by ILIL ARBEL
“The thing takes six weeks to germinate?” asked Mr. Cameron in disbelief and complete lack of respect for the revered object. “Why, marigolds germinate in three days!”
“Oh yes, it is quite a difficult undertaking,” said Lady Norton. “Marigolds are annuals, Mr. Cameron. The cactus is a perennial, and so each has a different schedule. But I am sure the professor will be a great help.”
“Mr. Middleton asked me to tell you that he would like to visit you this week and decide on the exact date you wish to start building.”
“I will be looking forward to his visit,” said Lady Norton. As she was now mistress of the plans and no more intimidated by the blueprints, she felt she could face Mr. Middleton with complete confidence.
“Lady Norton, what a pleasure, what an honour…” this was said with a thick Austrian accent as Professor Buckholz-Schuller was advancing briskly toward Lady Norton.
Lady Norton offered her hand, a gesture practiced for so many years it had become automatic, but at the same time she stared at the newcomer with shock and disbelief. The professor was the image of her old friend, Mr. Holt. They could have been identical twins. Doing her best to recover from the surprise, and determining to make discreet investigations as to a possible family relationship between the two, Lady Norton invited her guest to sit down and offered him an excellent tea. They were sitting in her drawing room, and Lady Norton noticed with satisfaction that the professor’s eyes were constantly darting to her magnificent ferns, some of which were extremely rare.
“I have the seeds right here,” said the professor, and took a small packet out of his pocket. Both looked at it reverently.
“I have no words to thank you,” said Lady Norton. “I simply cannot wait to start the experiment.”
“I can’t open the package here,” said the professor. “The seeds are so small, they are like powder. We will have to open it right over the pots in which we will germinate them. We will use half of the seeds, and keep the rest, just in case. I brought the clean sand the plant needs, too, from the Arizona desert, it’s in my suitcase. We will just need a few small clean pots, some shards for the bottom, a layer of clean gravel for drainage, and glass tops so light reaches the seeds at all time. Yes, and a couple of small stones we could put on the rim of each pot while lifting the glass two or three times a day for ventilation; of course, everything must be sterilized with boiling water. Then, we will put the pots under lamps and time the lamps to shine for sixteen hours a day. The rest of the time we must give the seeds complete darkness, much like the Arizona night. Any light during these hours may interfere with the germination, so the pots will have to be in their own room, I suppose, or perhaps we can cover them with large boxes for the duration of each night, if a whole room is inconvenient. If we do these simple little things, I am sure we can germinate some of the seeds, and the first step will be accomplished.”
“Of course, these requirements are no trouble at all,” said the infatuated Lady Norton. “Perhaps tomorrow morning, after you had a restful night, we can start?”
“No, no!” exclaimed the scandalized professor vehemently. “In the morning we will destroy the experiment. The seeds must be planted at night, when the air is moist.”
Lady Norton could have told him that the air in England was always moist, probably too moist for this desert denizen, but she was not at all averse to launching the experiment that same night, if that was what the professor meant to do. We are certain that if the professor had said that the seeds must be planted under the full moon, with some musicians playing the harp, tambourine, and cymbals behind a black curtain, and the two of them dancing around the pots, wearing beaded leather gowns and chanting sacred songs composed in the darkest recesses of Arizona by mysterious tribes, she would not only have consented, but would have procured the items as soon as possible and learned how to chant. Nothing would deter the true horticulturists from their plans. Most people think that bird enthusiasts are fanatical enough, but they are mere children next to plant enthusiasts. Perhaps only philatelists come close in their insanity – but not quite. It is told that, for example, a certain plant hunter had to climb a huge mountain which was possibly an active volcano, all the while travelling among settlements of cannibals and head hunters, to discover a new species of banana on a faraway island. No one other than a well-trained botanist who specialized in tropical fruit could tell the difference between that banana and the many other species of banana that existed in the books (and in the gardens of the world) already, but risking life and limb, after being separated from his family for years, seemed the right thing to do at the time. For his efforts, the plant hunter gained a small footnote in an obscure tome, and he was very happy about it for the rest of his life. Such is the power of botany.
