The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  He thought again about his sybaritic visitor, his mood towards her having softened slightly. On the face of it, their friendship would have seemed the unlikeliest to endure from those sunlit undergraduate days, because they were very different people in many ways. Yet Stephanie, uniquely, had remained a faithful friend to Leo (if not a faithful wife to Jamie) during his time in the wilderness, only finally falling away after his umpteenth refusal of her hospital visits. What had become of the rest of their fellow alumni? Conspicuous by their bloody absence. Leo had never once told Stephanie how much he had appreciated her concern, her compassion. He could just have said, ‘Thanks for your kindness back then, and I’m sorry I told the nurse to ask you to go away. I simply couldn’t face visitors.’ He counted them. Twenty-four little words. Twenty-four. But that would have meant bringing up the whole hellish business, and there are aspects to madness best forgotten, that other people needn’t ever know of.

  ‘Damn it!’ he uttered, as he stubbed out his third cigarette.

  At least he had drunk enough to sleep.

  The next morning, mercifully, he had no headache, just a nausea sitting in his belly like a familiar friend. His nerves were frayed, but his carnaptiousness returned as the hangover set in and he watched the liver salts fizz up inside the beaker. Stephanie’s culpability for last night’s conflict was restored entirely. If she was unable to appreciate the delicacy of his talents then that was her problem. He had no say in the matter of whom he could or would not help, anyway.

  5

  IT was two days later, while at church, that Leo had the next vision.

  The morning had started off unremarkably enough. Having forced himself over the threshold, he felt somewhat refreshed at being out and about, although he still felt quite weak as a result of his recent flu bug. He had gone into a little dairy to buy a roll of Victory Vs and a Fry’s Orange Cream. An elderly female customer conversed with the overweight woman behind the counter: ‘A bloody disgrace so it was, right outside the close, in full view. Knickers at her ankles, him no’ caring a jot, as bold as brass!’

  ‘Some folk have nae shame,’ muttered the shopkeeper.

  Leo felt an odd sensation of lustful envy at this wildly dissolute couple, and then a feeling of self-disgust. He was glad of the forthcoming sacraments. Afterwards, he would visit his mother, then the grave of his father.

  A freezing fog had descended which rasped at Leo’s lungs like an emery board and gave the city a surreal, ghostly veneer. The odour of boiling tar from a road gang mixed sweetly with the thick atmosphere and Leo had to pause before entering the church as he struggled to clear his chest. A passing gaggle of street kids, who were sharing a cigarette as though in a vain effort to keep warm, mocked his elegant attire – tasteful two-piece charcoal Sunday suit, topcoat and hat, polished leather-soled shoes, scarlet cashmere scarf and pigskin gloves – which contrasted starkly with their inevitable tracksuits.

  ‘Away and play in the traffic,’ he suggested to them.

  The church, which was not the one Leo usually attended, was a Dumfriesshire red sandstone oblong topped by several glass domes, with a bell tower upon the north-east corner. The façade, although Baroque, was somewhat restrained compared to the richly ornate contents. Leo read the inscription above the entrance: ‘Ego sum ostium; per me si quis introierit salvabitur.’ I am the gate; if anyone enters by Me he shall be saved.

  He wondered if the inside had been inspired by that of Santa Maria della Vittoria, one of his favourite churches in Rome. Pillars of verd antique from Connemara dominated the nave, the capitals carved ornamentally and painted brilliant gold. Colourful mosaics depicted the Stations of the Cross and certain Celtic saints: Ninian, Kentigern, Patrick and Columba. Beautiful stained-glass representations of New Testament episodes cast a fragile-coloured light into the cold marble gloom of the side aisles. To the right of the altar was a large statue of Saint Joseph (Leo’s favourite saint) gently cradling the infant Christ. Of the various side chapels the Lady Chapel was the jewel in the crown. Based on the altar in the Florentine church of San Miniato, its centrepiece was a statue of the Virgin – a faithful reproduction of the Black Madonna of Montserrat – flickering in the light from the two dozen votive candles below. Leo lit one and prayed to Our Lady of Good Success for his forthcoming endeavour. The main altar table and screen were hewn from white marble inlaid with red. The centrepiece was a gold crucifix, set beneath an arch and between two graven pillars. Above this was a semi-dome of emerald green, spangled with silver stars. There were also the words ‘Christus Rex et Redemptor Mundi’ and the Greek letters alpha and omega in gold leaf. Above this again was an arch decorated with a mural of the Last Supper. Directly above this was the largest of the church’s domes, which had stained-glass depictions of several saints including Augustine, Alphonsus, Aquinas and Ignatius. Elsewhere in the high-vaulted ceiling, exquisitely colourful abstract Eastern-style patterns maintained the Byzantine theme of the domes.

