Their Exits and their Entrances: The New Chronicles of Barset: Book Two

by ILIL ARBEL

  “As if Miss Tudor and Alcott need choreography,” says Denis contemptuously. “Not them, not if what I have heard about the original tango, which they had improvised, is true. If anything, the choreography is cramping their style. New music and free dancing is what they need.”

  Mr. Goldwasser couldn’t help laughing. “Go ahead, my friend,” he says. “I am always ready to learn from the masters.”

  Denis nodded and started playing the “Blue Tango,” a hit only since 1952 and still fresh. “It’s written by a friend of mine,” he said, playing. “Have you ever met Leroy Anderson, Mr. Goldwasser?”

  “Yes I have,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “He is a genius. Just go on playing, Mr. Stonor. Alcott, come here.” He took his silver flask from his pocket and poured a glass. “Drink it, Alcott,” he said.

  Mr. Alcott hesitated. He looked at Maisie’s direction, and she nodded enthusiastically. Without speaking, Mr. Alcott took the glass and drank it in one gulp. He stood quietly for a moment as the liquid burned his unaccustomed throat, and then smiled. “Let’s go, Miss Tudor,” he said, took Glamora in his arms, and they started dancing. Maisie and Mrs. Rivers both sighed with relief. The dance was a wild, abandoned performance, exactly like their original tango. Mrs. Rivers watched, transfixed. Yes, that was what she wanted, that was the way they should dance. That was why she had been swept off her feet, so much so that she was willing to write the sequel, a story that stood in sharp contrast to any of her other, tame books, where every well-mannered, middle-aged heroine renounced her love and returned to the well-mannered husband, the well-regulated life, the humdrum, the drudgery, the comfort of the known world. It was that very tango that made her realize that she could break the mould and set her writing, and perhaps even herself, finally free.

  She did not realize that Mr. Goldwasser had signalled the crew to film the dance. The scene required no rehearsals; it was perfection, in all its raw power. Denis played and played again, Glamora and Mr. Alcott danced like two wild panthers slithering through the forest’s floor, and time stood still. Everyone who was not actively filming or playing was transfixed, until the final moment when Mr. Alcott and Glamora repeated the electrifying movement with which they had ended their original tango. Mr. Alcott again dipped Glamora so that she bent backwards, practically doubled over, and simultaneously, Glamora lifted one perfect leg almost vertically. “Cut!” said Mr. Goldwasser, everyone applauded wildly, and Glamora bowed graciously and laughed. “Lucky this was a dress rehearsal, right, Jake?” she said. “You filmed, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, love, I filmed. And it was worth every extra inch of film. You had never danced so well and Alcott was superb. What a dance... it will make the film.”

  Denis got up and walked to Mrs. Rivers.

  “Denis, what are you doing here?” she asked quietly, still under the spell of the tango.

  “I decided to spend Christmas with my sister and her family,” he said.

  “You just came from America? Just like that?”

  “Why not? I placed a trunk call, spoke to Daphne who was delighted to have me, and came. I told no one, there was no time, but since I was here, naturally I came to see you as soon as I heard that you had returned to Norton Hall. There, they told me you were in London, filming, so I came here. I was watching from a window, and then when I saw the travesty of the dance, I came in.”

  “And you saved the dance, Denis.”

  “Of course. One thing I know is music. And now, we are getting out of here. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Dinner.” He went to Mr. Goldwasser, who was talking to Mr. Alcott, Maisie, and Glamora, and said, “Mr. Goldwasser, I am taking my friend here for dinner. I have a business proposition for her about some lectures.”

  “Just don’t take her away from us for too long,” said Maisie. “More scripts! I want more scripts with Mrs. Rivers! One can hardly breathe after this tango!”

  Mrs. Rivers laughed and left with Denis. He drove to a small restaurant, which was almost empty, and they sat at a corner of the room. It was a pleasant, private place. She said, “I wanted to tell you about Julian. He behaved so well during Christmas, that I thought you had completely changed him, but then he went and eloped with that little idiot, Miss Moonshadow.”

