Mefisto

by Banville, John

  – So many relatives you have! he said. Why, they’re everywhere.

  Aunt Philomena did not know whether to be jealous of Uncle Ambrose now, or proud of him. Ambrose, at Ashburn! Who would have thought it? Emboldened, she intensified her assaults on Mr Kasperl’s stony solitude, but in vain, he sat alone with his thoughts by the window in the hotel dining room as he had always done, taking no notice of anyone. She turned to Felix then, lying in wait for him in secluded spots about the hotel, sitting up very straight with her neck stretched out and her lips pursed, a cup of coffee at her elbow, a cigarette with an inch of ash on it clipped tightly between two tensed, tremulous fingers. Felix listened to her attentively, with a bland, dreamy smile.

  – Oh, Ambrose! she would say, with a dismissive sniff. The things I could tell you about poor Ambrose …

  And she would gabble on, in rising tones of vehement sincerity, while a puckered skin formed on her coffee, and the ashtray on the low table before her sprouted a thicket of incarnadined butts, the least damaged of which Felix would save, and store away pensively in his tobacco tin.

  The photographic studio, a winter afternoon, the gas fire hissing. I liked it here, the clutter, the quiet, the chemical smell, the grainy light that seemed, at this dead end of the year, to drift down from the ceiling, a strange, dense element, like pale smoke. Another world lay all around me here, a jumble of images. How sharp they were, how clear, these pictures from the land of the dead. I examined them minutely, one by one, as if searching for someone I knew, a known face, with blurred grin and unfamiliar quiff, looking up from that picnic table, in summer, in sunlight, among trees. I would not have been surprised, I think, if that face had been my own, so real did that world seem, and so fleeting, somehow, this one. Sophie, sitting by the fire, turned her gaze towards the door with an expectant smile. I had not heard a sound. Felix came in.

  – Hello, Hansel, he said. Why, and Gretel too!

  He looked from one of us to the other, grinning. He was carrying a white gown draped voluminously over his arm.

  – See what I found, he said.

  It was a wedding dress, elaborately embroidered, the heavy silk frayed and rusted with age. Sophie with a joyful yelp rose and took it from him, and held it against herself and laughed, turning this way and that. Felix put a hand to his heart and cried:

  – Ah, thou still unravished bride of quietness!

  He produced a crumpled white veil and placed it on her head with a flourish. She laughed again, her tongue rolling on her lower lip, and ran from the room. We heard her racing up the stairs and through the bedrooms, searching for a mirror. Felix chuckled, and crossed to the gas fire and rubbed his hands before the flame, his eyes lifted to the window. A fistful of rain swept against the glass with a muffled clatter. Rooks were squabbling outside in the darkening trees. He hummed the Wedding March, and grinned at me over his shoulder and softly sang:

  Here comes the bride,

  Contemplating a ride …

  He chuckled again, and wandered idly about the room, picking up things and tossing them aside. He glanced at me slyly and said:

  – What are you thinking about, bird-boy?

  – Nothing.

  I was thinking that I would always be a little afraid of him.

  – Nothing, eh? he said. Well that’s a lie, I know. You’re thinking dirty things, aren’t you?

  He made a monkey face and crouched and capered, howling softly. I had to laugh. Sophie came back then, dragging behind her the trunk of fancy-dress costumes from the cupboard under the stairs. She had pulled on the wedding dress over her own skirt, and wore a battered top hat that Felix had found in the attic. The dress was too small for her, and hung askew, hitched on one hip, her wrists and ankles sticking out. She delved in the trunk and brought out a dusty tailcoat and a pair of striped grey trousers, and offered them to me. But Felix had other plans. He made a rapid sign to her, and she laughed, and pulled off the dress and gave it to him. He turned to me.

  – Come on, sweetie, he said, you be the bride.

  I backed away, but he followed me, laughing, and flung the dress like a net over my head. I shivered at the chill slither of silk. From the pleats and secret folds there rose a smell of camphor and of wax, and something else that was unnameable, a faint, stale, womanly stink. The bodice pinched my armpits, the skirts hung heavy against my knees. Sophie laughed and clapped her hands.

  – Salve! Felix cried. Salve, vagina coeli!

