‘The Quincy Whig journal—Mr Lincoln has published several works in here, but I seem to remember there is only one of any merit. “The Return”.’
The bookseller clambered down, made his way back to Lavinia and placed the book firmly into her hands.
‘One guinea. Outrageous exploitation on my behalf but literary stupidity, I find, is invariably expensive.’ He sounded irritated to make the sale at all.
As she reached for her money, Lavinia caught sight of a man outside. The familiarity of his profile drew her to the window where she peered through its grimy glass.
Colonel Huntington stood on the opposite kerb, accompanied by a strikingly attractive young woman in an elegant overcoat and deep crimson satin crinoline. There was something exaggerated about the young woman’s self-conscious gestures with her dramatically rouged cheeks and painted mouth. Pointing to a bonnet in a shop window, she laughed then slipped her arm through the Colonel’s and they continued their promenade.
Transfixed, Lavinia wondered for a moment whether it actually was her husband, for she did not recognise the expression that transformed his face—a smile that suddenly rendered him ten years younger.
The coachman stepped in front of the window, blocking the mistress’s view of the Colonel.
‘This is no place for a gentlewoman at this time of day,’ he said. ‘Next thing, the Bond Street loungers will be taking pot shots at yer. I did try to warn yer.’ Moved by Lavinia’s evident distress, Aloysius slipped into brogue.
Ignoring him, she continued to look blankly out the window. The girl could not be much older than herself. Could she be an old associate? A secret goddaughter? Perhaps the estranged child of a colleague? she thought, refusing to consider more obvious alternatives.
Aloysius gently tapped her on the arm. ‘Buy the pamphlet, madam. The gentleman is waiting.’
Lavinia turned back to the bookseller. A supercilious expression played across his pinched features.
‘A common doxie. They all float up from Curzon Street like there’s no tomorrow, and not a literate one amongst them. Language of love? Language of the gutter more like. Do you know the Colonel?’
‘I had assumed so,’ Lavinia replied coolly.
‘My mistress is married to the gentleman,’ Aloysius said, wanting to protect her from further humiliation.
Shocked, the bookseller dropped the volume of poetry, now wrapped in butcher’s paper, onto the counter. ‘The Colonel married, and to one so young? It wasn’t announced in the Gazette.’
Mortified, Aloysius stepped forward. ‘Mrs Huntington, there are other bookstores.’
The bookseller glanced at the coachman’s livery then back at Lavinia. Suddenly he bowed, his long greasy locks falling towards his knees, his balding pate rendered visible.
‘Forgive me, madam, I would not have insulted you with Mrs Gore had I known. Perhaps I may interest you in George Eliot’s latest tome Adam Bede, or the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam—it is a fascinating read.’
‘I have got what I came for, and I cannot deny that it has been a most illuminating visit.’
‘We aim to please,’ he replied po-faced, then pressed the guinea back into her hand. ‘It will give me great pleasure to charge the purchase directly to Colonel Huntington’s account, madam.’
17
JAMES HUNTINGTON SAT AT THE large centre table, his papers scattered before him. His notebook—one of many—was open at a photograph of three Bakairi men involved in a dance ritual. He was immediately transported to that evening, the damp undergrowth of the rainforest scratching at his haunches, the smoke from the fires smarting his eyes, the hypnotic gyrations of the young men sending him into a trance. The wooden masks metamorphosed each of them into a god, and their hands carved stories from the smoky air about them, the beauty of their painted limbs transformed them into flying skeletons as the light faded between the trees.
This is my vocation, he thought, staring at the bound notebook, the edges of its pages stained faintly with smudges of red clay—a souvenir from his writing beside the Amazon river, the scent of the night still lingering on the paper. It is the only time I transcend my base nature, the only time my instincts are sharpened to the brink of survival. He looked over to the Indian leopard skin stretched in front of the fireplace—a hunting trophy. Of late he had felt his intellect deteriorating; he had slipped into the mannered wit and repartee of the gentleman, but craved the edge of danger that exploration brought. Such challenges kept him noble, and Lord knew he had been guilty of the most ignoble actions, he conceded, his mind returning to his recent encounter in Bond Street.
