Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  I felt like a boxer caught by an unexpected treacherous punch. I staggered mentally. I managed to whimper, ‘Can’t the law protect him?’

  ‘Against the mob, the law’s useless,’ said Josh, cheerfully. ‘Even if he was locked up in prison, he wouldn’t be safe. Someone inside would get the message and unhappy Bliss would be found with his precious face smashed to pulp and his legs broken.’

  ‘So the law’s useless,’ said Linda. ‘What then, Solomon?’

  I pretended not to notice the sneer.

  ‘What he deserves,’ said Mrs Bolton unwisely.

  From Linda she got a smile of poisonous sweetness.

  She was too stupid to be daunted. ‘What’s the use of paying his debts? He’d just get into more debt, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Bel’s right,’ said Josh. ‘And he’d be back with his begging bowl next Christmas. I know it’s not up to me, but—’

  ‘You’re right, Josh,’ said Linda. ‘It’s not up to you. It’s up to the Professor.’

  I began to think, with horror, that she was serious. ‘Now, Linda, just a minute,’ I cried.

  ‘I’m saying this before witnesses, to show I mean it. If you say Raimundo should get the money, he’ll get it. If you say he shouldn’t, then he won’t. And that goes for Josh too.’

  Bolton and his wife looked at me in consternation, as well they might. They seemed convinced that Linda was in earnest. They thought that, to please and appease Linda, I would choose to save Bliss and let them go under.

  I remembered my blundering into the monster’s lair. I heard again in my imagination those desperate obscene screams. Was this her delayed revenge?

  3

  I was in my room, looking out at the moonlit garden and wondering if it had been this burden laid on me by Linda that Morland had warned me about, when there was a knock on the door. Foolishly, I thought it might be Morland come with a helpful suggestion.

  It was Bolton, looking, in his absurd jacket, like a waiter in charge of room service in some five-star Las Vegas hotel, only it wasn’t food and drink he was purveying but expensive unspeakable vice.

  It was hard to see in this grey-haired pimpish fellow the audacious author who in his books had seized America by the scruff of the neck and made it look closely at its ‘goddam polluted soul’.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, Professor?’ he muttered

  ‘Certainly, Josh. Let’s go down onto the terrace and have a smoke while we chat.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Professor.’

  The chairs on the terrace were comfortable. The air was balmy, fragrant, and moonlit. The Cuban cigars made the night still more delicious, as also did the cognac, the best France could provide.

  It would be a great pity, I thought, to have to give all this up. Was Bliss worth it? Was Bolton? Come to think of it, Linda’s giving to me the solemn responsibility of choosing could be interpreted as her putting me to a test, to find out if I was fit to be her sixth.

  I felt more confident. I wasn’t merely a guest talking to another guest. I was our hostess’s favourite, with privileges denied others.

  ‘Well, Josh, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  He puffed rather desperately at his cigar. ‘You may remember, Professor, my article in the Lit. Review about fifteen years ago.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do, Josh.’

  ‘Well, if you did, you’d remember the stink it raised in the academic world. Letters of protest from universities all over the globe – Oxford, Djakarta, Ulan Bator, Yale, you name it. Glasgow too, I shouldn’t wonder. What I said in my article was that there was never any living writer worth a shit who owed anything to universities. I said they waited till you were safely dead and then they embalmed your stuff. I said they wouldn’t touch anything that had blood, guts, and semen splashed over it. I said that what they liked were books stuffed with pseudo-mysticism, so that they could show how fucking smart they were, putting forward theories as to what the writers meant, though anyone with common sense knew that the writers meant fuck-all, they were just trying to be smart like them. In a word, I condemned academic mumbo-jumbo.’

  I waved my cigar. ‘You were entitled to your opinion, Josh. Honesty is all.’

  ‘You’re not sore then? You don’t hold it against me?’

  ‘Not a bit. Much is written but very little is worth reading.’

  ‘That’s very true. Mind you, Professor, I admit universities have their uses. Without them would we have nuclear bombs?’