  He fixed the veil on my head, and Sophie produced a lipstick and painted my mouth, frowning in concentration and biting the tip of her tongue. She rummaged in the trunk again and brought out a dainty pair of white shoes with high heels. She knelt before me and took off my shoes, and smiled up at me, cradling my moist heel in her hand.

  – Tarra! Felix trilled. The slipper fits!

  I ventured forward unsteadily in the spindly shoes, my calves atremble. I felt hot and giddy. A spasm of excitement rose in me that was part pleasure and part disgust. It was as if inside this gown there was not myself but someone else, some other flesh, pliable, yielding, utterly at my mercy. Each trembling step I took was like the fitful writhing of a captive whom I held pressed tightly to my pitiless heart. I caught my reflection in a cracked bit of mirror on the wall, and for a second someone else looked out at me, dazed and crazily grinning, from behind my own face.

  – Radiant, Felix said, clasping his hands to his breast. Just radiant. Why, Miss Havisham herself was never half so fetching.

  Sophie put on the clawhammer coat and tipped the top hat at a jaunty angle, linking her arm in mine. Felix bowed before us, blessing the air and mumbling.

  – In the name of the wanker, the sod and the holy shoat, I pronounce you bubble and squeak. Alleluia. What dog hath joined together, let no man throw a bucket of water over.

  He bowed again solemnly and closed his eyes, moving his lips in silent invocation, then turned his back to us and raised his arms aloft and intoned:

  – Hic est hocus, hoc est pocus.

  He farted loudly.

  – Nunc dimittis. Amen.

  Sophie pressed my elbow tightly to her side and leaned her head against mine, shivering with laughter. I was as tall as she in my high heels. I caught her warmish, lilac smell. Felix rubbed his hands.

  – That’s that, he said. Now for the photo.

  He brought a wooden box-camera on a tripod and set it up in front of us, and bent and peered through the lens, wagging his backside and shuffling his feet.

  – Watch the birdie, now! Snap! There.

  He thrust the camera aside and danced to the door.

  – Come, gentles, he cried. Come, Cinders, foot it featly now!

  He flung open the door and backed into the hall with his arms lifted, conducting himself in song.

  Tum tumty tum!

  Tum tumty tum!

  I tottered forward on quaking ankles. Sophie, weak with mirth, leaned on my arm, I thought we both would fall. I turned my head and kissed her swiftly, clumsily, on the corner of her mouth. She laughed, her breath warm against my neck.

  – Ah-ah! Felix said, wagging a finger. No kissy-kiss! Das ist verboten.

  He retreated before us, singing, and wildly waving his arms. Behind him, a man in a camel-hair overcoat came out of the library and halted, staring at us. Sophie dug her nails into my arm. In the sudden silence Felix stopped, and looked behind him, his smile turning to a smear. He let fall his arms.

  – Why, he said under his breath, if it isn’t Prince Charming!

  He was a tall, sleek, black-haired young man with broad shoulders and small feet and a small, smooth head. He wore spectacles with thick lenses, which made his eyes seem to start forward in stern surmise. He had a big pale nose, and a little black moustache like a smudged thumb-print. His expensive black shoes were narrow, and highly polished. His fawn overcoat appeared somehow overcrowded, as if a tall man were crouched inside it with a small, imperious companion sitting on his shoulders. I struggled out of
the dress and flung it behind me. He looked from my bare feet to Sophie’s top hat, his eyebrows raised, then fixed his bulging stare on Felix and said:

  – Mr Kasperl.

  Felix made a sort of squirming curtsey, laughing breathily and kneading his hands.

  – Oh, no, he said, no, I’m not Kasperl.

  The stern eyes grew sterner.

  – I meant, where is he? I know who you are.

  Again Felix bobbed and laughed.

  – Oh, I see, he said, I see. Well, he’s at the mine, I’d say.

  There was a pause. The tall young man put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and looked about the hall.

  – The mine, eh? he said.

  He seemed sceptical. His gaze settled on the hanging strips of wallpaper and he frowned. He turned back to Felix.

  – You know who I am?

  Felix smiled obsequiously.