The Colonel reached for his snuffbox—a miniature silver casket in the shape of a travelling chest, an heirloom from his father—and placed a large pinch of the opiated tobacco into the crook of his thumb and forefinger. Lifting it to his nostrils, he inhaled deeply. An intoxicating wave swept through his sinuses and hit the back of his brain. The rustle of a skirt and the soft wash of lavender did not make him open his eyes.
‘Thank you for visiting Aidan, his nanny told me you read him a story.’ Lavinia’s voice broke his reverie, he smiled up at her.
‘As any father would.’
‘I thought I might find you in here,’ she held her new book under one arm.
‘Indeed, my dear. I am somewhat overwhelmed by the plethora of research that seems to stare at me more accusingly with every passing day. How was your church visit?’
‘Attending St George’s is always an illuminating experience.’
‘As it should be: that building has sanctified more scandalous liaisons than a bordello.’
Lavinia pulled off her kid gloves and observed her husband far more closely than her casual air suggested.
‘You seem jovial,’ she said.
‘And why not? I spent a pleasant morning with my accountant, lunched with several colleagues of the scientific persuasion, then ended the afternoon at the Athenaeum where I studied the Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Gazette with much curiosity.’
She wondered how he could lie with such panache, but then the possibility that his visit to Bond Street might have an innocent explanation occurred to her.
‘I visited a bookshop after church.’ A questioning ran under the tone of her voice. ‘A bookshop on Bond Street.’
The Colonel allowed the languid effect of the snuff to exorcise astonishment from his face. ‘So I gather from that dubious tome you are brandishing at me.’ Squinting, he could just see the title: Quincy Whig. More Irish politics, he thought, his heart sinking. ‘Rather late for shopping, Lavinia.’
‘Apparently so. Apparently it is an opprobrious time for a respectable married woman to be seen in Bond Street. Naturally, a different standard of decency applies for respectable married gentlemen.’
The Colonel rose from his chair and strolled to the window. If there was anything he abhorred it was hypocrisy; besides, Lavinia’s lack of sophistication was beginning to annoy him. He didn’t want to argue; their confrontation of the night before had cast a gloom upon his entire day. In fact, it had been this ill humour that had compelled him to visit the brothel in the first place. The Colonel felt aggrieved; surely a gentleman’s private actions should remain private?
Outside, it had begun to rain—a wet drizzle that transformed the lit trees into blurred grey-green infantrymen, reminding him of the harsh beauty of the Crimea.
‘I trust the book was worth risking your reputation in such a way?’ he asked his wife.
‘Indeed. Without my even opening its pages, it has already proved to be educationally invaluable.’
Determined to shift the conversation to safer ground, the Colonel walked back to his desk. Gazing down upon his notes, he couldn’t help but envy the comparative ease of sexual and marital union in the Amazon.
Lavinia followed his gaze. ‘Are these your research notes?’
‘I have finally begun to collate my work.’
‘You have organised the chapters?’
‘I am uncertain whether to prioritise the habitat and customs of the natives, or begin with chapters describing the fauna and flora. It is altogether overwhelming.’
The great collection of notes and illustrations stretched before him. Jumbled in a chaotic parody of order, it felt like a metaphor for his own life: a superficially organised façade concealing duplicitous pandemonium. It occurred to the Colonel that he no longer had the youth or the patience to contemplate the task of unravelling such confusion.
Folding back her long sleeves, Lavinia thumbed through the sketchbooks and their handwritten footnotes, scrawled in almost illegible fashion.