  I warmed to him for that irony. ‘To be candid, Josh, I don’t myself have a high opinion of universities. Some of the crassest remarks I’ve ever heard were made by the so-called experts of Academe. They write theses on abstruse subjects, of interest only to themselves and others like them, and are rewarded with doctorates. They then expect the rest of us to call them Doctor.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Professor.’

  ‘Call me Gregor.’

  ‘Let me be candid too, Gregor. I owe you a personal apology. When I saw you at the airport, I thought, what a fucking old impostor, he’s got all the makings of a high-class confidence trickster, he’s got Linda thinking he’s an aristocrat. She’ll never see that he’s after her money. That, Christ forgive me, is what I thought.’

  ‘I can’t speak for Christ, Josh, but I forgive you.’

  ‘Thanks, Gregor. You’re a real gentleman. I can see why Bel admires you.’

  I laughed. ‘Evidently a lady of great perspicacity.’

  ‘I don’t know about perspicacity, but she’s got loads of class. Did I tell you her father was a Governor?’

  ‘Linda mentioned it.’

  ‘She was brought up in a Governor’s mansion. She’s met the people who matter.’

  I remembered that Jean had used that phrase.

  ‘May I amend that, Josh? The people who think they matter.’

  ‘No, Gregor, the bastards do matter. They have the power to fuck up our lives and they do fuck them up. Hazelwood’s a prime example. Tell me, Gregor, have you slept with Linda? Or should I say, knowing that the lady prefers to sleep alone, have you been to bed with her?’

  ‘Now, Josh, you ought to know a gentleman never divulges such things.’

  ‘Which means you have. Congratulations. Is it your design to marry her?’

  ‘If Linda and I get married, it will be because we care for each other.’

  ‘Sure. I get the message. I would say you’re in with a good chance. I’ll give you all the help I can. She’s already asked me what I thought of you. I told her you could be the kind of guy she’s been waiting for all her life.’

  I didn’t believe him. ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She just smiled but she didn’t contradict me. It wouldn’t last long, your marriage. Linda likes changes, but you would be on to a good thing while it lasted, and it would be to Linda’s benefit. We’ve got to make sure she doesn’t waste a penny on that leprous old fucker Bliss.’

  ‘Leprous?’

  ‘Wait till you see him, especially when he’s slobbering over a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.’

  ‘But Linda likes him.’

  ‘She pities him. She thinks she should be loyal to him, but she knows he’s not worth it. Take my word, Gregor, she’ll be relieved when you turn him down. She doesn’t want to do it herself so she’s handed the axe to you.’

  ‘Yes, but I wish she hadn’t. It’s her money and her friend. It’s really none of my business.’

  ‘If you take my advice, you won’t adopt that attitude. Linda likes to get her own way. If you want to get anywhere with her, do what she wants.’

  I had to agree with that.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here, Gregor?’

  ‘Linda mentioned it.’

  ‘There you are, you see. She takes you into her confidence. She trusts you. Gregor, I need that money. I’ve tried everywhere. No dice. If I don’t get it, I’ll lose Bel. It’s as simple as that. It’s as terrible as
that. If I lost her, I wouldn’t want to go on living.’

  A whine had come into his voice.

  ‘That’s reckless talk, Josh,’ I said, sternly. ‘You’ve been married how many times?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘So you’ve already lost three wives. Why should losing another drive you to despair? Have you any children?’

  ‘Eight. All grown up.’

  ‘Think of them, Josh.’

  ‘They all hate Daddy’s guts.’

  ‘They may say so, but I’m sure in their hearts proper filial feelings exist.’

  I knew I was beginning to sound pompous, but I couldn’t help it.

  ‘You’re losing sight of the main issue, Gregor.’

  ‘Not at all, Josh. What is the main issue? The disposal of one hundred thousand dollars. A goodly sum.’

  ‘The lady’s worth twenty million, forty if she sold those paintings.’

  ‘I would never be a party to her selling them. Josh, in fairness to Linda, I must ask how you intend to pay her back.’

  ‘Gregor, whether I intend to pay her back or not is no fucking business of yours.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Josh.’

