Dark Palace

by Frank Moorhouse

  To be such a rickety inner-person could not be good for one.

  Oh well.

  She took a deep drink of her wine, finishing it too greedily and earning a disapproving look from Jeanne.

  As long as one didn’t look too rickety from the outside.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I was working for Health Section in an African village, helping to sink a well, having the pump draw the first water, tasting the first pure water, seeing the black children drink it and smile,’ she said. ‘Making the water flow.’

  They all had that yearning from time to time, to flee their desks and the paperwork.

  Finding water was what her father did back in Australia. How appreciable his work was. He could actually drink and taste his work. She realised that she had never talked with him much about it.

  ‘You make ideas flow, Edith,’ Jeanne said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said without conviction. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘At organising a conference you are a witch. And, as you say, the international conference is the diplomacy of tomorrow.’

  ‘Witch?’

  ‘A female wizard?’

  ‘Wizard, I think, Jeanne, for men and women in this case. Or perhaps I am a Good Witch. Or trying to be. Mr Nicolson tells me that our international conferences are make-believe diplomacy.’

  ‘Mr Nicolson is a witty snob. Snobbery is a mind déformé.’

  She did have access to the Secretary-General which was more than most could say. But she tried not to use that access.

  She laughed to herself. What a great diplomatic device—the granting of a privilege which the person could not use: ‘Call on me at any time—no need for an appointment.’ It rewarded the person thus privileged and, at the same time, held them in a state of hesitation from fear that they might abuse that privilege. Yet it placed the person who had been given the privilege in a position of eternal allegiance.

  She wondered whether Sir Eric consciously used it that way.

  Did people ever use these stratagems consciously? And if they did, what did it do to their soul and their spontaneity?

  If everything they did had to be plotted, wouldn’t they then lose the power of improvisation and the impromptu move?

  And the special power of sincerity?

  ‘Edith! Hello! Edith!’ Jeanne was waving a hand in front of her face.

  Jeanne leaned forward. ‘To change the subject from your dear self, Edith—I heard the strangest thing today. I heard that in Tokyo, the wife of a Japanese army officer sent to fight in Manchuria committed suicide.’

  ‘In protest at the invasion?’

  ‘Ah. You think as I do—no. Of course, no protest such as that would be reported from Japan. No, she committed suicide so that her husband’s bravery would not be compromised. She wanted him not to be weakened by thoughts of her back home waiting for his return.’

  ‘Incroyable!’ The chic word among their crowd at present.

  ‘Can you imagine it?’

  ‘I don’t know the Japanese. The only Japanese I’ve met are those in the Secretariat.’

  Jeanne said she’d met a secretary from one of their delegations. ‘A flawless woman.’ Jeanne’s eyes lit up, ‘She was less than five feet high, with full red lips, tight waistband, mincing step, a real houri.’

  Jeanne said she’d had difficulty taking her eyes off the exotic Japanese woman and had become almost obsessed by her.

  ‘I remember her,’ Edith said.

  Jeanne went on, ‘This woman who suicided said in a note that with her death, her husband would fight more bravely, would not fear death or wounding. Would it ever pass your mind to suicide in this way? Are they so different from us?’

  If they began to think that some parts of the human race were inherently different from other parts then there might not be a basis for world organisation. What if some peoples were at a different point in the human chain of evolution?

  But she reminded herself of the teachings of Karl Pearson—to improve all, not some, was the only way to ensure the survival of the species.

  Edith said, ‘I have never heard of any woman of whatever nationality doing that.’ She thought about dying for Robert—not in this Japanese way, but in the way that wives were supposed to be ready to sacrifice themselves. Perhaps. Or were they? Had she got that wrong? Not in a Modern Marriage, surely?

  Sacrificing oneself for a child would be imaginable.

  There was movement now in the hotel lobby with people up from their tables and standing in ever-changing groups, spilling into the entrance to the dining room. Edith and Jeanne paid attention.