  “Hermione, while I am very sorry that Julian will never grow up, and forever be a burden to you, he does not interest me at the moment. I think the time has come to make a decision. Have you thought about what you and I should do?”

  “I have been thinking about it constantly. I am torn, Denis. One part of me is longing to throw all caution to the wind and just go with you, but another part is holding me back, locked into my old life. I simply can’t see my way.”

  “Tell me, Hermione, would you have felt differently if you were twenty years younger?”

  “Yes, I would. I would have agreed to make a fresh start with you.”

  “And you would let a few years stand in your way to happiness? What difference do these years make?” said Denis.

  Mrs. Rivers’ face became as white as chalk. “A few years? Just a few years, you say? Don’t you realize, Denis, that in six years I will be seventy years old! Seventy! Do you realize that? Do you?” she banged her fist on the table so hard, that her knuckles were bleeding, but she did not even feel the pain.

  “Yes, of course I realize that,” said Denis. “The math is not particularly complicated.”

  Mrs. Rivers sighed, the violence draining out of her soul. Suddenly noticing that her hand was hurting very much, she looked with some surprise at her wounded knuckles. “Well, surely you can see my point. I will be seventy. You will not even be fifty. What will life with you be for me, at that age?”

  Denis’ face was suddenly illuminated by the smile that always miraculously transformed his sad, monkey-like face into a most attractive one. “What will life with me be for you? I will answer your question with another question. Think, Hermione. What will your life be without me?”

  Mrs. Rivers sat very quietly, almost motionlessly. Yes, what would life be without Denis? She looked into the future, turning the possibilities in her mind, and realized that nothing but a long road of exhausting drudgery stretched ahead of her. A few more books about the same subject she had always worked with, perhaps a couple of scripts, nothing to be terribly excited about, the usual, the ordinary. Phoebe involved with her own affairs. Julian never growing up, always creating nagging problems. George, nice, dull, friendly George, involved with his estate, his friends, his books, vaguely and politely as bored with her as she was with him. That is what it would be like without Denis. Life with Denis, as she grew older, would be devastating, painful, and unpredictable. It might tear her apart, but it would never, ever be dull.

  “Life without you would be unbearable,” she said with the courage of desperation.

  “So what are you sacrificing yourself to?” asked Denis. “George will allow you to divorce him. He would not care very much, and he is a decent sort. Why not marry me and be done with all the soul searching?”

  “No, I cannot do that. I will not go with you openly, Denis,” said Mrs. Rivers. “I am too conventional to defy society so brazenly. I simply can’t face the ridicule; perhaps I am too proud, perhaps too foolish, but the thought of hearing everyone say that it would not last and how silly I was to leave my comfortable life and go away with a young man, like a heroine in one of my own silly books, is just too much. I cannot do it openly.”

  “Then how about going with me secretly?” said Denis, unperturbed.

  “You mean…”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Marriage is nothing but a convention, and a lot less important than your true commitment to me, if you decide to go with me. Granted, it is not a perfect solution, I would have preferred it if you did marry me. But I will accept any condition to have you as my partner, even in secret, and you will still be the core of my happiness. And yes, I can arrange things so that no one will ever know; no
one will even suspect.”

  Mrs. Rivers was very quiet again. She was not an adventuress at heart, but her love of Denis was strong, her marriage was over many years ago, and she knew that had George known what her plans were, he would not mind one bit and would keep her secret, perhaps even make it easier for her to hide her situation. What was to stop her other than convention? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  “What is your plan?” she asked.

  “It’s not what I would call a definite plan,” said Denis. “It’s more like the work of the moment, every time. When you come to Hollywood to work on a new film, we can be together for the duration of your job. When you travel to research a new book, as you always do, I can discreetly follow you and we can spend a wonderful time together in Ecuador, the Gobi Desert, or Vienna, wherever your research takes you. No one will know, I will guarantee that.”

  Mrs. Rivers raised her eyes. “Very well,” she said, strangely calm. “I can do that.”

  “You can?” he said, hardly believing what he heard.

  “Yes, Denis, I can. And I will.”

