‘You’d make a wonderful patsy,’ Pip said when I voiced this thought. ‘My favourite stooge.’
We learned to laugh about it, for each other’s sakes.
The truth of it is: I liked David Swansby. He was a sweet man who loved words and played chess with ghosts.
The truth of it is: I hate that this story became about David, a man who dedicated his life to neatly tying things up in a way that he could control, condensing and codifying and arranging. The truth of that corridor and that room filled with fire? The truth there was the indefinable leap in my blood and the lurch in my heart when I saw Pip wreathed in smoke. I had put her in danger, for a definition – I had smuggled her into danger, and I was at fault. Fault. There’s a word for you, and what good is language when your faltering mind is racing faster than your hands, when all you are is guilt and scorching sadness and confusion all at once? Every time I remember that day, it’s not about the events so much as the twang of the bomb threat’s voice decoder in my ears, the thud of blood in my temples, the taste of acrid smoke and fear. Every time I remember what happened, I’m not recalling reasons or explanations so much as a keening hurting truth that I’d risk everything for a person half-obscured.
I don’t know that I have ever felt clarity like this: the anger at what a waste of my time all this was. My job at Swansby’s had been meaningless. Or, rather, I did not know its meaning. I was a small part of a small part of something over which I had no control, and I was angry that abruptness and confusion had almost brought the end-frame FIN about my ears. I hate that high up in an obscure dictionary house I was suffused in and bamboozled and trampled over by language, and then in a second was forced to realise I was finite, and indefinite, disposable. I hate that David Swansby arbitrarily chose the guise of a madman or evangelist hell-bent on wishing I was dead, and that this cruelty was not done with any understanding that it was cruel.
If I think back now about the bomb threats, there was a horror in not knowing who wanted to kill me. That was a definable horror – someone did not know me, but thought they knew that I stood for everything that was wrong. The horror now is different. I’m not sure which is worse: that someone anonymous is out there and wants to hurt you in particular, or that your hurt is something by-the-by, easily folded into some grander, spurious project.
I always disliked the expression sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. It is one of the least useful ways of understanding one another, or how words work.
The truth of it is: I ran out of a building not knowing what was going on, wanting only for my loved one to be safe.
A truth of it is: I changed in a small way that evening. Not particularly profoundly, unless you count the grit that is still embedded in my elbow from where I fell, grit that will probably stay with me for as long as I have skin. The change happened when I watched Pip dust herself off and tell me she was fine. Some new feeling flooded in. I don’t know if I had ever hoped before like that, indiscriminately.
The truth of it is: here’s to tying things up, and to change, and to hell with neatnesses.
I did not go back to the site of Swansby House, and I did not speak to David ever again. I received a letter from him while he was in custody, sent to my home address. In it he said that he was sorry. The letter was spelled well and grammatically perfect. Characteristically, he was also at great pains to reassure me that Tits was being looked after but did not mention who I should contact in order to be paid.
That is by-the-by. So much is. Keep it salient, keep it sprightly, keep it imprecise. Simply put is impossible, and not the way for me.
So, what happened?
It is true to say that Pip and I huddled together for a moment by the roadside and looked on as Swansby House caught ablaze. There was a small explosion followed by a larger one, and in an instant scraps of burning paper flew from the windows of the building. We stepped back, compelled by the heat.
A police officer asked, pointing at Pip and me, ‘Are you two together?’
And I said, simply, ‘Yes.’
I tightened my grip on the envelope of false entries. Pip pressed her arm against mine and amongst a group of strangers we watched as loosed paper flew up and out of a building, dispersing on a breeze – words suspended and newly cooling, as paper met ash met star met nothing, and quickly it all meant nothing at all in a quiet night sky.
Z is for zugzwang (n.)
A museum at night is full of a strangeness of shadows. Artefacts loom out of niches and recesses with oddly heavy eyelids, or with mouths that appear to open an inch as you stroll by. Winceworth dressed in an approximation of his finest suit, and waited in a side street outside the British Museum, until an hour where night fused with morning. At three o’clock, a group of men and women passed him and walked towards the building. They were swaddled against the cold but gave occasional glimpses of finery: chiffon and mousseline de soie twitched beneath their wraps and stoles. A figure appeared in a sudden slice of light, a doorman with a cigarette at his lips. Words were exchanged and Winceworth watched as the party was ushered inside.
He steeled himself, I’ll show her, I’ll show her, and made his move across Montague Street. The doorman looked him up and down.
‘Do you know the password?’ he asked.
‘I do not,’ said Winceworth.
And honesty being the best policy, the man shrugged and Winceworth was shown into a bare anteroom. There, a very quiet, polite young man in an acid-yellow waistcoat welcomed him and confirmed that he was indeed here to attend tonight’s revelries. Winceworth was so tired and felt generally so numb that he did not even roll his eyes at this ridiculous noun.
‘I’m here for the fundraiser,’ he said.