  Leo remained kneeling for a while after saying his penance, feeling a palpable sense of calmness and relief, as though a clutch of devils had taken their leave of him. To kneel before another human being and utter one’s sins aloud is the ultimate act of humility – and the dark one hates humility more than all the other virtues. And then to be assured that one was forgiven and still unconditionally loved was catharsis beyond catharsis. How palpable the sacraments could feel to him nowadays, a thousand miles from the ritualistic habit of his youth when he would skulk away before the final blessing. And how alive the gospels and Paul’s letters, and indeed the psalms, sermons and hymns were to him, offering shards of pure wisdom to soothe some current anxiety so as to seem Providential. He resolved to try harder to make his faith count in his day-to-day life, to truly see Jesus in his fellow man.

  The High Mass, with a choir clad in fine purple robes, was sublime. The sermon addressed the Beatitudes, and Leo felt fortified by the steely conviction and intellectual subtlety that only a Jesuit can deliver. Palestrina’s Credo, the one from the Pope Marcellus Mass, was particularly moving: ‘Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, genitum, non factum . . .’

  Leo considered how Catholicism had bequeathed the world its greatest artistic glories, imbuing an elevated aesthetic sensibility which conduced to moral enlightenment, but as he knelt for the Liturgy of the Eucharist his mind wandered briefly towards more sensual gratifications. He considered how, with his soul cleansed and nourished, he would prove the lie of Stephanie’s accusation of austerity. He planned the forthcoming culinary indulgence. Release the 12oz sirloin from the fridge, season it and let it reach room temperature. The priests’ vestments seemed gloriously vivid, the chasuble of a most gorgeous jade. Get to the Polish deli before it closes at two, for shallots and tarragon. Oh, and a vanilla pod for the dessert. And a pot of that lovely beluga caviar as a special treat. The incense smelled heady and delicious, almost intoxicating. Eggs and butter from Sanjeev’s. The ancient Latin words of the sacred ordinances were like hypnotic poetry. Liberate the Bourgogne pinot noir – no, the ’06 Château Margaux – from the cellar. He gazed at the candles on the altar. The tongues of flame seemed to merge into a single entity.

  An island set upon a lake of black water. A dark figure, its outline broken by robes and wearing crooked, pointed headwear, standing by the shore, features indistinguishable, watching him.

  Then a smith wearing a welder’s mask, working at a furnace. As the smith toils, Leo senses others nearby, their faces hidden to him. A family devastated by grief. A desperate young man, his heart ripped out by bereavement, falsely accused. Weeping with sorrow and frustration as he languishes in a police station miles from home. Another man, a few years older and slow-witted, drowning in a sea of innuendo yet somehow rendered mute. Suffocated by trickery; panicking, sweating, gasping for breath.

  Leo came to, he himself sweating and gasping for breath. He glanced around, glad that he hadn’t obviously disturbed anyone, relieved that the vision was
over. He inhaled deeply, recovering himself, and focused upon the priest’s words.

  At that very moment, about forty miles to the north-west as the crow flies, the beast sat among other human beings and aped their decency, moving its head slowly from side to side in feigned sorrow and uttering platitudes of outrage. It was in some way pleasing to witness this portion of the anguish it had inflicted.

  The beast wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. How the poison had drip-dripped into its soul over the years. For most of the time it had been grudgingly willing to live in some semblance of outward peace with the world, to hide the true measure of its cynicism behind a façade, while limiting itself to the occasional act of petty savagery, such as torturing a stray animal or terrifying the living daylights out of an unfortunate street prostitute; just enough to temporarily sate its hatred for humanity.