Chapter Five
Mrs. Rivers stood before her mirror, putting final touches on her appearance. She was about to receive Mr. Stonor and discuss her books, and the prospect was rather exciting. She still could not believe that such a sophisticated, well-educated man would be interested in her books, which were clearly written for women, and not the most educated women at that. What would he say? She had never discussed her books with someone of his calibre. He would ask deep, penetrating questions… luckily, Mrs. Rivers was blessed with an unusual ability to remember her own books. As those of us who write books would agree, an author usually forgets the plot and characters she had so diligently developed, after a relatively short time. Most authors can recall embarrassing situations, when meeting a lady one has never seen before, and she starts gushing over a scene in a book written a few years before. “I have been so impressed with Hazel’s purity and innocence, particularly when she sees Ethelbert for the first time as he emerges from the ocean, and she thinks how much he looks like a Greek god.” You nod intelligently, or smile wanly, depending on your mood, all the while wondering if Hazel and Ethelbert are really your own creations, or have you, or the lady you are speaking to, suddenly gone mad? Could you have possibly created such a boring scene? Would you conceivably call the hero Ethelbert? Why would you sink to such depths, when the telephone book is full of good names you could have put to use? But not so with Mrs. Rivers. She would remember not only Ethelbert, but also Lady Elmira, who was his affectionate mother, his delightful, comical, cousin Madeline, and his pure love for beautiful, sad, remote Hazel. As she was combing her beautifully waved black hair, which required very little help from art to remain the glossy, raven-like crowing glory, she ran all her books quickly in her mind, wondering which one Mr. Stonor would declare as his favourite, and bring over to be autographed. It had to be a book that dealt with music, of course. He would identify with a hero who was musically inclined, or a heroine who was an accomplished musician. Would it be Moorish Serenade, about the young diplomatic attaché who meets the mature, exciting Spanish contessa when he is transferred to Madrid, and who would risk his life in the bull ring to win her freedom from her controlling family? Or would it be Czardas!, the one about the English Marchioness whose husband is sent on a secret mission to Budapest, and she must accompany him for the sake of secrecy even though it is so dangerous there, and who meets the young Gypsy who plays the violin so divinely at a tiny, smoke-filled café, but is really a Hungarian nobleman in disguise, and must hide his parentage from the Soviet authorities and who had learned his music when he was a young child, roaming the grounds of his parents’ castle with the Gypsies? Possibly… That was not a very good book since Mrs. Rivers could not go to Budapest because of the political situation, and she had to work from the encyclopaedia and from old Baedekers, she mused. Not that it interfered with sales… But then, Mrs. Rivers remembered that Denis played the piano very well, and used it for his composition process. A piano… suddenly she knew – with the kind of certainty that feels almost supernatural. It was Moonlight over Angkor Wat. The story of Lady Travers and the titled Corsican savant who never travelled without his piano.