  ‘Something happens?’ Jeanne said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There goes Briand,’ Jeanne said, pretending to fan herself, her voice filled with exaggerated admiration for the French Foreign Minister, President of the League Council. ‘And that wonderful Léger.’ Her voice became melodramatically concerned. ‘They look très sérieux but not perturbed.’

  Edith glanced at Briand’s face but could not read it. She too admired him. She had once seen him eat a whole bowl of caviar. He deserved it for his work for the League. She looked over at Jeanne and made the braying noise of a donkey.

  Jeanne brayed back and quoted Briand’s famous speech, ‘ “My critics say I bray for peace: then I bray for peace.” ’

  Briand had brayed at the Assembly.

  Jeanne waved to him coquettishly. He looked towards them, his craggy face smiling, and waved back affectionately but did not come over. They’d both taken drinks with him at the Bavaria over the years.

  She also admired Léger, Briand’s Chef de Cabinet, who was known in diplomatic circles to be the poet ‘St-John Perse’. He remained reserved and did not wave.

  ‘Something is going well,’ Jeanne said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know how to read the lines of Briand’s face.’

  Jeanne had been reading faces all night.

  ‘We will discreetly inquire in a moment,’ Edith said.

  Edith was trying to make her thoughts backtrack to something about her feelings for Robert which she’d skipped over quickly when discussing the suicide of the Japanese woman. Not only would she not suicide in connection with anything about her marriage that she could imagine, there was something else which had crossed her mind and which she had not taken in. She sensed that it was perhaps a shady thought about her and Robert’s year-old marriage. It had to do with sacrifice and the marriage contract but she couldn’t find the thought.

  A uniformed League messenger, wearing an official armband and black puttees, entered the dining room with his cap under his arm, looked around, and then approached their table and handed Edith an envelope stamped: ‘Very Confidential’.

  Edith signed for the delivery. The messenger said he would wait in case of an answer.

  Edith was chuffed at receiving a messenger in the midst of the buzzing atmosphere of tension in the hotel.

  She opened the message and read it.

  As she did, she heard Jeanne say to the young messenger, in French, ‘Would you like to sit?’

  The messenger said, ‘Merci,’ and sat stiffly on one of the vacant chairs, turning it slightly away from the table as if to indicate that he was not a guest at the table.

  The message was from Bartou asking her to ‘prepare an additional place’ at the League Council table tomorrow. There was a personal hand-written message also, wishing them both a pleasant night.

  Bartou was working late. The lights were burning at the Palais Woodrow Wilson.

  An extra place at the Council table? Why the cryptic wording?

  ‘You are so important, Edith,’ Jeanne said with drollery. ‘And the message?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Bartou wants something done tomorrow. And he wishes us a good night. I think the sending of a messenger was just a compliment to us.’ She realised that she was speaking about the messenger when he was there at the table. She smiled at him in a comradely way.

  Edi
th took out her personal message pad and scrawled a note to Bartou saying she would return to the Palais within the hour. She tore the page out and folded it, placing it in the envelope in which Bartou’s message had arrived, tied the string around the envelope button, and held it out to the messenger.

  She said to Jeanne, ‘I think I should call in to the Palais tonight. After a while.’

  The messenger stood, bowed to them, and left.

  Jeanne returned to the conversation, ‘I would perhaps die to save my child,’ she said, watching the messenger go. ‘But so that a man could fight better? What sort of mentalité is that?’

  ‘One might think he would lose his stomach for war after his wife did that. It’s war fever, Jeanne.’

  Edith’s mind then drifted into mess. It was disordered by the elusive thought about Robert, by the stupid suiciding Japanese woman, the war, and by the enigmatic message from Bartou.

  She tried to concentrate on the additional place at the Council table. The additional place must be for the US. They were coming to the League. After all these years of staying apart from the world, they were at last joining the world.

  Well.

  She wanted to tell Jeanne but thought that she probably shouldn’t. ‘Sorry Jeanne—I am suddenly besieged from all sides by all sorts of thoughts. Where are we?’