  Denis smiled. “I can’t tell you how happy I am... so I won’t try. Not now, anyway, not yet.”

  “So am I,” said Mrs. Rivers. “And I can’t believe what I am doing.”

  “Think of it as a plot for a new book,” said Denis. “Only this time, no renunciation scene will come into the story.”

  “It does not feel real,” said Mrs. Rivers.

  “I can inject a bit of reality into our scheme,” said Denis. “There really was a business proposition that I wanted to talk to you about, and I did not lie when I said that to Mr. Goldwasser. A friend in the Literature Department of a university in California asked me if I know someone who could give a series of lectures on English books during the spring. Would you like to take it up?”

  “Most certainly,” said Mrs. Rivers. She knew it had to be a dream, such things did not happen to respectable married women in their sixties, but she had become a new woman and she would follow her heart. Life, this time, did not imitate art. But then again, did it ever? Mrs. Rivers was beginning to doubt it.

  ***

  While the moral fibre of society was somewhat shaken by Mrs. Rivers’ decision to pursue her affair with a younger man, aided and abetted by the most flamboyant, suggestive, and risqué tango ever to be danced on the silver screen, botanical events of even greater importance were taking place in Norton Hall.

  This statement might suggest to some readers that we have gone gently mad, perhaps affected by the advancing years and by our need to produce more books than is good for our fragile state of mind, but we vehemently deny such allegations. We are neither very old nor fragile, mentally or physically, and in addition, our readers must remember that we had always stated that bird watchers and stamp collectors, two extremely fanatic and even dangerous groups, are as innocent little children when compared to the volcanic emotions of the plant enthusiast. When botany and horticulture invade the soul of an otherwise highly respectable human being, no one can tell how far it would take them. We have already discussed certain cases of deranged involvement in botany in a previous chapter, so there is no need to weary the reader by repeating them, but for those who doubt our word, we suggest that you just follow the proceeds of any horticultural society, manned by gentle and well-bred ladies. The stories you would find in their annals and correspondence would leave you gasping with shock and dismay.

  The pale winter sun was streaming into the cactus room, competing with the excellent plant lights that were positioned over the pots. Lady Norton stood, her heart almost breaking with sorrow. The last delicate little specimen of her beloved Echinocactus horizonthalonius var. Nicholii had died. Lady Norton touched her eyes with her lace handkerchief. In addition to her sense of failure, how would Professor Buckholz-Schuller feel? And she still had to tell him about the seeds which Shymmering found in Professor Hilliard-Sabre’s room. She left the room, returned to her own sitting room, and meeting the butler on her way, asked him to tell the professor that she wished to see him for a few minutes.

  Professor Buckholz-Schuller listened gravely to the tale, shaking his head with sorrow and defeat. He looked at the matchbox containing the incriminating seeds in deep sadness. “So she is a criminal,” he said quietly. “We were right; she did steal the seeds.”

  “Why would such a distinguished scholar stoop so low?” asked Lady Norton. “She had risked her entire career on one experiment! Was the crime worth it?”

  “We do not understand such a mind,” said the professor. “I am so sad. I thought she was becoming my friend, and now... I see it was all a ruse...”

  “Shymmering thought we should call the police,” said Lady Norton. “I told him I thought it was a bad idea.”

  “Oh, no, not the police,” said the professor. “I am not sure what to do... should we confront her with the evidence? What should we do?”

  “And she is my guest, too,” said Lady Norton miserably.

  “It has to be faced, Lady Norton. We must speak to her.”

  “Very well,” said Lady Norton with quiet resignation. “I’ll ring Carla.”

  For some reason it took Carla a long time to bring the professor, and the tension in the room was mounting. Finally she returned, without the professor.

  “I am sorry, my lady, but I could not find the lady right away,” said Carla. “She was not in her room or anywhere in the house, and I only found her in the gardens. She said she will come directly, my lady.”

  “Very well,” said Lady Norton, about to dismiss the maid, when suddenly she changed her mind. “Stay here until she comes, Carla, I have something to ask both of you.”