  ‘Look, Gregor, I’ll be honest with you. I know you’re not loaded. What’s a professor’s pension? Chicken feed. How would ten per cent suit you? We’re men of the world, Gregor. The lady need never know.’

  ‘You’re insulting me, Josh.’

  ‘Twenty per cent then.’

  ‘You’ve doubled the insult. No, Josh, before I can choose between you, I must talk to Bliss. That’s only fair.’

  ‘Would you, a Scotsman, a fellow countryman of John Knox, help to finance the corruption of young girls by a diseased old roué?’

  ‘No, Josh, I would not. But I must judge for myself.’

  I stood up, not too steadily.

  He looked as if he would have liked to club me with the cognac bottle. I noticed that it was almost empty. It had been almost full when we had sat down.

  He stood up too. He had something urgent to say.

  Politely I waited and listened.

  ‘What Bel said in the car wasn’t exactly true but, just the same, I’d be obliged if you never mentioned it.’

  It took me a few seconds to recall what she had said.

  I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Mum’s the word, old man. Even if it is true, why repine? It would not be the end of the world.’ Though, of course it would be if all men were similarly afflicted.

  Chuckling at that brave jest, for after all I was myself only a four-out-of-ten man, I went off to my room, taking the long way, past the swimming pool. Alas, Morland of the splendid breasts was not in it.

  4

  Bliss arrived before lunch, having driven from Los Angeles in an open sports car painted shocking pink. Drab grey would have been more prudent, in that it would not have drawn attention to the driver, but I saw at once that, for Bliss, to be noticed, admired, and, above all, liked was as important to him as air or money. His hair was wavy, chestnut-brown, patently false. His cheeks were rouged, like a corpse’s. Indeed he looked as if he had just passed through the hands of an artistic and conscientious mortician. ‘Leprous’ was not the word to describe him: it indicated life, however tainted. Cadaverous was more apt. His clothes contributed to the effect: a blazer of blue-and-white stripes, white silk shirt, blue cravat, white slacks, and blue shoes. Dressed thus, he would lie content in his satin-lined coffin. His perfume was a kind likely to be used by the most expensive embalmers. He had once been tall but now had a bad stoop. Even on that warm sunny morning, his hand was cold and clammy, and his voice amidst the birdsong was like a croak from the tomb. Destroyed by some cancer, he was ready for burial.

  He was not alone. His companion, Amantha, could not have been older than 19. At first sight, she looked quite beautiful, with her big blue eyes and long fair hair that glittered like a model’s in a shampoo advertisement. But her eyes were empty and she kept chewing gum, which increased the impression of inanity. An unbuttoned red blouse showed big fat breasts and knee-length yellow pants gave prominence to a bottom that reminded me of Millie Tulloch’s, except that Amantha’s, as it were, was in full bloom while Millie’s was past its best.

  There were as many reasons for rejecting Bliss as there were hairs on the girl’s head, and yet I found myself not liking the old reprobate and not having much pity for him either, but responding, reluctantly, to something in him, a childlike guilelessness, which had survived miraculously through a long life of tawdriness and self-indulgence.

  All the same, as I watched him go off hand in hand with Amantha to their room, escorted by Linda herself, the Calvinist in me vowed, that if it was left to me, he would not get a cent.

  Bolton saw my grimace of distaste. ‘What did I tell you?’ he said. ‘Doesn’t he turn your stomach?’

  ‘He’s loathsome,’ said Mrs Bolton. ‘Linda had no right to invite him when she’s got other guests.’

  ‘The poor fellow’s ill,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Putrescent,’ said Bolton. ‘He’ll glow in the dark.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Josh,’ said his wife. ‘We know what he’s got. Syphilis.’ She enjoyed hissing the word.

  ‘Backed up by Aids,’ said Bolton cheerfully.

  ‘He’ll ruin that girl,’ said Mrs Bolton. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed. He deserves to have his face smashed.’

  She said those last words quietly, for Linda was coming back.

  ‘Poor Raimundo,’ said Linda, as she sat down. ‘He won’t last much longer.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Mrs Bolton. ‘Has he got some disease?’

  ‘At least he’ll die happy,’ said Bolton.