  ‘The Japanese woman must have been très, très patriotique. You and I, we do not have such strong love of country. Being, as we are, internationalists. Where should love of country come in the order of things? Not before one’s lover obviously.’ Jeanne then smiled mischievously, ‘Or lovers as the case may be …’

  ‘Be careful how you love your country,’ Edith said, absently. One of her father’s sayings.

  She couldn’t hold the news in. ‘Jeanne, I think the Americans are going to come to Council. I think they’re joining the League.’

  ‘You think so? Is that what was in the Very Important Message just delivered?’

  ‘That’s what’s implied, I think, yes. America is joining in to save the situation.’

  ‘Bravo—then that is that. With the US in the League we can do anything—all is now possible?! Yes?’

  To Edith’s bemusement, Jeanne then decided discreetly to examine her make-up in her handbag mirror. From momentous world affairs to the details of her personal vanity, just like that. Edith thought about her own face but restrained herself.

  Her attention then did focus. This was extraordinary. She probably knew more than anyone in the Hôtel des Bergues. They should be seeking information from her. Or had the slight eruption of activity earlier been about this?

  Arthur Sweetser was suddenly standing before them, pulling off his gloves, still in his overcoat. ‘Excuse me, Jeanne, I need to speak to Edith.’ He used his urgent oh-so-important American voice.

  Ha.

  Sweetser was the member of section in charge of liaison with the US, although his official position was as Information Officer. There’d been precious little liaison with America to worry about—until now.

  His sudden presence confirmed her guess about the Americans.

  ‘Proceed, Artur,’ Jeanne said, waving at Edith, ‘I pass Edith over to your care. I will take a stroll to the balcony. In this heady place with its messengers and urgency, I feel I need oxygen.’

  ‘You don’t have to go, Jeanne,’ Edith said. Turning to Sweetser, she said, ‘For God’s sake, Arthur, Jeanne is one of the gang.’

  ‘For your ears only, I’m afraid.’ He looked to Jeanne and said, ‘Sorry, Jeanne.’

  Edith and Jeanne exchanged a glance of amusement as Jeanne got herself together to leave the table.

  ‘A drink, Arthur?’ Edith asked.

  He nodded and sat.

  Edith called the waiter and Sweetser ordered a cognac.

  He waited until Jeanne had gone and then leaned over to her and said sotto voce, ‘We’re in, Edith. The US is coming to Council.’

  ‘I just this minute received a memo by messenger from Bartou,’ she said, enjoying the mention of the messenger.

  Sweetser was obviously peeved that she knew.

  Why did Sweetser say ‘we’ identifying himself with his country instead of saying ‘they’, which would identify him with the League?

  ‘Surely, Arthur, it is “they and us”?’ she teased.

  He said impatiently, ‘Yes, Edith, “they”—the US—are joining the League. Protocol will be important,’ he said feverishly. ‘The whole thing must be done right. After all these years of work I don’t want the US to bolt because of some horrendous breach of protocol.’

  ‘When have I ever brought about a horrendous breach of protocol?’ She challenged, changing into a bristling professional animal there in her fabulous silk evening dress.

  ‘You haven’t. But we have had blunders, as you know only too well. This time we mustn’t.’

  Her mind went into action. ‘For a start, America cannot sit next to China. They will look like conspirators—and Japan will be offended. They can’t sit next to Japan, China would be offended. And, as a diplomatically junior and new Council member pro tem, they can’t really sit between senior permanent Council members—Britain or France or Italy. Perhaps a side table?’

  ‘Sssshh,’ said Sweetser, as someone passed their table. Leaning forward, looking about the busy dining room with its constant movement, he said, ‘This is the worst place to be discussing this—can we go?’

  She looked about the hotel. ‘Can’t go just yet. I am Bartou’s ears and eyes. He authorised this dinner for Jeanne and myself which we enjoyed immensely. A spy’s dinner. And we haven’t had coffee and petits four.’