‘So much to raise,’ the young man said, and Winceworth saw his eyes brighten with the zest of euphemism. ‘This way, sir. And, sir,’ the young man said, ‘I am sure you understand that the festivities are intended to be a private affair and I ask that upon leaving the grounds, you are not necessarily indiscreet regarding either the proceedings, your fellow attendees, the nature of the artwork—’
Winceworth let the young man run his excited patter, and let his words bounce off the parquet flooring and stuccoed walls as he walked through dark hallways and passageways. He knew these corridors vaguely through incidental trips to the Reading Room, or weekend visits attempting to find interest in a schatzkammer of things rather than words as a reprieve from Swansby House. They were walking at such a brisk pace, however, that any sense Winceworth might have had of which part of the museum they were passing or which direction they were facing was soon lost. They continued through heavy doors and skipped down side corridors. The only sound was the tap of their footfall until, after what seemed an age, Winceworth heard the clink of glass and strains of music marbling in the air. Around a final corner, and the refined, honeyed light of candles pooled in a splash across the floor. His companion drew back a velvet curtain,
fnuck—
What is there to say of the party, when he found it? The decoration of course should take prominence. He had heard of the Secretum and its contents, its Bacchic marbles, tableaux, statues, pieces of masonry, cups, jewellery – all obscene and all on show for the chosen few. These were artefacts that were deemed too contentious or deemed corruptingly erotic for public display, and yet here they all were in their cases and on plinths and on candle-lit vitrines. Winceworth saw a thrusting, bristling, orgy of treasures.
Dr Johnson once remarked ‘I hope I have not daubed my fingers’ when congratulated on the omission of certain improper words in his Dictionary. It’s a prevailing notion, Winceworth thought as he passed a glazed fritware vase, expertly rendered to be some monumental ceramic ode to priapism. The idea that vulgarity should not necessarily enter dictionaries unless it can be appreciated on some rarefied, philological level was pretty standard. Some of the objects on display were clearly from antiquity, carefully dusted and polished so that every nook and crevice was sh
own to greatest effect. Marble figures’ textures had been made to look plashy and dewy by masters of their craft, and the curator tasked with writing exhibition catalogues would be hard-pressed to find synonyms for buxom, straining, lewd, rude and crude.
The artefacts were not limited to sculpture. As Winceworth edged about the room, he glimpsed scenes depicted in frescoes and on terracotta tiles that would make ivory blush. Here was a sketch of two witches delighting in the lack of laundry bills; there a zoetrope of a man finding a delightful new hobby with the assistance of a shoehorn and a pat of butter. It was a raucous, riotous, preposterous collection of anything and everything that could titillate, shock and arouse.
Winceworth looked upon it all with a remote curiosity. Rather than the things that were thronging and dripping and rearing so abundantly in these rooms, it was the people that compelled him to stand and stare. The space was packed, waiters navigating their trays at dangerous and devious angles in order to cross the space. Clearly the 1,500 Mile Society had been just a taster for potential funders of Swansby House – this was another order entirely. It might have been Winceworth’s imagination, but everyone had a predatory gleam in their eye, sly, wild, seeking pleasure and appreciation. The air was heavy with loud laughs and the richest perfumes, and it seemed as if every shoulder he passed was dressed in expensive furs or some filigree or other denoting fashion. Here, under lock and key, the mood was tinged by the spirit of the artefacts and objects in the room.
As Winceworth turned on his axis, vying to take everything in, he saw the partygoers as if in a series of friezes. Here was his colleague Appleton mid-sniff, disporting over a glass of Vin Mariani; here Bielefeld miming something grimly lascivious by a Roman bust in order to impress a ring of young women. He could have been mistaken, so pressed together were their bodies and so doggedly did he have to fight to see over so many jostling shoulders and outstretched arms, but Winceworth thought he even caught sight of Dr Rochfort-Smith across the room. If indeed it was he, the elocutionist’s finger was at another member of the faction’s lips, cooing and guffawing above the sound of the – what, the lute? Mandolin? Oud? Winceworth looked to see the source of the music and recognised the band from the 1,500 Mile Society, their sombre black suits swapped for rich silks and satins.
Everyone’s faces were flushed and their mouths were wet and open. Their heat was set in stark contrast to the cool of the marble and silver artefacts around.
An arm snaked through his.
‘Not quite your scene, perhaps?’ said Sophia, close to his ear.
Winceworth glanced at her. He noted her finery, that she had never looked better and more awful, then looked back at the crowd.
‘You think me prudish.’
‘No,’ she said. She looked a little bored. ‘But I do wonder if you have any words for it all. Not too debauched? Just a hint of bauch? I was speaking to Glossop earlier, about one of your great rivals. He told me that the Encyclopædia Britannica defines “nudities” in painting and sculpture as “denoting those parts of a human figure which are not covered by any drapery, or those parts where the carnation appears”.’
‘I did not think to bring flowers,’ Winceworth said. ‘And you shouldn’t believe everything you read in encyclopaedias.’
‘That being so,’ and Sophia plucked some imagined fluff from Winceworth’s lapel, ‘all of this should bring in a pretty penny for old Gerolf, so we can’t be too picky.’ Sophia moved her head to indicate her fiancé over by the velvet curtain. Frasham was miming the stance of the Laocoön sculpture with a feather boa. ‘Terence has already got a couple of politicians to stump up over a good couple of hundred pounds, and I’m working on an opera director—’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘We make a good team,’ she said.