  But failure with women, that was a different matter. That was simply unacceptable.

  It was all so clear now. The trap that had been laid. To humiliate it, to provoke its rage. But it would conceal its rage. It would be cunning. It was better than all of them. Stuck-up bitches.

  Leo decided that the soundtrack would be the ultimate – the Ninth. Von Karajan, Berliner, 1962, very loud. That treat he granted himself only rarely, for fear of rendering it mundane. As though that was possible. Yet it was a tiny chance he was unwilling to risk.

  He reverently withdrew the precious, heavy original pressing from the sleeve, blew a particle of dust from the vinyl, placed it gently upon the 1972 Technics SL-1200 turntable, carefully set the needle and listened to the low murmur of the empty grooves, the tantalising anticipation of the greatest artistic accomplishment in history. Then the opening bars: the unsettling initial key, the hopeful gathering of the following notes and the first burst of sheer splendour. The masterpiece always struck Leo as strange as well as sublime; experimental to the point of avant garde. So revolutionary, so modern that it could have been composed yesterday and still have sounded as though it had just arrived from outer space.

  He replaced his necktie with a scarlet and mauve Paisley-patterned cravat, poured himself a Ricard and water preprandial, and set to work. After the caviar hors d’oeuvre he tackled his version of moules mariniere. A pound of the Loch Fyne blighters which an enterprising fellow in the Carnarvon Bar near St George’s Cross (Leo had stopped by for a half-and-a-half on his way home after Mass) had pulled up and sold at a fraction of the tourist shop’s price. One or two were a wee bit gritty, but who cares when they are wild and excellent? Leo steamed them open with butter, wild garlic (which he had picked from the banks of the Kelvin the previous May and frozen), finely chopped shallots, flat-leaf parsley, a bay leaf, the juice of a whole lime and a generous slug of Frascati. He drank the remainder of the white with the mussels, before attempting his famous (famous to him, at least) sauce béarnaise, to top an organically reared steak which he had bought from the local family butcher at no little cost, served saignant after having been momentarily seared above a terrifying heat. He served this with creamed potatoes, glazed carrots, asparagus and baby onions. He gazed at his reproduction of La Belle Ferronnière as he masticated, while Beethoven stormed heaven from the next room.

  ‘And so the ascetic becomes the aesthete,’ he announced, as he lifted a large glass of Margaux in a toast to an imaginary Stephanie.

  He spied his mobile phone, the camera facility of which he had only recently mastered. ‘Sod it,’ he said, and took a picture of his half-cut self with his food and drink in the foreground and his da Vinci in the background, and text-messaged it to Stephanie with the caption, ‘And so the ascetic becomes the aesthete’.

  Later, when he had almost finished consuming the dessert he had prepared – crème brulée, his favourite – the iconic four-note phrase from the Fifth Symphony’s Allegro con brio informed Leo that a text had arrived.

  ‘Amazin wot u can get out of a tin these days. When u headin up?’ read the reply.

  ‘On the morrow. Can you help me out?’ he responded.

  But no further message arrived.

  For Leo, a good cigar was indispensable to completing an epicurean experience, and so he trimmed his Fonseca and lit it from the applewood (never from butane), having first removed the little paper band, as was decorous. He splashed some 1983 Armagnac he had been saving into a goblet for a perfect digestif. He settled into his rattan chair in the drawing room, feeling vaguely foolish at having contacted Stephanie. He checked the photograph he had sent; instead of a suave gourmet he saw a jaded, middle-aged man with a lonely supporting arm outstretched towards the camera, eyes glassy with booze, teeth tinged vampiric crimson with claret and bovine blood.

  Something else – an emotional memory – disturbed him. The sauce béarnaise had transported him to that stolen, halcyon summer with Maddi in Biarritz.

  It felt like a lifetime ago; several lifetimes ago, when anything had seemed possible. How thin in comparison were the flavours of the subsequent eras of his life. Smiling, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply though his nose, as though to drink in the essence of that sacred time, the texture of it, the way it had felt.

  They had stayed at the Hotel du Palais, a nineteenth-century grand hotel. How gorgeously the sunlight flooded into their bedchamber in the mornings, he recalled, with the sublime soundtrack of the Atlantic in the background.