  Sweetser drew his chair closer, and lowered his voice even more, ‘Edith, this is the turning point. This is as important as President Wilson signing the Covenant in 1920. This is another beginning for the League.’

  The waiter came with the crumb-tray, swept the table, and placed the cognac before Sweetser. To fill the time while the waiter tidied the table, he asked, in a spirit of forced bonhomie, ‘What did you order for dinner?’

  ‘We had the menu gastronomique and finished with crepe suzette with the sauce caramélisée. It has to be the best in Geneva.’

  ‘It is.’

  The waiter left.

  Sweetser leaned back in. ‘Japan opposed the Americans being there but late today a secret session cleared that up. The Japs have been silenced. They will accept the US at the Council table.’

  Sweetser began to make a diagram of the Council table on the napkin with his capped fountain pen. ‘This is how it should be.’ She looked at Sweetser’s face shining with perspiration. ‘I think they should come in the official door for delegates,’ he said.

  ‘That is not really diplomatically correct,’ she pointed out. ‘The status of the US at the Council meeting is not clear. They may be there simply as observers. For them to enter through the delegates’ door would mean that they had been in the delegates’ lounge. Where they are technically not permitted. Yet.’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said, reluctantly.

  Edith was trying not to show fuss, trying to be imperturbable. She was trying to allow the news to reach her gradually and composedly.

  It was probably the most important thing that had happened since she joined the League. Or perhaps in the history of the human polity. Sweetser was right—it was a new beginning.

  If the US joined the League then collective world security was truly feasible. All war could be stopped in its tracks.

  No nation could take the risk of collective action against it: it would be a threat of unknown consequence.

  She looked at her wristwatch. It was not past Robert’s newspaper’s deadline. She could slip out and telephone him from the lobby. No.

  Her mind leapt back to the matter of the US, through the official entrance or not?

  She changed her mind. ‘They could be invited to the delegates’ lounge as guests. To hell with strict protocol. Flatter them. Make them immediately memb
ers of the club. Let us, as Secretariat, throw them into an allegiance with the League. The allegiance of the delegates’ lounge.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he nodded. ‘Or is it likely to cause some protest or other?’

  Across the lobby she saw Robert come in with ‘Potato’ Gray, his journalist mate. She waved.

  ‘Here’s Robert and Potato,’ she warned Sweetser.

  They saw Robert say goodnight to Gray—thank God, she detested Gray—and then make his way across to their table.

  She watched her husband approach. He was terribly good looking in a bohemian-journalist way although he still didn’t respond to her coaching on dress. He wore the same clothes for days. And she could see a spot on his hat even from this distance.

  Robert leaned over and kissed her cheek and almost in the breath which came with the kiss, he spoke to Sweetser. ‘You don’t have to look evasive, Arthur. I’ve heard about the American diplomatic note.’

  She hadn’t. She glanced at Sweetser. She could tell that he hadn’t either.

  ‘Robert, no business talk. Not just yet,’ she said.

  Robert sat down and drank from her glass of wine. To her pleasure, he looked at her, taking in her appearance, showing in his look that he found her unusually appealing.

  She had caught even her husband’s eye.

  ‘What’s happening, Arthur?’ Robert said, turning his gaze away from her. ‘You have news written all over your face.’

  Edith spoke to Sweetser, ‘Arthur, I think we should wait until all this is cleared.’ Sweetser was known to have the Urge to Tell.

  ‘I can say this,’ Sweetser said, in a faux-ambassadorial tone. ‘There is talk of the Kellogg-Briand Pact of Peace being invoked. That is all I can say.’

  Sweetser was hopeless. Robert knew that if this were true it meant that as a signatory of the Pact, the US would become involved with the League.

  The Pact to renounce war had been negotiated outside the League, but ultimately the nations which signed the Pact and the members of the League would be entangled now.

  ‘So.’ Robert was obviously bowled over by this news. He glanced at Sweetser and at her again. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Sweetser, ‘The US is coming to the League? That’s it, isn’t it?’ Even Robert’s voice had quickened.