‘Do you wish this to be a scientific treatise or to be perceived as a book for the layman?’ she asked. She paused at a photographic portrait of a youth leaning upon his spear, his eyes and cheeks covered in red daub, bamboo sticks protruding from his cheeks like tiger whiskers. His direct gaze was a curious combination of intense interest and a complete lack of self-consciousness. This is Adam before the Fall, Lavinia thought, confrontational, defiant, yet hiding nothing. Surprised, she realised the native reminded her of the young Irish coachman.
The Colonel looked over her shoulder and his scent drifted across her: a familiar musk with an undertone of something sharper—the sickening smell of cheap perfume. Lavinia continued to look at the notebook, concealing the anxiety that played across her features.
‘Naturally I aspire to reach many readers,’ James said, ‘although recognition of my work by the scientific community is of the utmost importance.’
‘Then I propose you structure the work as the journey of one man and describe the flora and the behaviours of the animals, insects and birds as they play a role in his quest.’
The Colonel was absentmindedly turning a seashell in his fingers. At Lavinia’s suggestion, he sighed and sank heavily back into his chair.
‘There are several notebooks telling of my time with the Indians, describing their family structures, their eating habits, their hunting, their rituals.’
Momentarily forgetting her anger Lavinia placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘It would capture the imagination of the reader, James. Pagan practices are always of interest. The more barbaric the better; I think it must provide the illusion of moral superiority.’
‘Lavinia, please remember these are rituals not pagan practices.’
He strolled over to a glass case and carefully lifted out a wooden mask. Long dried reeds hung from the carved face, trailing on the ground. ‘I was given this mask by the Bakairi, and a quantity of hallucinogen—ayahuasca—to evoke their gods whenever I might wish.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not yet, but I will, once I have completed my studies.’
He held the mask up to his face for a moment; by the time he dropped it, his expression had altered entirely. A youthful vigour had infused his features but his eyes appeared focused on a place far beyond the room.
‘Their rituals invite their gods—river spirits—to visit and give them spiritual guidance for the following years. The shamans drink the brew of the ayahuasca to invoke the spirits. When the hallucinogen has taken hold of the body and the shaman begins a trance he dons a mask like this. The natives believe the spirit enters the mask and speaks through the shaman. It is quite frightening, and there were moments when I feared for my life. It was only due to the bravery of my young translator that I was allowed to attend at all.’
‘Then this shall be the climax of your narrative. To reach the gods, to communicate directly with these spirits—there can be nothing more extraordinary. Please, James, let me help you. You know your work is an inspiration to me.’
‘Would it make you more content, here in Mayfair? Where there is so much social engagement during the season?’
‘For whose who are invited. I do not yet belong to any salon, nor do I have the female confidantes a young woman of my age requires…’
‘This will change. Lady Morgan shall provide you with associates.’
‘Please, it would bring me great pleasure to work alongside you.’
He looked at her, then pushed a pile of loose papers along the table. ‘These are the notes on each individual mask—each one represents a spirit. Now forgive me, I must take my leave. I am late for an early supper at the Carlton. Apparently Henry Smith is to join Lord Oswald and myself and you know how droll he can be. Don’t wait up.’
As the Colonel made his way down to the entrance hall, he reflected on his foolhardiness in allowing Lavinia entry into the last bastion of his bachelorhood. Still, the exercise would let her explore the nuances of the masculine mind, he concluded, which could only save her from further disappointment.
The grandfather clock—an eighteenth-century pillar of wood, glass and brass—chimed six. Lavinia, glancing down at the mask, thought how irrelevant social conventions became when set against the morals of other cultures. Nevertheless, she regretted losing her chance to confront her husband about the encounter she had witnessed earlier that afternoon.
She lifted the mask. It smelled of the earth, rich and pungent, a faint odour of burnt charcoal spiced with an undertone of something acrid. With a certain trepidation, she placed it over her face then glanced into a looking glass.