Mrs. Rivers’ hand froze in midair as the memo
ry of writing the book suddenly flooded her mind. She wrote most of it in Pomfret Towers, so long ago. The year when Gillie became the heir to Pomfret Towers, met Sally Wicklow, the estate agent’s sister, and was forever lost to Mrs. Rivers’ beautiful daughter, Phoebe, who luckily was not interested in him in the least and never aspired to the title of Lady Pomfret, despite Mrs. Rivers’ efforts to unite them. She remembered that weekend so distinctly, Gillie’s father’s death announced, her own publisher, Mr. Johns, coming to persuade old Lord Pomfret to allow him to publish his memoirs, which turned out to be so successful… so many years since old Lord Pomfret passed away, but Mrs. Rivers’ son, Julian, still held a grudge against the Pomfrets because of his treatment there on that fateful weekend, which he considered harsh and everyone else thought to be too mild… Mrs. Rivers looked in the mirror, trying to shake the depression caused by thinking about the passing years and the treachery of Time. However, we must admit that Time treated her rather kindly. When she wrote Moonlight over Angkor Wat, she modelled Lady Travers after herself at the time – forty-eight years old, tall, dark, with an upright figure, shining black eyes, and ivory skin. Of course, she made it clear that no one would take Lady Travers for forty-eight. Sixteen years later, no one would take Mrs. Rivers for a woman of sixty-four. She looked at least ten years younger, having maintained not only the aforementioned black hair, but her elegant posture, slim and athletic figure, and a skin that was almost free of wrinkles. True, her expression was still discontented and overly eager, but this was balanced by her poise, and in her new dusty rose suit she looked very well. Sceptically, she looked at a new lipstick on her dressing table. It was the latest creation by the gigantic cosmetic firm that used Miss Tudor as their model; its embarrassing name was “Thunder Orchideé.” Miss Tudor told her, when she gave her the lipstick, that one member of the marketing department was going to name it “Resplendent Rose” and another one wanted “Volcano Blossom” but they were told by their director that these names were much too mild and unexciting, and the director made them call it by its current name. Mrs. Rivers rarely used any cosmetics other than a touch of powder on her nose, but this lipstick matched her suit perfectly, and after all, she thought rebelliously, who would guess the ghastly name? She shrugged her shoulders and put it on, and it had a very nice effect. Finally she added one piece of jewellery, a string of blush-coloured pearls that was a gift from her long-suffering husband George and which fitted quite nicely in the open collar of the suit, and the pinkish-beige suede shoes, with their sensible heels, finished off the impeccable at-home look.
Mrs. Rivers was to meet Mr. Stonor at the library, a lovely room she particularly liked. It was lined with books on all subjects imaginable, reflecting Mr. Goldwasser’s eclectic taste, diverse interests, and voracious reading habits. In between the bookcases, the walls were panelled with dark wood, and the furniture was mahogany, aged to a pleasant patina. Soft, extremely comfortable armchairs were scattered around the room, and next to each one stood a small end table equipped with a reading lamp that shed bright light on the individual space, but did not disturb the other occupants of the room. Surprisingly, a piano stood at one of the corners. It was used when Mr. Goldwasser chose to discuss musical aspects with some of his people at home rather than at the studio.
Entering the library, she was surprised to see that Mr. Stonor was already there. He was sitting at the piano, playing an intriguing piece of music, which Mrs. Rivers at once recognized as a favourite – Erik Satie’s Gnossien #1. The mysterious, almost mystical music seemed to be in tune with the soft light that came through the partially drawn green velvet curtains. She stood there, listening, not wishing to disturb him. However, after a few minutes he noticed her and smiled with pleasure as he got up. “Do come in, Mrs. Rivers,” he said. “I imagine I have surprised you. But here I am, and I brought my favourite with me.” He pulled out of his pocket the very same book Mrs. Rivers knew he would bring, Moonlight over Angkor Wat. She took the book and smiled. “Believe it or not, Mr. Stonor, I was sure that this book would be your favourite. It was because the Corsican nobleman never travelled without his piano, am I correct?”
“Partially,” said Mr. Stonor. “Of course, as a piano enthusiast, I could relate to him. But it really was Lady Travers… she was so much like someone who mattered to me a great deal, or at least that was how I saw her when I was reading it.”
“And the plot made sense to you? The renunciation, in particular?”
“Oh, yes. There was no other option. Lady Travers could never have broken her vows, throw away her principles and her sense of duty, no matter how much she cared for the Corsican savant. She followed her true path, and one respects her, even as one’s heart breaks over her sacrifice. But there is a sentence in the book – about her pale, moonlit face that would forever stand between him and happiness – and that sentence, Mrs. Rivers, is why I admire your work so much. It is simply the embodiment of truth.”
“I want to tell you something, Mr. Stonor,” said Mrs. Rivers, shedding her pretensions and literary silliness under the influence of his sincere regard for her work. “My publisher, Mr. Johns, and many of my critics, see me as entirely commercial. They feel that I have found the audience, that I tapped into the feelings of the library subscribers over forty years old, and that I am exploiting this market.”
