work.

  Everybody’s been paid. The Principal (one wasn’t supposed to know but he did) had jolly-well-coughed-up. Bénédicte would have told him straight that suchlike things are costly: good jewellery doesn’t grow on trees. He himself had been paid, no messing: she’s a good business woman. Cow would have taken a healthy commission. And so had he. Nothing wrong anywhere: there’s a big difference between what the farmer gets for his cow and what you pay for meat in the shop. There are green pastures in that diplomatic world.

  Still, there was a loose end, worrying like having a bad tooth and he’d need to have it out. He had to restore the balance, and better. One must never let people think they’ve got away with it. Retribution isn’t always swift but it has to come.

  He had to stay clear of the girl – Mireille, Janine, whatever she’s called; she is Not discreet. While old mother Bénédicte who is very discreet had told him to stay out of her sight. From the lassie-Iñez he’s got a garbled tale of a man – Parisian-sounding man – who had strolled around and scared the knickers off Mireille, in all respects fitting the description of the bastard who’d strolled so cheekily into his own shop. Who was this man? Had that little bitch given him away?

  He’d only the one pointer to guide him; the connection with that doctor.

  Now if that bad man came from Paris the chances of identifying him were thin. He was there himself quite often, and has a widish circle of acquaintance, but – on the other hand the bad man had shown – no? – a measure of familiarity with the town here. Checking on the doctor’s ways would be a great expense. He is spending his own money! But if there’s something to be learned… One is forced to the conclusion that he isn’t spending enough of it.

  Following the doctor’s movements is both easy and difficult. Easy because this is an absent-minded man, whose eyes are unobservant; he drives about (going to work mostly he bicycles) without looking. Difficult because Monsieur Philippe has to use his own car, which is not obtrusive nor even conspicuous, but a good car is necessary to his own position in the world, and his is a Saab; one doesn’t see all that many of them. If it were to pop up frequently in the field of vision even an absentminded man will notice. He had to ration his shadowings.

  But then there was a piece of luck: there generally is, if one perseveres, and in a cause this good Philippe is patient. A woman came, to that dump in the old-town where no one came. Rather a striking-looking woman. And familiar with the dump; she had a key to the house and was toting a shopping-bag. When she came out suddenly, and climbed in to an open car with the top down – easy to follow – he obeyed an impulse. She led him a long way, out of the town; he was getting discouraged when… A village, up towards the foothills of the wine country – but she went straight through, turned at the top and in at the gate of a manor house, a ‘château’, quite a grand one, and here too her manner showed a familiarity with the place. One would make a few enquiries in the village. Oh yes: Sainte-Anne; he knows the name. There was a Baron de Sainte-Anne, an occasional customer (not a good one, for small pieces of jewellery: cheap sort of fellow (for someone with plenty of money). He went into the village baker; one could always use a cake or something. Did the ‘thought-I-saw-someone-I-knew’; bakers’ wives are all gossips. Sure, that’s Miss Josie. Uh? The Honourable Alexandra if you prefer. Oh yes, of course.

  A garage man. Saab might need a bit of tuning; d’you think the plugs need changing? No, I’ve plenty of time. One can gossip even better in a village garage – they’ve always time to chat. The thing about worms is they keep on worming, and shift quite large stones.

  Sure thing; Miss Josie’d been away a good while, in Paris yes, come home – been in to have the car serviced. She married but it didn’t take; some fellow, know him by sight but one doesn’t see him here, lives in a house away yonder up the other end of the vines. That was something, house built specially, must have cost a packet and she never wanted to live there. Thought so, these plugs are the trouble all right. Nice woman, Miss Josie, always a smile and a word. Not at all stuck-up. Good tip, too. But the man there, typical Parisian, country people aren’t too keen on those folk, give themselves too many airs. Nobody knew much about him; kept to himself. Got a Porsche; won’t see that brought in here for a tune!

  Now that seemed worth following up.

  Monsieur Philippe felt wary about the woman; she looked too sharp. Carting rather fast in the little car; baronial disregard for speed limits. One would take a look, but definitely, at the house ‘up yonder’: found with some difficulty. Isolated too, one couldn’t hang about up here. Nice house all right. Very much barred and barricaded; that would be the loneliness, off the beaten track. Somebody lived there – car outside. Little Opel, a woman’s car. There might be a Porsche and it might be in that underground garage. This façade hadn’t any face, told him nothing and better not hang about. Stick to the other end, see if the woman turned up again.

  She did, oh yes, and this is lovely – she stayed the night. Better, and it got better still, because the Doctor dragged his car out (likely to try and get into someone else’s dirty old VW, wondering why his key doesn’t fit), so he risked following that, and where d’you think it led him? Curiouser and curiouser. This would build into something and he’d have to think about it. Can’t stay in ambush on this damn path which doesn’t lead anywhere.

  A nice thing about Joséphine; she doesn’t ask silly questions. Especially not that one about are you happy? Ray whose life is the asking of questions also avoids this one. One knows the answer; there isn’t any, and if there were, one
would prefer not to know it. Like that other, of who hit him on the nose and why? William had wanted to ask that, and it hadn’t done any good. Something to do with Janine’s disappearance: let her worry about it.

  Happier than before? Happier than he ought to be? About as happy as one ever can be; look, one just gets on with living, okay? There isn’t any vaccine against misery. Nobody can slip a needle under your skin and there now, you’re immunized. The Research Institute thinks about the physical world. We don’t hunt madly for new antibiotics, or old pals staph and strep showing themselves so naughtily immune to all those in current use. Other people do that. We get a bit metaphysical about living and dying. Sure. Violence, or getting married, or the tango – all of them metaphysical subjects.

  Joséphine complains about the flat. Yes, it is squalid.

  He’s not getting away with that! A tirade develops; this awful building is due to be knocked down anyhow. Move before somebody demolishes it over your head. Nasty little spaces. That electric wiring is a perfect menace. Suddenly the fast ball.

  “That revolting alleyway is dangerous. You could just as easily have lost your life.”

  “Po po po. Old stories, long forgotten.” She just looks at him, more devastating than words. As though she knew all about it. Perhaps she does. Perhaps she has talked to William; he wouldn’t know. She hasn’t said so (and neither has William) but she doesn’t pretend that William doesn’t exist.

  “I might get a cancer. So might you!”

  “And then we do whatever we find possible,” said Ray peaceably.

  She is not one for beautiful phrases, for the garden of lovely thoughts: she finds these in the births-and-deaths column of Le Monde.

  “It’s all right to die on the street when not on purpose – who said that?”