  They watched the Bastille fireworks from the terrace, sipping vermouth and bitters with an elderly gentleman who had won the Legion of Honour, and his wife, as the scent of honeysuckle drifted up from amid a grove of tamarisk and hydrangea, mixing with the salt air. In a whisper, the man captivated Leo as he described his experiences in the trenches. The endless column of nervously smiling youths clad in unblemished blue serge marching up the Voie Sacrée, France’s sacrifice for the altar of Verdun, while in the opposite direction lurched the muddied procession of gas-blinded and shrapnel-maimed.

  Leo recited Verlaine’s ‘Clair de Lune’ as they strolled alongside the Grande Plage in the moonlight, past wonderful belle époque villas. She wore a cocktail dress which matched her sable-black hair, and a cream bolero jacket. Her dusky complexion, a result of her part-Indian extraction and browned deeper by the sun, meant that people kept mistaking her for a woman from southern France. She looked like a film star.

  Later, at the Barrière, after playing trente et quarante, they found themselves at the same roulette table as a real film star, a veteran of French cinema whose kooky charm and simple beauty had not deserted her despite her maturing years. She was rather taken with Maddi, whom she asked to place a large bet for her. Maddi chose manque correctly and the actress gave her a one-thousand-franc chip by way of celebration.

  Leo and Maddi attended Mass together with various famous émigrés at the splendid Russian Orthodox Church, then visited Albert’s, where they ate oysters from their shells which had been cooked in champagne.

  They rented a silver cabriolet and drove through the mountains to Lourdes, then over to Pamplona, Bilbao, then the B-roads to Lekeitio and San Sebastian. Prior to recrossing the border they detoured to take in the coast, where they made love beneath a million stars, amid weird, tumorous rock formations by the wine-dark sea.

  He had felt so certain that they would spend the rest of their lives together. My goodness, how foolish that misplaced notion made him feel now. Sometimes, in order to torture himself, he imagined an alternate history in which he retained Maddi’s heart and also somehow maintained his sanity. But he wondered whether he could have sustained the affair even if he had kept the rudest of mental health; it would inevitably have succumbed to his eccentricities: his obsessive rituals and habits, his tendency to live inside his own head. His drinking.

  Following his descent into the abyss, he had been resolute in spurning Maddi’s well-intentioned attempts to reach out to him. That was for other, feeble men, and what was left of his human dignity Leo had guarded jealously. And thereafter he had been scrupulous in his efforts to avoid any
details of Maddi’s life; to have heard of her inevitable next love affair – one which doubtless would have lasted – would have been too painful. She, unlike him, had experienced relationships before they had been together, and their encounter had been relatively brief, barely the lifetime of a lit cigarette when compared with the hours that make up a single day. Doubtless her life would then have shifted tectonically – romance, the gilded wedding, motherhood – while his existence had calloused over and shrivelled up. He imagined Maddi’s offspring, perfect amalgams of her and her partner, products of their profound closeness, their unimaginable and impenetrable love. And what he dreaded – what terrified him more than just about anything in the world – would be to discover that if she ever did reminisce about him it would be like remembering a day trip down the coast you had once gone on, or a DJ you had once danced to, or an old acquaintance who had once made you laugh but who now seemed a quaint anachronism in this era of mortgages and dinner parties and school fees; something transitory and in the bigger scheme of things trivial. Better never to know, he mused.

  Nonetheless, he had believed back then, during that golden summer when everything was exalted, that they would indeed spend the rest of their days as one, as surely as he believed that dawn followed night. At times it had seemed effortless, like a dream; at times he had been spontaneous and utterly in the moment. But if truth be told, the cracks in the dam had already begun to appear. In fact, all the while he had been with Maddi a sense of being unworthy of this happiness had gnawed at him. Not that he had let on to anyone, not even properly to himself and least of all to her. His increasingly heavy drinking, for instance, was passed off as recreational, rather than a response to the damage that had been inflicted upon him when the stigma of an unjust accusation subsequently caused him not to act when he could have prevented something terrible from happening. Until one day the background noise suddenly rose to a crescendo and overwhelmed him.