“But this is not the whole truth, is it? Not that there is anything wrong in wishing to earn a decent living from your chosen metier, but there is more to it in your work, Mrs. Rivers. Isn’t this true?”
“Yes, you are right. Indeed, I have discovered my audience, but you see, I sincerely want to add some sparkle to the dull life of the middle-aged housewife. A little platonic love affair with an exciting gentleman, a walk in an exotic location she may have seen – travel is cheaper than it used to be, at least in Europe – or a place she will never see, such as Angkor Wat… or Argentina… these women are happy when they read my books, they imagine themselves in place of the heroine, and I know this is true because they send me letters, all the time, thanking me. But I am not really literary, you know. I write for the masses.”
“So did Charles Dickens,” said Mr. Stonor decidedly. “It did not detract from the quality of his work. For that matter, come to think of it, so did Shakespeare. I read somewhere that he said he hated to see his plays in print, anyway, since the audience preferred them on stage, as they were not intelligent enough to visualise the written word. Your work, Mrs. Rivers, goes beyond the love affair and the trip. It delves into our hearts.” He sat at the piano again and played a few bars in an absent-minded way, then turned and fully faced Mrs. Rivers. “I want to tell you how I relate to all this, Mrs. Rivers. May I? Or would it burden you?”
“Of course you may,” said Mrs. Rivers, who was burning with curiosity.
“When I was twenty-five years old, Mrs. Rivers, I was very much in love with a great lady. Her name was Mrs. Middleton, and she still resides at Skeynes. You may know her, I am not sure.”
“So what happened?” asked Mrs. Rivers, the author in her taking over the well-mannered lady who would not ask such a question in a hundred years.
“Nothing, of course. She never knew about my feelings,” said Mr. Stonor, which was a gallant lie, as all our readers, who are familiar with Mr. Stonor’s earlier years, must know. But then Mr. Stonor was a perfect gentleman. “However, I regret to say it took me several years to get over this affair.”
“I do know her a little. Wasn’t she considerably older than you?” asked Mrs. Rivers, enchanted with a true story which was so much like her own novels.
“Yes, about twenty years older than me, I believe,” said Mr. Stonor. “But this is the way I am. I do not know why, but I have never fallen in love with a woman my own age, always preferring someone more mature than I am. Incidentally, I refuse to use the word ‘older,’ since age is really a meaningless concept. The meeting of minds, of souls, that is all that matters.”
“How absolutely wonderful of
you to feel this way, Mr. Stonor.” said Mrs. Rivers wistfully.
“But rather sad for me,” said Mr. Stoner, passing his hands in a light arpeggio over the piano. It twinkled like fairy music in the gathering dusk. “You see, Mrs. Rivers, I cannot form a permanent relationship. There were two other women during the fifteen years that have passed since that time. Both older than me. Both too wise, too mature, too stable to stay with someone like me.”
“So you are forty now,” said Mrs. Rivers. “This is the right time to try again, Mr. Stonor. You will find love, I am sure of it.” She felt as if she had floated into one of her own novels, a strange, unaccountable sensation, both pleasurable and frightening.
“Would you do me a great kindness, Mrs. Rivers?” asked Mr. Stonor, playing softly. Mrs. Rivers did not recognize the tune; perhaps it was one of his ballets, she thought.
“Of course, I will try,” she said.
“Would you call me Denis? Mr. Stonor is so formal; it no longer fits us.”
Mrs. Rivers, slightly shocked, felt as if she was splitting into two women. The higher self was the writer, the businesswoman, the backbone of the County, practical, shrewd, tough. The lower self was an elegant, beautiful, ripe woman of the world, listening languidly to the dangerous conversation of an attractive gentleman. For a few seconds the two selves fought, and we must admit that the lower self won. It looked at the younger man from under its long lashes, and said, “Of course, Denis… and you must call me Hermione.”
“It will be an honour,” said Mr. Stonor, whom we are now going to call Denis until further notice, and a radiant smile transformed his rather monkey-like face into something of rare beauty.
To break the spell, Mrs. Rivers said “Well, allow me to autograph the book, and then I must take you to tea. Miss Tudor is expecting you.”