  At that moment, the professor came in. Lady Norton, despite her own deep sadness, noticed a look of almost exultation on Professor Hilliard-Sabre face, which surprised her, but of course she did not comment on it. Perhaps Professor Hilliard-Sabre was savouring her victory?

  “Do sit down, professor,” she said. “We have something to show you,” and she nodded at Professor Buckholz-Shculler. He extended his hand with the matchbox in it, showing it to Professor Hilliard-Sabre.

  “Oh, there it is,” said the professor with complete lack of concern and not a bit of guilty expression. “I was wondering if I had forgotten to bring it from London, or lost it; I was really annoyed. Where did you find it?”

  Professor Buckholz-Schuller and Lady Norton looked at each other with amazement. Could this distinguished person be such a hardened criminal that she would not be troubled by the evidence for her crime? Lady Norton glanced at Carla, noting the usual vacuous look and a total lack of understanding. What was going on?”

  “So you really took them?” asked Professor Buckholz-Schuller. “You really went so far?”

  “Why, it was no trouble at all, my dear Professor Buckholz-Schuller. Why should it be? It’s so small, it’s not as if I had to carry a large specimen.”

  “Professor Hilliard-Sabre,” said Professor Buckholz-Schuller, “I am at a loss. How can you justify your actions?”

  “Justify my actions? What actions?” said Professor Hilliard-Sabre, seemingly bewildered.

  “Taking the seeds,” said Professor Buckholz-Schuller. “It amounts to stealing, no matter how you look at it. I am sure Lady Norton agrees.”

  “I do,” said Lady Norton. “I don’t understand why you are taking the discovery so calmly, Professor Hilliard-Sabre.”

  “Stealing? Do you mean the seeds? Are you both mad? I got these seeds from the Kensington Herbarium. Just before our joint lectures, I heard from one of our colleagues in Arizona about the experiment that you were going to help Lady Norton with, raising the rare cactus, and I thought that you would be able to put a few extra seeds to good use. The herbarium people were happy to give me the seeds when I told them about the importance of the experiment. But it seems you had removed them from my room. This is all very peculiar.”

  “No, it was Shymmering,” murmured Lady Norton.

&nbs
p; “Who is Shymmering?” asked Professor Hilliard-Sabre.

  “He is Mr. Alcott’s valet,” said Lady Norton.

  “But why did he steal my seeds?” said Professor Hilliard-Sabre, sticking to the point. “We thought the seeds belonged to Lady Norton,” said Professor Buckholz-Schuller.

  “Not before I gave them to her,” said Professor Hilliard-Sabre. “You might as well explain. What is all this about my actions amounting to stealing, anyway?”

  “We thought you stole the seeds from Lady Norton,” said Professor Buckhholz-Schuller.

  “How? When? How was I supposed to get the seeds from Lady Norton in the first place?”

  “We thought that you hired my maid, Carla, who pretended to throw out half of the seeds, but really sent them to you...”

  “But I didn’t know any of your maids, Lady Norton.”

  At that moment, Carla interfered, deeply offended. “What is this you say, my lady? You think I stealed them stupid seeds?”

  “Well...” said Lady Norton.

  “I never...” said Carla, extremely upset. “I give you notice right away, my lady. I don’t hold with sich goings on... I’d rather take a place at the Hogglestock Works, with Mr. Adams, than stay here and be told I am a thief...” and she marched out of the room.

  Silence prevailed for a few tense seconds, and then Lady Norton said, “We were mad, Professor Hilliard-Sabre. You had this feud with Professor Buckholz-Schuller, and we thought you wanted to score some kind of victory over him.”

  “So I would conspire to commit a crime with one of the maids?” asked Professor Hilliard-Sabre, looking intently at Professor Buckholz-Schuller. “You assume that one experiment would be worth it to me? You perceive me as such a reckless person?”

  “I am crushed,” said Professor Buckholz-Schuller. “Crushed and humiliated. How could I suspect you, of all people, an honoured member of my own circle of scholars and a distinguished lady as well. I will never live it down. I might as well throw everything to the winds and migrate to… to…” under the strain, he could not think of a suitable place to exile himself to, and buried his face in his hands.