  – Yes, I think I …

  – D’Arcy’s the name. I’m here on behalf of certain interests. You understand?

  – Certain … ?

  – Yes. Certain parties. I’ve just come down.

  He kept his fish-eyes trained on Felix for a moment, with a forceful, meaning look. Felix tittered. There was another silence. Sophie stirred, and gave a little sigh, letting go my arm.

  – Well then, D’Arcy said, suddenly brisk, let’s have a look around, shall we?

  He turned on his heel and marched up the hall. Felix made a face at his back, wagging his head and grinning, his tongue lolling. Sophie swept past him, and followed D’Arcy into the drawing room.

  – Huh! Felix said. Behold the handmaid of the Lord!

  In the drawing room she was opening the shutters. She turned to D’Arcy with a brilliant smile, as if she had let in the light for him alone. D’Arcy eyed her dubiously.

  – And you, he said, what is your name?

  She shrugged, still smiling. Felix coughed, and put a hand over his mouth and said:

  – Deaf, I’m afraid.

  A wrinkle appeared on D’Arcy’s smooth pale brow.

  – Deaf?

  Felix nodded, assuming a sad face.

  – As a post, yes. Dumb, too.

  D’Arcy glanced in my direction.

  – And …?

  Felix nodded again.

  – Very sad, he said. Very.

  D’Arcy looked at him searchingly in silence for a moment, then turned abruptly and left the room. Sophie quickly followed him. Felix, bent double in soundless laughter, clutched my arm.

  – Oh my, he wheezed, what a chump!

  But he was not so blithe as he pretended.

  D’Arcy had gone upstairs, with Sophie at his heels. We followed. D’Arcy strode from bedroom to bedroom, casting a disapproving eye about him at the dust and the disarray, breathing grimly down his nose.

  – Do you people live here? he said incredulously. Felix pointed a thumb at the ceiling.

  – Up there.

  – Up …?

  – In the attic. This house has many mansions.

  He laughed. D’Arcy’s glance was cold.

  – Oh yes? he said.

  – Airy, you see. Wonderful views. And then, the stars at night, like … like …

  D’Arcy walked to the window and stood looking out into the twilight, his hands clasped at his back. Behind him Felix made another grotesque face, put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers, sticking out his tongue. Sophie frowned at him.

  – This is not satisfactory, D’Arcy said almost mildly, as if to himself. This is not satisfactory, at all.

  He turned to Felix.

  – Is it? he said. Nothing done, no repairs, filth everywhere, people going about in rags, barefoot.

  Felix smiled, holding out his empty hands.

  – It’s not paradise, I grant you, he said. But it does for us, sir.

  – I’m not interested in what does for you, D’Arcy said, with a terrible stare.

  We all went downstairs again, trooping in D’Arcy’s wake. He stopped in the hall and took off his glasses and polished them on a spotless white handkerchief. His eyes sprang back into his skull, two tiny, bright beads. He peered at us sightlessly, the lenses flashing in his hands.

  – And there have been reports, he said. Something or other about money, some sort of freelance dealing. I shall be making inquiries.

  He put on his glasses solemnly and looked hard at each of us.

  – You will hear from us, I don’t doubt.

  He advanced to the front door. Sophie was there before him, she opened it slowly, smiling eagerly into his face. He avoided her eye, and stepped out into the sodden dusk. His car waited on the gravel, a large, gaudy, gold machine, the roof stippled with rain. He buttoned his overcoat.

  – Tell your Mr Kasperl, he said over his shoulder. He’ll be hearing from us.

  – Oh, I will, Felix said seriously, I’ll tell him.

  D’Arcy lingered, looking at Sophie’s tailcoat, at Felix’s attentive smile, at the traces of lipstick on my mouth. He was about to say something more, but a fat drop of rain from the guttering got down the back of his collar and he shuddered, his shoulder-blades twitching like wings. He turned and went quickly down the steps. Sophie waved until the rear lights of his car were out of sight down the drive. Felix scowled, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

  – How did he get in here, he muttered, that …

  He saw me watching him, and grinned.

  – Trouble up mine, eh? he said, winking. And up theirs, too.