  Linda looked and sounded grim. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In Amantha’s lovely arms.’

  ‘She’s his nurse,’ said Linda.

  ‘Isn’t she too young for him?’ asked Mrs Bolton.

  ‘I wasn’t any older when I married Al Birkenberger. Al was sixty-five. We were very happy.’

  ‘But, Linda,’ I said, ‘you had more character in your pinkie than that poor girl has in her whole body.’

  She glared at me. ‘Is that so? I saw you getting a good eyeful of her whole body. If you fancy her sort, there are agencies that supply them. Just lift a telephone and one could be delivered in half an hour, like a pizza.’

  Bolton tried to appease her. ‘Anyway, good luck to the old guy. It’s his business, not ours.’

  ‘You can say that, Josh. The Professor can’t.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘Because you’re going to have to say whether or not Raimundo gets his loan.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a joke on your part?’

  ‘It was no joke. I said it before witnesses. I meant it. I still do.’

  ‘But, Linda, he’s your friend and it’s your money. Surely it’s for you to say?’

  ‘I’ve given it to you.’

  ‘Be fair, Linda. You yourself called me a Scotch prude. To ask me to decide is unfair to Mr Bliss.’

  ‘Why is it unfair?’

  ‘Well, I have to confess that his association with that young girl does disgust me a little.’

  ‘It disgusts everyone,’ said Mrs Bolton.

  ‘It doesn’t disgust me,’ said Linda. ‘She’s his nurse. She looks after him. What’s disgusting about that?’

  ‘Are they sharing the same room?’

  ‘If he had a stroke – he’s already had one – she wouldn’t be much use if she was in another room.’

  ‘Does Mr Bliss know?’ I asked.

  ‘That his life is in your hands?’

  ‘Isn’t that an exaggeration?’

  ‘It’s the truth. Yes, he knows. He’s quite happy about it. He trusts you. He thinks you look simpatico.’

  After lunch, Bliss came and sat beside me at the swimming pool. In Belsen he would not have been noticed, so gruesome was his emaciation.

  He put his hand on my naked
knee. I had to restrain myself not to strike it off.

  ‘Do you mind if we have a little private chat?’ he croaked.

  Linda and the Boltons were seated a little way off, out of earshot. Amantha was on the other side of the pool. She had taken off the top of her bikini. She chewed gum and read one of the movie magazines she had brought with her.

  ‘I believe Linda has entrusted you with a little commission,’ he said with a giggle.

  I said nothing.

  ‘You know, Gregor, the last time I saw her she was full of self-doubt. Someone has given her back her confidence. We know who that someone is. Well done, Gregor. I’m not surprised, for you come from a country that has a reputation for putting moral value before financial gain.’

  ‘I’m not sure such a reputation is justified. The Scots are as mercenary as other nations.’

  ‘Was not Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin and therefore one of the great benefactors of mankind, a Scotsman? He made little money out of his discovery. It’s men like him who enable us to believe that people are fundamentally decent. You agree, don’t you, that people are fundamentally decent?’

  Inwardly I asked, ‘What about murderous loan sharks? Or moribund old lechers?’ I happened then to look across the pool. Amantha had put down her magazine and was rubbing more sun oil on her breasts. These glistened like balloons. In me, the disapproving grandfather wrestled with the dirty old man.

  Bliss, damn him, read my mind. ‘In all the literatures of the world,’ he said, ‘there are tales of old men being rejuvenated by comely young damsels.’

  ‘Do the tales tell what the comely young damsels get out of it?’ I asked.

  He giggled again. ‘You’d be surprised. Amantha simply loves laving me from top to toe, as if I was her baby.’

  ‘She does not look the maternal type, though well equipped.’

  ‘Yes, hasn’t she got gorgeous boobs? She suckles me. What exquisite joy.’ There was a blob of slaver on his chin.

  I felt like hurling him into the pool. Yet he had the knowing innocent look of the infant Christ in Renaissance paintings.

  ‘If you like, Gregor, I’ll send her along to your room tonight.’

  Astonishment made me dense. ‘What for?’