‘You have said so before.’ Winceworth adjusted his glasses. ‘You also called him a useful idiot.’
‘He moves in such circles here in London, quite charms a whole host of prospective buyers. Excellent for securing money for Frasham, and all the better for making sure I secure some safe ground for myself.’
Winceworth translated, after a pause, ‘You need him for the money.’
She made a dismissive noise. ‘No, no – although, it is not so terrible an addition to his charms.’ Sophia drummed her fingers against her skirts. ‘It is useful to establish a suitable and reputable base for oneself, however, in order to allow various indiscretions and eccentricities to be overlooked. Even if they happen in plain sight!’ She seemed keen to change the subject, not so much out of embarrassment but out of tedium, looking to change the pace or stakes of their conversation. She steered his elbow slightly, repositioning him. ‘Have you heard of the painter Zichy?’ she said, blurting as if on impulse and not wanting to wait for his response. ‘He was a court artist for Tsar Alexander – and on the side did some quite extraordinary sketches of the human form! You understand. Here, look, they’re up on this wall—’
‘I thank you, no.’ Winceworth stood his ground. ‘No.’ She appeared crestfallen. He looked in the direction she had motioned: a ring of excited potential funders were pushing their noses right up against whatever was mounted on the walls, roaring with delighted outrage.
‘Ah. I posed for him, you know.’ Despite himself, Winceworth let out a surprised chirrup, but Sophia went on as if describing the weather. ‘The pieces are quite disgusting but quite wonderful. They’ll come out one day, maybe, when the man is long dead.’
‘I am not quite sure why you have taken me into your confidence on these matters,’ Winceworth said. ‘Other than you enjoy the thrill of scandalising me.’
She relaxed for the first time that evening, speaking with a new energy. ‘That is exactly it! Scandal – yes! Repercussions, getting under the skin of something! But more crucially, yes, as you say, confidence in one another. That’s exactly the word for it – and what I thought when I first met you: here is someone who knows the value of confidences. And I am right, am I not? I sense it on you, smell it on you.’
‘You can trust me,’ Winceworth said. He was beginning to feel something crumble within him, any last vestiges of sureness and forbearance drain away.
‘Terence is no good at that side of things,’ Sophia said. They walked together arm in arm, passed a shelf with an array of obscene netsuke. ‘We were just today talking about the words in English that might best describe his propensity to gossip or pass on someone else’s business. Tittle-tattle, blabber-mouth. Scandalmonger. Great fun, of course,’ she said, sighing, ‘and an enviable swagger to it that I truly do admire, but no notion of confidences.’
‘You have done very well to be in the position to enjoy such things.’
‘You say this because you have not yet found the balance.’ Sophia halted their pace and held him at arm’s length, regarding him as a physician might an ailing man. ‘You keep yourself all tight and closed up. You are all confidences and no scandal, all battening down of hatches and no great spuming fray.’
‘I hear the lady has taken a turn for the metaphorical!’ said Bielefeld, eavesdropping and leering into their path. Winceworth and Sophia stared at him for a beat. Bielefeld hiccoughed an apology and scuttled off into the crowd.
‘I have my secrets,’ Winceworth said.
‘But are they interesting ones?’
‘I’m not – not at liberty to—’ Winceworth felt the room spin a little as if he was drunk. He wished he was drunk.
‘I apologise,’ Sophia said curtly. ‘I am thrilled to hear you have secrets. Your secret life: the most precious thing. You must define your own terms for that.’ She smiled, and a part of Winceworth’s heart felt good and sore at her frankness and her strangeness but already she had moved on, sighing at their surroundings with a theatrical tone meant for other people’s benefit. ‘I must not forget – I am on duty and should be charming for the sake of other’s coffers. Fewer the-good-so-and-sos than the party where we first met,’ she said, nodding, ‘but the vulgar
do have deep pockets.’
‘I’m afraid I am not amongst their number.’ He felt a little sick and a little giddy.
‘But, I say,’ Sophia said, catching his sleeve and pretending to look cross, ‘about my chess set! The one that belonged to my countrywoman, the Tartuffe in skirts. I mentioned it to you before, I think.’
‘I’ve seen enough.’
She regarded him, smiling. ‘I’m sure you have.’
‘You are toying with me, or trying to embarrass me.’ Winceworth closed his eyes as if shutting out the whirls and juttings of the room might make things clearer to him, might make him seem more in control. ‘Which is your right and I hope your pleasure. But I have had a long, long day and I would thank you if you could do me the courtesy of—’
Sophia was not listening. He opened his eyes to find her extending a hand towards him. It was not a grand sweep of arm as had been her usual mode this evening – rather, she brushed her fingers against his as they stood close together. It was a gesture designed to not be seen by anyone around them. She passed him something. He took it like an automaton, and he felt a new heaviness in his hand – small and cold – as her glove touched his fingers. She said, carefully and deliberately, so that he caught every word, ‘A shame for you to miss it. Each pawn worth over seven hundred pounds alone.’
Winceworth accepted the gift and slid it into his pocket as he raised his head to thank her or fully ascertain what she had done.
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