  I HAD A DREAM OF D’Arcy, a huge figure descending slowly through a hole in the roof at Ashburn, swaddled in his rich, blond coat, his glazed eyes staring and his arms clasped on his breast. Rain fell after him through the gaping hole, and dead songbirds and twigs and bits of paper. Now, I thought, now everything will change, will end. But nothing happened. One day a letter came for Mr Kasperl, in a thick white envelope with D’Arcy’s name and the address of a firm of solicitors embossed on the flap. Felix held it to his ear and shook it gingerly, in mock trepidation. Mr Kasperl read it impassively and tossed it aside. Sophie reverently retrieved it. Among the marionettes lined up along the wall in her room, one had acquired an overcoat and pain ted-on glasses, and a rudimentary wig of black wool slicked down with glue.

  My mother heard of D’Arcy’s visit from Uncle Ambrose. She nodded grimly. He would soon settle their hash, she said. Oh yes. She looked about her for agreement, then frowned, and turned away. Everyone was against her. First Aunt Philomena had deserted her, then Uncle Ambrose. Jack Kay’s dying had been a dereliction too. And now she was alone. She never mentioned Ashburn or its tenants by name, it was always that place, and them, her tensed mouth turning white. Then people fell silent, and looked at their hands, as if she had said something foolish, or tasteless, and they were embarrassed for her. How could they not understand? Something was being destroyed, trodden underfoot. She thought of the past. As a girl she had worked in a draper’s shop in the town. She had been happy in that dim sanctuary. The raw texture of life as she knew it in the cottage at Ashburn had given way here to the softness of silks and stuffs. The polished counters, the brass fittings, even the mirrors, had a satin feel under her fingers, sumptuous and cool. She had liked best the early afternoons, when business was slow, and she was free just to stand in the midst of all that peace, listening to the hushed voices of the other assistants gossiping in the linen department, while at the far end of the shop the draper, a plump man with half-glasses, drew out bolt after bolt of cloth and unfurled them with a deft flick of one white hand, beaming over his spectacles at the customer before him, who stood, in seamed stockings and a feathered toque, humming thoughtfully, a finger pressed to her cheek. But she liked too the Saturday late openings, when everything was noise and bustle, and the wooden cylinders on the overhead cables whizzed back and forth from the cash office, and the air was laced with a genteel tang of sweat. Haberdashery had been her department. She had a counter to herself, fit
ted with many minute drawers and glass panels and velvet display cases, like an elaborate toybox. She would finger dreamily the trinkets in her care, the spools of thread, the buttons, of ivory, bone, mother-of-pearl, the packets of pins and ranked, gleaming needles, and think of that paradise of grace and ease she had glimpsed across the green lawns of Ashburn.

  Then she had married, and one day at the beginning of spring the draper called her into his private room behind the cash office. She stood motionless before his desk, trying to hold in her already burgeoning stomach. She watched his lips move. He would not meet her eye. When he had finished she said nothing. He threw his pencil down on the desk.

  – After all, he broke out petulantly, this is a fashion shop, my girl, and look at you!

  She walked the long length of the shop, trailing her finger on the counter, to the door and the grey, March day, feeling a flash of pain inside her like a flaming sword.

  These are the things she thought about, these are the things she remembered.

  On my way out to Ashburn I would stop sometimes at Coolmine. I liked to wander among the dust-hills and the lakes of broken glass, there was something grimly satisfying in such a wide expanse of waste. The lorries from the factories had built up a ramp of sand and rubble, down the steep sides of which I would wade, feeling a thrill of panic as the whole bank for yards around began to shift and slide. All sorts of things surfaced in these slippages and slowly sank again into the churning rubble, rusty springs and die-punched metal plates, and volutes of steel shavings with pleated edges and a nude, subterranean gleam. The tinkers had got in again. Something had happened to them, though. They did not hunt for scrap metal any more, but sat about in dazed huddles, fighting and weeping, and drinking out of big brown bottles. They would shout at me as I went past, calling me a fucking cunt and offering me a drink. They had ravaged faces, and maddened, bloodshot eyes. Occasionally one of them would heave himself up and hobble after me, trying to tell me something, waving a ragged arm. I remember their mouths, soft, shapeless holes, like half-healed wounds.