The primitive simplicity of its symmetry became a screaming caricature when framed by her black hair, and her lilac gown billowing out beneath created a carnival-like effect. Only this carnival character was not Venetian or Roman, but something far more primal; not a God to whom one prayed but a Goddess from whom one begged mercy.
Tranquillity settled like thick pollen across the books and papers. It was an atmosphere in which Lavinia was quite comfortable; a world of intellectual labour where the forays of a curious mind were expressed in an abundance of small details, each linked in an eccentric grammar of personal meaning and reference.
I arrived some fourteen days ago, after a long trek through forbidding jungle, a relentless swelter of insects and rampant fecundity. My guide, Gilo, an experienced hunter of both Portuguese and Mayan extraction, was patience itself, tolerating my naivety and my dark moods. He was constantly alert to every poisonous leaf or dangerous insect or reptile.
It was a relief to reach the open cut in the forest, a clearing that indicated the presence of fellow human beings. At first I was unsure this was the place—there was little visible to the unpractised eye, but Gilo, squatting down beside me, indicated the vine ropes hanging from trees that served as access to vantage points used to warn of danger.
I will never forget the eerie sensation of being watched but seeing no evidence of the watcher. It is a sensation I have also experienced as a soldier; perhaps we humans have a sixth sense for it. I am convinced that a civilised person must depend upon his primitive instincts in such situations. I knew I was in extreme danger, and I could see from Gilo’s expression that he felt the same, which was of no comfort.
I cannot tell you how long we squatted there in the long grass waiting for some sort of signal of greeting, but it was long enough for the sun to have almost set.
How did it feel to endanger your life like that? It must be exhilarating, an experience that brought all the trivialities of life into perspective, Lavinia concluded. How she craved to accompany James on such an expedition. How wonderful to be so sharply alive!
By the time she had finished arranging the first book of notes into the semblance of a chapter, it was past midnight. James still hadn’t returned. Wearily, she rested her head on the desk. Surely a man with such an insatiable lust for adventure and challenge was not of the nature to settle? Perhaps he had been inflicted with the kind of infatuation middle-aged men often felt for young girls. Or was it merely that he desired an heir? Her husband was an enigma, and, despite her new anxiety, one she found fascinating.
She traced the outline of a dried blossom, a tropical flower James had discovered near the shaman’s hut. He had named it Luna albus. Her husband was a collector: of beauty, of rarity and of experience, she decided.
She began to consider how to resurrect their physical relationship, but before she reached a conclusion she fell into a light sleep, her head lolling against her arm. She dreamed she was running through a dark maze of corridors, running towards a figure she could barely see ahead. As he slipped around a corner, she caught sight of his shadow thrown against a wall—a huge bull’s head with clearly delineated horns, and a thick neck that tapered into the slim torso of a man. The Minotaur, the lost chimera.
Why am I not afraid, Lavinia asked her dreaming self. Why am I drawn to him so irresistably?
18
Los Angeles, 2002
JULIA PULLED THE LEXUS INTO the driveway and switched off the ignition. Everything appeared as it should: the sprinklers had automatically switched on at five; the cat next door, an overfed ginger animal, leapt down from the wall to greet her as he did every evening, twisting himself around her ankles; the chimes hanging off the jacaranda tree rang in the breeze. There was only one element that was disturbingly out of place—the mail protruding from the mailbox. Usually Klaus collected it in the morning.
If Julia had paused then, if she had stood immobilised on the lawn, her suede sandals sprayed every 20.8 seconds as the sprinklers continued their relentless rotation; if she had taken this crystallised instance to step out of her life and analyse the sequence of events that had already punctuated her week, she might have had a premonition. But she didn’t. There was no reason to, for this is how we view the world, through the lens of our relationships—a perspective that is nearly always tragically subjective. It was a notion Julia herself subscribed to. She was a woman who had no cause to doubt the continuity of her life: a successful scientist, a contented wife and an expectant mother. She reached the front door and, with her briefcase in one hand, balanced the mail under her chin and opened the door with her key.
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